She was dramatic. He was dynamic. She was precise. He was impulsive. He was James, and she was Lily, and one day they shared a kiss, but before that they shared many arguments, for he was cocky, and she was sweet, and matters of the heart require time.

John goes on a school reunion and gets drunk. Sherlock solves some crimes and gets some interesting phone calls.

Sherlock is diagnosed with a terminal illness. Warning: angst like whoa.

He tears through London like a madman and a thief, stealing bits and pieces from passers-by just because he can, walking into heavy traffic and emerging unscathed, trying to outrun his own shadow and sometimes succeeding.

John knows he has an unusual relationship with his flatmate. He knows their friendship is complicated. And yes, he knows everyone assumes he's in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. But he's not. Obviously. It's not like that. John would know. Right?