I can do this, thinks John, looking. I really can.

Sherlock is changing a light bulb. It's his job; the high ceilings of 221b require it. Over the five years John and Sherlock have either lived in 221b or "been away for a while", this is the only bulb that has ever needed changing besides one in Sherlock's room. John is at this very moment considering ways to use up the bulbs faster, because right now -right now- this is the moment he has never wanted Sherlock more. John is unsure as to whether the new bulb will work. The room feels as if it is swelling with love so much he's relatively sure he's fused the house.

Sherlock doesn't seem to have noticed, threading his wrist into the lampshade. He doesn't see how when he twists his hips slightly to give him extra height, the rainy afternoon blue hits that peeking skin just so, how he somehow makes standing on his tiptoes cast a more masculine light on his feet. John really can't see how anyone could watch Sherlock blow the bits of dust settling on his shoulders without sort of inwardly gasping. Sherlock hands him the old bulb and John, standing next to the chair, hands him the new one.

Then it's screwed in, of course. It hardly takes long. Sherlock steps off the chair with John gently touching his elbow, not because he needs help, just because; Sherlock is standing at his usual height, which is still rather over six feet and much taller than him. Sherlock is the only person in the world who can crowd John into the middle of the room, and he leans back, looking away for the first time in eons. Sherlock leans in a bit.

"Well that's that then," he says, hands on hips. John can smell him.

"That's that." John looks up, they stare at each other. Kiss me. Please.

He doesn't. John keeps the light bulb anyway.