Sherlock stared into oblivion behind it's eyes. How many times had he studied every single detail of this one skull? Many. And yet he didn't give a damn who's skull it was. In fact, he rather preferred them dead – much quieter, much easier to talk to. Dead people had more interesting stories to tell as well, and they didn't even have to talk for him to know.

Well, no one had to talk for Sherlock to know everything about them.

But…

Sherlock sighed.

He turned to the closed door. John had been gone for some time now, and Sherlock was beginning to worry what mess his clueless little blogger had gotten himself into this time. He ran over all his past cases in his head in an instant, checking for loose end murderers who could possibly go after his John.

There were many, and that was excluding the idea of Mycroft kidnapping him. Again.

Desperate, he stood up, ran his hands through his hair and then slumped back into the chair again. The skull seemed to mock him. He grunted.

"Look, it's not like I can just go after him," Sherlock explained. "Besides, I'm sure he's… fine…" He took a deep breath as he pictured his perfectly huggable friend, cuddled up in his cat jumper with a cup of tea steaming gently in his hands. Sherlock smiled.

Again, the skull just stared.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock grumbled. "He's adorable, isn't he? It's not a crime to find a human being sweet. It's perfectly normal. Women call each other "gorgeous" all the time; it doesn't mean they're going to have hot, passionate sex with one another. It doesn't mean they dream of holding hands. It doesn't mean they long to kiss for hours and hours…"

He trailed off and dropped his head as he realised what he had been denying all along. John's praises echoed in his head and he felt warm inside, like he had never been before. No one had ever made him smile like John could. No one had ever made him feel this way.

His sigh was one of relief to finally understand. He chuckled quietly.

"Is that what you mean to tell me?"

He glanced up to that all-knowing skull again, smiling softly.

"You mean to say that…

"That I'm…

"In love."

He shut his eyes. It was like a fire burned in his soul, illuminating his desires and hopes and dreams, and within each was John, standing there beside him, hand in hand, ready to face the world together. His heartbeat raced as he turned to look for him at the door again.

But he still wasn't there.

Feverishly and out of character, Sherlock seized his phone and frantically texted "WHERE IS HE? – SH" to his brother.

"So you finally decided to talk to me. Any luck with the case? – MH"

"I don't care about the damn case. Where is John? What have you done with him? – SH"

"Gone missing, has he? – MH"

"You would know. Leave him be, Mycroft. – SH"

"I don't have him. – MH"

Sherlock froze, re-read the text over and over and over until he finally panicked and dropped the phone, running for the door. If Mycroft didn't have him, who did? Images of John in that damn jacket with the bombs all over him filled his paranoid mind and he wanted to blow Moriarty's brains out once more, the anger and fear filling his body like an unstoppable poison.

As he reached the door he heard the key slot into the lock. He turned quickly, ran a few steps away, then stopped, his mind blurring with joy. John stood in the doorway, shopping bags in both hands, looking totally perplexed to see Sherlock looking so flustered.

Sherlock rushed and wrapped his arms around John, laughing with relief, not a care in the world.

"Sherlock?" John asked awkwardly. "Is everything alright?"

"Now you're back it is," Sherlock replied quietly, and, regretfully, let go of John. He stepped back. "Tea?"

"I'd love one," John answered, literally glowing with the love that surrounded him.

Sherlock climbed the stairs two at a time and hopped into the living room, grinning at the skull. "Stop being smug," he told it, and then he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.