Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. I know I know, one month late and ending on a cliff...but February is short and, this time, extra windy – which means extra- headachey for me.

John was quiet on the way back – and while usually Sherlock loved the way they could simply enjoy each other's company without needing to fill the silence, he'd learned that there was a bad stillness. Whatever was festering needed to be expunged now. A medical professional would have agreed with him, he was sure. "You're thinking too loudly," he huffed.

"It's nothing," his blogger replied, looking outside the car window.

Oh my. Then it was worse than he feared. "It's enough of a something that it's distracting me while I'm driving. If I have to pull over and deduce you, I will."

"I'm just sorry the case was disappointing. We could have avoided the whole charade." John shrugged.

He kept driving, clutching the wheel just a bit harder. He should have expected this. It didn't make him want to scream any less. "I'm sure it was uncomfortable for you, but I didn't think you'd find it quite so distasteful as you obviously do. My bad. If a similar undercover situation should arise, I'll find someone else, don't worry."

"No!" He hadn't yelled, and John did? Really? "I mean...I wasn't...I didn't..."

Thank God for laybys, because he couldn't have this conversation and drive. Not if they were to survive the trip back home.

"What are you doing?" his blogger asked.

The sleuth snorted. Stupid questions didn't deserve answers. The man might be a confusing, frustrating, illogical puzzle (and wasn't that part of his appeal, damn him – Sherlock could never resist an enigma) but he wasn't blind. "What do you want?" he retorted, instead.

"Getting home would be nice, ta." You could always count on Watson's snark. But even looking at him, there weren't enough clues to figure out the truth.

"If you hated this case so much that it soured your mood – don't try to say it didn't, Mycroft can probably feel your sulk back in London – why would promising it won't happen anymore flare your temper? What else do you expect me to do?"

"Sulk?" John sounded incredulous. He left the car – not that he could go very far, if he didn't plan to be run over.

The detective followed him. "Yes, that's usually my thing. Did you think I wouldn't recognise one?"

That, at least, made John turn towards him, with a bright if fleeting smile. There. Much better. "It's not the case in itself I didn't like – I'm always up for cases, I thought you knew that by now. Just...the ending."

"I don't pick the murderers, you know. Just the clients." Damn...did he sound petulant just now? But what's a reasonable reply? His emotions are mirroring John's. Unsurprising, but right now, not helpful.

Still, something he said must have helped, because his companion's morose mood turned pensive. It counted as an improvement, right? And then, suddenly – there he was, Captain John Hamish Watson, falling back into a military stance. No matter how drool-worthy Sherlock always found any hint of his past, John steeling himself could be either amazing...or terrifying, depending on which end of his decision you were. What was this even about? The sleuth repressed a shiver of concern.

"Do you really want to know why I am as cheery as a storm cloud?"

"I always want to know." Nothing he said was ever truer.

"Promise me that you'll still get me to London if you won't like what I have to say," John asked.

He sighed. "I know Mycroft thinks I'm still a child, but I wouldn't actually drop you at the side of the road. I wouldn't do that to almost anyone, actually. Ok, maybe my brother." He hoped that the quip would lighten the atmosphere, but John was still rigid. This couldn't be good news.

"I'm not disappointed about how the case ended. I'm disappointed that it ended." John's eyes held his, almost in challenge.

Only what he said made no sense. Did he want Sherlock to fail in solving this? But he'd drop the case after a while, anyway, no case would last forever. He didn't understand. Why didn't he understand? John never played riddles with him before...and if he did, shouldn't he have been able to figure them out? And now John was frowning, deeper with any passing second – a reaction was expected, then. He considered shamming one whatsoever, but no. This was important to John. It deserved the truth. "Why?"

His blogger exhaled, slowly. "You wouldn't feign not understanding to spare my feelings, would you? You really don't get it?"

"When have I ever?" Sherlock offered him a lopsided smile. Which was quite a feat, considering most of his brain was a hamster on speed, rushing through a wheel, each segment of it branded Feelings. Feelings feelings feelings. John's feelings. Everything now made even less sense.

John smiled back. "True." A pause that stretched way too long for the crazy hamster's taste, but just as the wheel was about to fly away and lay waste to any tidbits of his mind palace it ran across, his blogger took pity on him and spoke up. "I'm disappointed that the case ended, because I liked our charade."

The wheel stopped abruptly. Everything was suddenly crystal clear, only it clashed starkly with past data – heaps and heaps of observations over a long period. Both couldn't possibly be true. Maybe he'd misheard? They were on the side of a road, cars and trucks breezing past them. Maybe feelings was meant in a much broader sense than he'd assumed. "You'd like to keep dying your hair?"

"Stop taking the piss." Uh-oh. The frown was back. In fact, John looked about ready to 'go for a walk' in a huff, despite the traffic. "I said ours."

No chance of mishearing it again. There was only one act they were in together. But the data... Irene popped in his mind palace, snapping, "People are allowed to change. But he's going to go back to his past self, if you keep dithering, pet." As annoying as she was, she had a point. Sherlock slammed a door on her face.

Then, instead of replying, he crossed the two steps between them and kissed John. His beloved stumbled – didn't he expect this? But then John's lips were pliant under his, welcoming...It was as amazing as the last days, no – better. Because it wasn't about baiting a murderer. John wanted this. It was illogical, incredible, and utterly undeniable.

Of course, all these thoughts came later. At the moment, any higher functions were shut down, only his senses firing information. About taste (coffee and mint and – a mystery to process later, the weird combination simply divine), smell (the hotel's shampoo and...was it sandalwood? ), touch (hot, wet, more, yes, please...okay, he'd have to sort things in their proper categories in a second moment).

When they parted for air, John grinned up at him. "Well, then. Definitely a couple?"

He rolled his eyes. "I thought I made myself clear. Yes, John. However, if you need more evidence..."

His...boyfriend? Partner? Not yet husband, though that was easily remedied, but...nope, he needed to at least ask first, don't make a mess of things by rushing, you idiot. Anyway, John licked his lips, and for once he didn't have to ignore it – that habit had driven him to insanity for long enough! If that didn't count as a yes, he'd eat his deerstalker. This time, though, when he delved again, trying to catch his beloved's lips, a hand and a giggle stopped him.

"Home first," John said. "I'm not having our first time be against the car."

Sherlock's mouth was suddenly drier than centuries-old bones. John wanted to – he did – home. The sleuth was at the wheel before he made the conscious decision to move. A quick look to make sure that John was in his seat, too (how embarrassing would accidentally leaving him behind be?) and he was speeding away.

They were home 90 minutes later, rather than the two hour fifteen it took them on the way to Bristol, and that without any head-on collisions. John will insist, later, that the credit of that went to him and his recurring yells about almost-crashes. Sherlock found them counterproductive.

"Sorry for wanting all my limbs intact, but broken bones aren't conducive to lovemaking," John snapped when his companion complained, at the third (loud) warning. How the man didn't expect that sentence would make Sherlock actually speed up was a mystery.

The brakes of the rented car screeched one last time in Baker Street. Mycroft better not complain about disappearing – or paying, if he preferred – the fines that he'd undoubtedly earned along the road, or the one that would get slapped on it just for leaving it parked there. What good was a semi-omnipotent brother if he didn't even take care of stupid things like these, when Sherlock was busy having the most momentous day of the rest of his life?

They would get inside, go upstairs, and John would – well, they would if he managed to open the door. He could pick any lock in five minutes tops, and he had the correct key in his hands, but somehow the door was still besting him. Why? Oh. His hands were shaking. Weren't John's supposed to do that? Instead, suddenly, John's hands were over his, sure as they'd been during field surgeries. "Breathe."

Sherlock exhaled, slowly. Had he forgotten to?

"We don't have to do anything, if you're too nervous."

The sleuth glared. Didn't his love know the difference between nerves and anticipation?

John's giggle almost covered the click of the lock opening.