Sherlock:

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

Sherlock's heart sank at the words. He didn't want to talk with John, not now. He just wanted to keep holding the man's hand, feeling the calloused skin under his own, just a few degrees rougher that Sherlock had deduced. He was content.

Sherlock wasn't happy. It was a feeling that he was used to. A lack of happiness was not something that he usually worried about. He was challenged, interested, working, and he was content. But that wasn't the same as happiness. He had forgone happiness a long time ago, thinking that it was sloppy and messy and somewhat pointless. As long as he was content, as long as he wasn't bored, he was as close to happy as he needed to be.

But never had happiness been so close and been denied to him. Never had he wanted to reach out and grab that messy emotion that so often dragged unhappiness with it. Because John made him happy, sheer proximity to the man, but also made him afraid. He was afraid that if John knew the true nature of his emotions, the little blip that his heart made every time he looked at the man, John would leave. John put up with a lot living with Sherlock, but too much was too much and every fit of heterosexuality proved to Sherlock that this would be too much.

And now John was here, holding Sherlock's hand, asking to talk.

Those few words struck a fear into Sherlock the likes of which he had never experienced.

Sherlock could smell Irene's perfume on the man, not strongly, she had not touched him, just made sure to get close enough that Sherlock would know it had been her. And it was with that in mind, the Woman's unpredictability and the unfounded trust he had bestowed upon her, that Sherlock was for the first time overcome by a worry that rivalled his curiosity.

John was looking at him expectantly, like he was asking permission to ruin Sherlock's carefully constructed world.

Instead of allowing him, Sherlock took the offensive.

"What do you need to talk about John? Is it about my complete and utter lack of concern, or social etiquette? Perhaps you want to accuse me of being inhuman once more. Or maybe this is about some other complication you've come up with. Well, John, I don't really feel like talking. In fact, if you could just go aw-"

John had been sitting in silence, not responding to the accusations levelled at him. He probably thought that he deserved it. That alone was almost enough to make Sherlock stop his rant, but the lips suddenly pressed against his was what truly brought his rant to a stand still.

For the first time in a long while, Sherlock's mind raced to catch up with what was happening. John's lips were soft and gentle on his, the light pressure hesitant but confident. By the time Sherlock's mind started working at normal speed, however, John was pulling away, frown on his face and worry building in his eyes once more.

They could talk.

Talking could be good.

There were ways to sort this thing out, practical ways to deal with the-

Sherlock leaned in, closing the short distance himself this time. Their first kiss, if John's one sided attempt to shut him up could be called a kiss, had broken down a few of his walls, inviting in something baring a striking resemblance to hope.

Now he was struck by the idea that that first kiss had been their last, that John had been put off by his lack of reaction. Did John think that he didn't want this? Perhaps, if he gave John time to think, he would come to realise that he didn't want this after all. Then he would either leave, or expect everything to go back to the strange semblance of normal that they had had before.

This was everything that John himself had denied, that Sherlock had secretly coveted since the first time he truly saw the man. He couldn't lose it, refused to let the moment end. So there was only one course of action he could take.

Sherlock's kiss was just as hesitant as John's had been, an exchange, not a demand. His limited experience got him this far, but he was lost as to what came next. John reacted faster than he had, pushing back against Sherlock's lips, deepening the kiss slightly. Sherlock's mind slowed again, unable to analyse all of the details being presented to him, the heat of John's mouth, the rough feel of his hand as he raised it to touch Sherlock's face, the wet slide of a tongue against the seam of his lips.

Sherlock must have looked panicked, trying to sort through all of the new information, because John suddenly broke off the kiss. Ignoring Sherlock's tiny noise of complaint, breaking from him unconsciously, he rested their foreheads together and waited for Sherlock's mind to catch up, for his breathing to slow.

He hadn't been like this since childhood, before he had learnt to accurately categorise large amount of information quickly. He had been prone, in childhood, to bouts of confusion that would on occasion last for hours.

Soon he was calm. He had taken time to internally clear space in his head, deleting some useless catalogue of comparatively irrelevant information. In it's place there was now a colour, a feeling, an indescribable mess that Sherlock didn't want to unravel. It had been difficult enough trying to catalogue the physical, tangible aspect to the kiss, the rest was beyond his ability.

Sherlock turned his gaze outward to find nothing. Where he had expected to see John, still kneeling before him, he saw empty space. He felt worry flood through his veins. Had he done something wrong and offended John? Had some unknown assailant entered the room whilst he had been incapacitated by the influx of information, and stolen his John away?

He scanned the rest of the room, looking for signs of a struggle, or for the man himself, any hint as to what had happened.

The curtains were now drawn, shutting out most of the light from nearby street lights and nearly all of the noises from the road below. Sherlock himself was now wrapped in a warmer blanket, noticing the thick, heavy material for the first time.

The room was devoid of signs of a struggle, but the mess was so complete that Sherlock could not be sure.

He quickly filed his thoughts away under paranoia. John could take care of himself, of that Sherlock had absolute certainty.