John gulped, lips parting and eyes filled instantly with guilt.

That extinguished some of Sherlock's anger. Some, not all. "If it were up to me, we would not have stopped in that alleyway. I stopped because of you."

"Why didn't you say something?" John countered. "Why didn't you say you wanted to continue?"

"Because I didn't think you wanted it!" Sherlock almost exploded. "You said we should just leave the whole incident in the alley."

"You never say anything! Ever!" John growled, their faces so close their noses almost touched.

"What the hell was I supposed to say after that? You rejected me."

"Stop it," John looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose "Stop this."

"This is what happens," Sherlock's voice grew louder. "Right when we start getting somewhere, you shut the whole thing down!"

"So do you!" John yelled, hand waving, and nearly hitting Sherlock due to their proximity. "In bed last night, you told me you can't do casual flings. I tried to talk to you about it, and know what you did? You told me to stop and leave it alone! What the fuck was I supposed to do, Sherlock?"

"Was I just supposed to spill my heart out only to have you reject it? Better question: how did you not know our fuck-our failed fuck-meant something to me?"

"I thought it was just adrenaline!" They were both shouting now.

"Are you seriously that dense?!"

"You're the one who said caring isn't an advantage! You said love is human error, and you're calling me dense for thinking you just wanted sex?!"

"When have I ever wanted sex in the five years you've known me?!"

"Stop!" John huffed a harsh breath. "Sherlock, we're not getting anywhere."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. His face was hot. He took a few steps back. If he didn't put distance between them, he would have pushed John against the wall and shoved his tongue in John's mouth. Not really. John probably wouldn't appreciate such a bold gesture without any lead-up. He was getting sidetracked.

"We need to talk, not shout," John said.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He looked at John, whose face was as red as his felt. He wouldn't have been surprised if their shouting woke Mrs. Hudson. "Why, John? Why did you stop that night?"

John looked exhausted. "I," he started thickly, then cleared his throat. "I thought it didn't mean anything to you, and I didn't want to get in too deep. When that man interrupted, he snapped me out of it."

Sherlock shook his head. "John, I told you to go back to an assassin who nearly killed me because I thought it would make you happy, and you think I don't care about you?"

John stood there, looking at the floor, fists clenched.

Sherlock wished he would say something. He would have to speak for both of them. He had to tell him everything. "I hated her, John. I hated her. Watching you move back in with her hurt more than finding out you were getting married."

John's jaw clenched tightly.

Sherlock was on a roll now, everything bottled up inside spilling out in a flood. "When you wanted to take her down, too, I couldn't be happier. I wanted you away from her, but I wouldn't do anything unless you wanted to. I wanted to give you a choice in everything." He swallowed. "I was only the best man at your wedding because I thought you loved Mary, and I didn't want my desires to interfere with your happiness. I'd already caused you enough grief. Literally." He still considered the wedding one of the worst days of his life. He went home that night and cried harder than he had in several years, harder than he ever did while being tortured in Serbia. "I hunted down men in Eastern Europe who threatened your safety. All of it was for you, John. Well" he conceded, "you and Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and the good of England, but they were just added factors." He honestly wasn't trying to guilt John. He only wanted John to know how much he cared for him, how much he was devoted to him, because something told him John was genuinely unaware, as ludicrous as that was to Sherlock.

John was still silent, save for his heavy breaths coming from his nose.

Sherlock had to voice his feelings aloud now, with no vague language or tip-toeing around it. He found his throat tight and the sting of tears at the back of his eyes. "Everything was for you, and I thought you finally wanted me, too, and you act like we never touched and talk to another man. A man." Sherlock tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it was to no avail. He was hurt, and for the first time, he didn't feel ashamed about it. "What did I do wrong? Why don't you want me?" he asked in a small, fragile voice.

And John did something that shook Sherlock to his very core.

John slumped against the wall, covered his eyes with his hand, and started crying.

Sherlock felt like the absolute worst person in the world. He did that. He made John upset enough to cry in front of someone else. The only time John consciously cried in front of him was when he thought they were going to die on the train car. Sherlock knew John cried at his grave, but John hadn't thought anyone was around. John was a soldier. John buried his emotions, and Sherlock pushed him too far. He did this to him. Sherlock did this.

The instinct to comfort kicked in. "John, no," Sherlock rushed to John and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, hugging him as best as he could while John's hand was still covering his face. "John, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," his voice cracked, and he realized he was crying, too. That was no surprise. John's pain always affected him profoundly.

"No," John managed to choke out, wiping his eyes roughly. The tears showed no sign of stopping. Sherlock squeezed him tighter and John put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, clinging to him, crying against his chest. "I'm sorry," John whimpered, losing the battle to keep his voice steady. "I'm so, so sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock's tears ran down his face and he let himself release a sob, which may have been a bad idea, because that made John cry harder, his cries turning into sobs. Sherlock's chest was so tight it felt like it was on the brink of explosion. He couldn't remember the last time someone held him as he cried, and he was pretty sure he never held anyone as they cried. Sherlock held John close and buried his face in his muscular shoulder, his tears staining the T-shirt beneath his skin. He felt John's whole body tremble with his cries. Sherlock hated it. He did that. He did that.

"I'm sorry," John kept repeating, beginning to shake harder in Sherlock's arms. "I'm sorry, this is all my fault."

"No," Sherlock protested through a cry, shaking his head and then lifting it. "No."

John lifted his head, looking absolutely wrecked, eyes wet and red, cheeks soaked, and panting, barely holding back his sobs. "It is my fault," he sniffled, fingers clenching on Sherlock's shoulders. "I did push you away. You did all of that for me and I still pushed you away and I hate myself for it," he nearly shouted. "Everything's my fault," he started to cry again, ducking his head.

"It's my fault, too," Sherlock insisted, blinking away new tears. "I did this-"

"You had every right to say what you did," John cut him off, looking at Sherlock with an expression contorted with misery. "I hurt you. You had every right," he repeated. "You didn't say anything wrong."

"I should have talked to you instead of moping around," insisted Sherlock.

"It doesn't matter!" John took in harsh, unsteady breaths through his mouth, tears falling from his deep blue eyes. "I can't believe I did this to you," he whispered, horrified with himself.

"John, no-"

"All week, you've been upset. All week. I knew you were and I didn't do anything to stop it." His lower lip started quivering and he bit it hard. "Sherlock, you have to tell me something. Please."

"Yes?" His throat burned from crying, and the tears were still flowing.

"Did last Saturday night mean something to you?"

"It meant everything," he confessed, fighting the urge to avert his gaze.

That made John cry more, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. He moved his arms and embraced Sherlock tightly, face in his neck, sobs returning. "I love you," he confessed in a whisper, voice shattering like glass.

Sherlock's heart stopped.

"I love you so much and I was such a fucking arse to you, and I'm so fucking sorry-"

His heart kicked itself back to life with enough force to make Sherlock gasp sharply. "I love you too," he blurted out. "I love you. Of course I love you, not loving you isn't an option. You love me? You really do?" He was babbling, but he tended to do that when his brain couldn't process information.

"I do," John nodded against his chest. John's breathing was becoming faster to the point where Sherlock thought he might start hyperventilating. How long had John been bottling everything up? Since I came back, Sherlock thought uneasily.

"Breathe, John," Sherlock murmured in his ear. "Please don't cry, John. Please." Sherlock may have been hurt, but he had no right to make John cry.

"Sorry," John attempted to wipe away the tears again. "I know it's-" he sniffled, "uncomfortable."

"That's not why I want you to stop crying," Sherlock said, surprised. "I want you to stop crying because I hate seeing you upset."

John blinked, a tear falling from each eye, and then his lips curved into a small smile. He sniffed, "Did you say-did you say you loved me?"

"I did. I do," Sherlock said confidently, nodding once. "You love me?"

"Of course I love you." He took a hand off Sherlock's shoulder and it hovered near his face. "Can I touch you?"

Sherlock nodded.

John's hand gently cupped his face and his thumb stroked the tears away.

Sherlock closed his eyes, swallowing, and the tenderness made his lip quiver.

"It's all right," John told him softly, or as softly as he could while he was still half-crying.

"It'll be all right."

Sherlock opened his eyes. He hesitantly reached out and mirrored what John was doing, placing his large hand on his face and wiping his wet cheeks. John didn't push him away. In fact, John gave him a genuine smile, and a little laugh through his tears.

Sherlock wanted to kiss his forehead. He liked doing that.

John cleared his throat. "We need to talk. Seriously talk. No more shouting." His thumb stroked Sherlock's bottom lip.

Sherlock kissed it, the pain of the week slowly fading. "I feel as if we're about to have a long conversation," Sherlock said,

"Yeah," John huffed a laugh. "Yeah. Can we move away from the wall?"

"Oh, sorry," Sherlock let him go and stepped back, giving him room.

John was calming down now, breathing slowly returning to normal and the last tears trickling from his eyes. He snorted. "We're real pieces of work, aren't we, Sherlock?"

"We are," he agreed, grinning. He wiped his eyes. "John, I have...questions."

John nodded. "Fair enough. Can we...get comfortable?"

"What do you mean?"

"Can we sit down, or go to your bedroom?"

John offering to go to his bedroom immediately made Sherlock flush.

John saw it and laughed. "None of that yet. We should get things straight first."

"I don't think there's anything straight about this," Sherlock said under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

John's smile grew wide. "Did you seriously make a fucking gay joke?"

Sherlock shrugged, mock-innocent.

John started sniggering, and Sherlock joined him. The joke wasn't that funny, but the relief that they could still do this, still make each other laugh and get along, made them laugh harder than they had laughed in over a week.

When Sherlock's laughs subsided, he said, "Yes, we can go to my bedroom." His heart fluttering in anticipation. John loved him. John loved him. John loved him.

"Sherlock? You in there?"

"Sorry. I love you."

John snorted. "Your brain still processing?"

"Yes." John understood him.

John smiled and took his hand. "Sherlock, I love you."

Sherlock knew at that very moment that he would never tire of hearing John say those words.

John giggled. "God, you get so red."

Sherlock touched his face, frowning.

John laugh again, but Sherlock knew he wasn't laughing at him. John squeezed his hand. "Come on."

They settled on Sherlock's bed, lying on their sides, facing each other.

"What do you want to know?" John asked.

A part of Sherlock didn't care anymore because John loved him, but he wanted answers. "There were certain things that happened this week that confused me."

"Such as?"

"Why were you on a dating website?"

John sighed, eyes on the duvet. "I didn't know what I wanted. I wanted you, always did, but thought I couldn't have you, or I was afraid to have you. I don't know, maybe both. But I started talking to Jake-"

Stupid name, Sherlock thought.

"-in the middle of the week because-I don't know why. I'm a mess. But then on the way home, the way you looked at me…" John trailed off.

Sherlock waited patiently for him to continue.

"I felt guilty," John's eyes darted up to meet his. "You knew I was flirting with someone. I was stupid to think I could hide anything from you. It was the look on your face, Sherlock, that made me realize how much of a shite I was being."

Sherlock had tried to school his facial expressions, but apparently, that didn't work. But it was better that way, if this was the outcome.

"I told him to stop texting me that afternoon," John told him.

"That makes sense," Sherlock said. He remembered the text: John come on! What's gotten into you? We were fine yesterday. That text must have been in response to John cutting things off.

"I wasn't planning to really get anywhere with him," John admitted. "Like I said, I just didn't know what the fuck I wanted. I wanted you, but didn't know if I could have you, especially after leaving you in that cold alleyway and...I was a dick to him, too, wasn't I?"

"He was an idiot," Sherlock said. "Just, why a man?"

"Why not?" John asked.

"You never seemed interested before."

"I hadn't been with a man since the army, true, but that doesn't mean I'm straight."

The army. "Sholto," Sherlock said.

John's lips tightened. "What about him?"

"Was there anything there?"

John rolled onto his back and sighed. "Yes."

Sherlock had to tread lightly. This clearly wasn't a comfortable subject. "But it stopped after everything happened with him?"

"Yes. He was caught up in the midst of controversy, and I got shot. After that it just...ended."

Sherlock could see John, shot, alone, and wondering why Sholto wasn't returning his calls. Sherlock did feel for Sholto, especially at the wedding, but he hurt John and never made it right. "Did you love him?" Sherlock asked softly.

"No," John said, turning his face to look at Sherlock. "I don't think so. There was affection and admiration, but not love."

"How do you know?" Sherlock asked, feeling the smallest twinge of jealousy.

John gave him a crooked smile. "'Cause I love you, and I didn't feel this for him."

Sherlock beamed.

John laughed heartily. "Is this going to be your response every time I say I love you? Because this is pretty adorable."

Sherlock's jaw dropped, and he didn't know how to respond. "Um…"

John pinched his pink cheek and Sherlock playfully smacked his hand away. John turned back on his side, smiling fondly. "Sholto is in the past. You don't have to worry."

"I believe you," Sherlock said. There was something else bothering him. "I thought I made it clear I wanted you. You did know. I would bring it up at times, albeit vaguely, and you knew what I was referring to."

John frowned. "Everything you said in the past about love and sentiment was always in the back of my head, but there was something else that held me back."

Sherlock could practically feel John getting tense. He put his hand over John's quickly. He didn't want John to shut down again.

"This isn't the first time I've hurt you," John's hand clenched under Sherlock's. Suddenly, he moved his hand and reached for the hem of Sherlock's T-shirt. Before Sherlock could question it, John lifted his shirt up and placed his hand over the scar from Mary. His thumb ran over the rough bit of skin, and his jaw tightened.

"She nearly killed you. She wanted to kill and and was never sorry and never fucking cared. And like a fucking twat, I went back to her."

"Only for a week," Sherlock reminded him.

"I shouldn't have went back at all," John said firmly. He held Sherlock's side. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize anymore."

"Yes, I do," he said sternly, almost angrily. "I'm sorry I didn't see everything you did for me. You loved me and you let me go back to her without a fight." His grip tightened on Sherlock. "All of this came to a head this past week and I couldn't forgive myself. I couldn't forgive myself for everything, and in the process I just fucking hurt you more. I-" he looked into Sherlock's eyes, "I don't deserve you."

Sherlock could not have John self-deprecating anymore. Sherlock thought of his feelings all week, but it was clear now that John had been hurting badly. He had been consumed with guilt and fear. John may have never loved Sholto, but he cared for him deeply enough to be happy as a puppy when Sholto showed up at his wedding. John must have feared Sherlock would drop him like Sholto did, even if he wouldn't admit it to Sherlock or himself. Add that to John not being over the whole Mary fiasco, and everything finally fell into place.

Sherlock moved in the short distance between them and kissed John on the lips. The kiss was short, sweet, and Sherlock kept their lips close when he pulled back. "Please, John, I understand now. The idea that you are not worthy of me is utterly false." John giggled, and the sound was so joyful Sherlock had to kiss him again. "If anything," Sherlock said after a couple quick kisses, "I don't deserve you."

"Don't talk like that," John scolded him. "You sell yourself short."

"I think this conversation may become cyclical."

"Probably," John agreed. "Is there anything else you want to know at this very moment?"

"I don't think so," Sherlock said. "If anything else comes to mind, I'll tell you."

"Good," John curled his warm hand around the back of Sherlock's neck. "Can I kiss you?"

"Please," Sherlock said quickly, almost desperately.

John kissed him gently, lips soft and warm. He kept his lips still until Sherlock shyly returned the pressure. It was all quick and dark in the alley, but in the morning on Sherlock's bed, with daylight streaming through the window, everything was new, better, and a little daunting. They moved their lips slowly, savoring each sensation, their hunger building. John cradled the back of Sherlock's head, fingers stroking the curls at the back of his neck. Sherlock opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, putting his hands on John's broad chest, clutching his T-shirt.

John opened his mouth and tentatively traced his tongue over Sherlock's lower lip.

Sherlock hadn't expected that and tensed, but then started kissing John deeper, and as best as he knew how.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "we did it wrong last time."

"Hm?" Sherlock hummed, eyes closed, still trying to kiss him.

John smiled into the kiss and Sherlock felt it. He tried to kiss John's smile and John laughed quietly, "Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled back with a tiny smack. "You were saying?"

"I said we did it wrong last time."

Sherlock opened his eyes. John's face was so close. "We did."

John's eyes lowered to Sherlock's nose, and he nuzzled it gently.

Sherlock blushed hard. He always knew John was a sexual man, but the simple acts of affection were unexpected and overwhelming. The fact John wanted to be affectionate with him just added to Sherlock's joy. He nuzzled back.

"Let's do it right this time," John murmured, breath warm against Sherlock's lips and smelling of toothpaste. He kissed Sherlock tenderly, and pulled back with eyes so soft they made Sherlock's heart thump. "Let me make love to you."

THEY GONNA HAVE SEX