Phew! Sorry about the extended absence of any updates on here but I have been exceptionally busy the past couple of weeks. Either way here's the newest chapter; this is finishing off things to do with the letters that John had written to Sherlock, and developing their personal connection a bit more. Just going to warn that there will be smutty scenes and scenes of a sexual nature coming up in this story. Not neccecarily in the next chapter, but I will warn at the start of each chapter containing these sorts of scenes what is in them.

The Return of Sherlock Holmes 7; Memory Lane

Neither of the two men had mentioned anything about the moment they'd shared upon returning to 221B. John had spoken for a little while about Moran, and how he genuinely felt terrible for the man. Sherlock had listened, but he hadn't spoken; there was far too much going on in his mind and with his hormones for him to offer any suitable response. It was new for the detective, something he hadn't ever had to experience before – but the doctor had that ability, some kind of gift that made the brunette feel things he wouldn't normally allow himself to feel.

Doctor Watson had left for work an hour previously, and so Sherlock's boredom eventually set in. 'The Times' sat on the coffee table in front of him, this morning's headline reading 'Boffin's Back', with a much smaller, and much more crushing article pushed underneath as some kind of insult. The article in question was not of significance to anyone in particular, other than the two men who shared a flat on Baker Street.

"Moran madness." Read the brunette out loud, standing and taking the accursed document up in his hands he continued. "Sebastian Moran, a notorious gang member and feared mercenary lunatic was taken into custody on the evening of February 18th – imprisonment seemed to be too much for his deranged psyche to comprehend, and he managed to regain control of his situation only long enough to produce a modified revolver and shoot himself through the skull. Death was immediate, and London can feel safer in the knowledge that another dangerous criminal no longer walks our streets."

It was unfamiliar; the bitter taste of regret, and Sherlock found himself attributing it to Doctor Watson's idea that Moran had been similar to himself. Here was the evidence in itself that disproved that link – the mercenary had not been able to survive without his master, but John had lived on without Sherlock. He was stronger than Sebastian. The detective's mind enevitably wandered to the letter in his breast pocket, and throwing the paper down onto the couch he pulled his coat on and hastily left 221B.

It was odd, that John should want him to spend his time wandering around London after a trail of letters, but Sherlock did admit that he was curious. There was to be a quick interview at the police station later that day, but he knew that if it came down to it he would gladly pass it up if it meant doing something that the doctor wanted him to.

Why was that?

As the detective stopped to think about it, he found the answers so undesireable that it occupied his mind completely and he almost walked into the very person he had been looking for.

"Jenny." He mumbled, collecting himself. The woman looked at him with suspicion, but smiled in response. Jenny was slight, with a bundle of mousey locks tied loosely back from her face, the grime of the city's streets settled on her skin, and her old parka was falling apart at the seams.

"He told me you'd show up eventually you know." She responded, folding her arms over her chest and patting her pocket. The brunette held out a few notes to her, which she took with glee. "You don't gotta pay me." She began, but Sherlock waved her off.

"I don't suppose you have any idea as to why John would have me running around like this rather than just hand me the letters himself?"

Jenny laughed, it soon evolved into a cough but she paid it no mind. Patting the tall man on the shoulder she grinned; they didn't have to keep up appearances here, they were very much alone on an area of the railway that was little travelled.

"Look at you, Sherlock Holmes can find a couple kids from a footprint, but he can't figure out how his best friend feels." Taking the pristine white envelope from her pocket she passed it to him. "Just read it, and take a look around."

The small woman walked away after this, waving in the detective's general direction with a 'thanks' in response to the money leaving him alone with his thoughts and his letter.

Once he was sure she had left, the brunette could not contain himself and almost demolished the envelope in a bid to discover more about the only thing that left him so completely and utterly in the dark.

Sherlock,

I don't know when it occurred to me just how much you cared about other people – no matter what you liked to say about yourself; or rather say about yourself, because you can't really be gone. You know, this couldn't be more unexpected, the way that losing you has affected me. I can't think, I can't sleep, and I can't even walk properly. It's worse than ever, my limp I mean. I guess without something exciting to take my mind off things it sort of crept back up on me, even though I know it's not a real injury. I haven't done a lot, Lestrade wants me working on cases but I don't know... It's just so, so you and I don't deserve to be some kind of pseudo-replacement. Besides I could never match you.

I know you're probably still thinking about the first sentence – well, you would be if you were reading this – and questioning my reasoning when I say you care so much about other people. You're no sociopath, Sherlock. Yeah you use people, and you have terrible social skills, but you do understand how emotions work, you just choose not to let yours develop into anything.

Your brother asked me once, that if even though you could have been almost anything you wanted with a mind like yours, you have chosen to be a consulting detective and help people – and yes, in your own way it is helping them – what did that mean about your heart?

At the time I had no idea, but now I think I know.

John

There it was again; that thing that only John could do to him. Those feelings that welled up inside every time he would see the doctor, talk to him, and especially when he read those letters. Maybe that was why he wanted them so much, Sherlock desired the sensation. After so long without letting anyone in, without letting anything out, these small bursts of release were like a drug and he was most certainly addicted.

What did John mean that he cared about other people? How could someone like the doctor have so much faith in him? It hurt to ponder, it hurt not to know what it was John knew, it hurt not to have real confirmation of what all of these things meant.

Jenny had told him to look around once he'd read the letter, and walking without purpose back onto the main streets the detective thought he could see why. He was having his first nostalgic experience – at least the first nostalgic experience that meant anything to him. It was one of the routes he and John had walked down a lot before St Bart's 2 years ago, and one of the most heavily populated by families and the homeless. What the ex-soldier had meant about him caring, he meant that he could see that the way Sherlock helped people wasn't solely for his own benefit – stupid, naieve, brilliant John.

Once the new emotions became too much for him, the brunette shut off again, back to normal. Taking a breath to steady himself he studied the next clue.

Outside St Barts. Where it happened, where Sherlock had to watch, and even facilitate his own death. Now, looking up at the tall building he recalled the final moments as they happened.

"That's what people do isn't it...? Leave a note." He croaked on the end of the phone, the plant extract was having a serious effect on him, never mind the overwhelming sense of loss and regret that he felt looking down at the figure of his friend and companion.

"Leave a note when?" came the reply, John's voice was steady but Sherlock knew he was panicked.

"Goodbye John."

He'd jumped then, convinced the only person he'd ever cared about that he was gone forever. There was a stinging sensation in his eyes, and the detective was forced to wipe them with his sleeve.

There! The phone box! There was a note, similarly as neat and as untouched as the previous. It didn't take a genuis to realise that these letters hadn't been left long, no doubt either John or whoever was placing them for him had been tracking the brunette's progress; he didn't seem to care, and wasted no time in revealing the next tantilizing morcel of his new addiction.

Sherlock,

We first met in St Barts on January 29th. Do you remember? Molly helps me through a lot of this. I remember the first thing I ever said to you 'here use mine', a pretty crap introduction – but one I wouldn't take back for the world. Handing you that phone gave you the tools to look at my life in a way I never imagined and tell me things only my close family know about my sister. From that moment something clicked and I knew I'd never have to look back again. Thank you, for even a short time in your presence was more than I could have ever hoped for – neither of us seemed to think we'd find a flatmate willing to put up with us, but I never once had to put up with you Sherlock Holmes, never once. No matter how many times I tell you you're an arrogant twat, no matter how much you piss me off, how much you scare me when you go and do something dangerous, how you infuriate me, and how much you block me out. For all of those things something good counteracts them, for all your arrogance you are caring, for how much you piss me off you know how to calm me down, for how much you scare me you always give me courage, for how much you infuriate me you amaze me, and for how much you block me out I know I can let you in.

So please Sherlock, come home, let me in, and let me fix this. Back here, St Barts all over again, we can start afresh.

John

Sherlock almost expected the doctor to be stood there on the steps, as though he was reading the letter at the time it was written. All of those things could be applied to John in much the same way as he had applied them to the detective. Doctor Watson was caring, he was calming, he was inspiring, he was amazing and he was the only person that the brunette would consider 'letting in'. Even though this was simply a paraphrase of the ex-soldier's own letter, the sentiment was real, yes, Sherlock Holmes felt all of those things for his companion, and so much more.

He didn't need to think about it to end up inside of St Bart's; the laboritory where they first met. His feet took him there without imput from his brain, and his mind wandered, heart pounding in his chest and blood throbbing in his ears. Deaf and as aware as a corpse, the detective climbed the stairs swiftly and swung the doors almost from their hinges. Molly was working today, and she jumped with a squeak as the crash that followed resounded around the otherwise empty room.

"Sherlock?" she asked timidly, wondering if he had another plan to involve her in, another deception to commit.

The detective didn't reply for some time, instead he simply scanned the lab, an unreadable expression on his face with his mouth agape and panting lightly from his run up several floors. Eventually he came back to himself, looking Molly in the eyes and closing the distance between them swiftly. "Is there a letter?" he asked almost desperately. The woman nodded, pointing to one of the work surfaces. No sooner had Sherlock been close to her than he was at the other end of the room mercilessly ripping the letter from its casing; he read this one while running out of the building, there shouldn't be many more and he wanted to reach the end.

Sherlock

I keep thinking about what Amanda said to me, and Rebecca. Even now, months later, it keeps coming back to me. 'You love him', do I Sherlock? Do I? Is this why you're still haunting me even now? Why I can't sleep? Why I stand outside pubs at night just to smell that stale cigarette smoke? I'm trying my best you know, trying my best to stave it off, to stave off that feeling of boredom and of being alone. The one you would talk to me about sometimes, when I told you that you didn't need to feel that way, and slowly you mentioned it less and less, and you looked happier, more content. Now I am discontented, life is so boring, so dull, patients with hypochondria day in and day out.

The grind.

Come back, please just come back and do something, tell me what's going on in my head, what I'm feeling, and tell me how to stop it.

John

Sherlock didn't know for how long he had been running, or when he had arrived at the graveyard, or when he had stopped and stared at his own headstone for what felt like an eternity; he just knew it had happened. It seemed they hadn't thought to exhume the body yet and be rid of a grave that did not belong to a man named Sherlock Holmes.

He was cold, cruelly so, and numb from all of the emotions he had allowed himself to feel that day. When he thought he could take no more, when he felt as though he might never get what he knew to be the last letter, a hand was placed on his shoulder. He recognised the weight; the strength of the grip and the texture against is coat straight away.

"John...?" he asked, not turning to face the other man who smiled and nodded.

"Yeah, it's me." The reply was similarly quiet and soft-spoken, the smile was tender and yet tinged with a sadness that time had not been able to reconcile.

The feeling of paper against his hand only registered to the detective after the doctor had closed his digits around the letter for him. It was enough to bring Sherlock back to the moment at hand, though he moved slowly and was both terrified and excited, like he was wondering if this next hit would be the one that killed him. So much emotion, so much feeling, he wasn't sure he could take all of it – all those years of hiding it away had not rid him of it, it had simply compressed it until he overflowed.

"I'm going to get us some tea from the shop across the road; you better pull yourself together before I get back."

Sherlock's only friend winked at him and chuckled dryly making his way out of the graveyard. It's more like I'm the one who needs to pull myself together. He thought to himself with another chuckle and a heavy sigh. This was it, their entire relationship was pinned on this one moment, this one fit of madness that had taken over the doctor – but he would never look back, he would never regret, and now he finally had a chance to do and say all of the things he never did when he lost the detective. He would not lose him again without knowing.

Sherlock understood that he had a time limit of around 5 minutes in which to gather his wits and read the final note that the doctor had left him. With a deep breath he opened the envelope; this time with care and precision. Unfolding the white paper he looked to the sky for a moment, it would rain later, and then put his attention to what his friend had given him.

Sherlock

I wrote this one by your gravestone you know. I was thinking about the things we used to talk about – you asked me once why I was so upset when someone called you a fraud. It's because you're wonderful, you're special, unique and real. It's because I love you. There. It's taken me until now to get to grips with it, even though everyone treated me like the main mourner, as though we'd been partners in more than business, I didn't allow myself to believe that my feelings leant that way. But they do Sherlock, and it's like an endless gaping nothingness that expands in front of me – my life that is, without you. I love you, I love how you stand in the moonlight, I love your soft curls, your smell, and your crappy violin (though really I'm just jealous), and how you'd wake me up at 4am to follow a lead or make you tea. I love how you 'only have one' friend, and that friend was me, I love your brilliant mind, those little glimpses of emotion – Sherlock if you could see me now you would laugh at me in my weakness. Alone with my memories; any longer and I would follow you into the unknown again – at first I asked why you went somewhere I couldn't follow, I could follow you anywhere but in death, but now I think I realise I could even do that for you.

I am in love with you Sherlock Holmes, experiment on me, leave chemicals in the biscuit tin, call me stupid – anything, something.

It took the sound of footsteps approaching behind him for Sherlock to realise just how long he'd been spending looking at the note. John had returned, and he handed one of the polystyrene cups to the brunette; it had been a tea house and they were not used to having orders 'to go'.

"Stupid." Mumbled the detective, so quietly that the doctor almost couldn't hear.

"What?" he asked, surprised by the reaction.

"I said stupid." Replied the brunette, turning to face his companion, his eyes were intense, and the vulnerability of earlier had been replaced by the familiar almost emotionless facade; but the burning in Sherlock's eyes always remained, that desire that could melt the core of the most heartless individual. "That's what you said, you asked me to call you stupid, there are chemicals in the biscuit tin, and you know I could never experiment on you."

Doctor Watson wasn't sure what to think, this kind of response was certainly very Sherlock, but was it the kind of response he had expected or hoped for?

Certainly not.

The detective closed the distance between them with a single stride and towered over the ex-soldier, it was almost intimidating, almost sexy. Staring intently at John for a while, the brunette's expression softened for a moment before he repositioned his blank mask.

"Do you mean them; the things you wrote?" he asked, never once breaking eye contact.

"I do." Replied the blonde, much more bravely than he had expected of himself, and with such conviction that he was surprised. Swallowing a lump in his throat he took a deep breath. "I love you Sherlock Holmes, and I don't care who knows. I don't care if you don't feel the same way, I have nothing left unsaid."

It was silent, and only the sounds of the cars in the distance were the signs of civilization that could be heard, creating their own melody with the beginnings of the rain and the rustle of the leaves.

Sherlock would not face John for a long time; instead he seemed to speak to no-one in particular. The doctor supposed that this was a defence mechanism for him, if he kept his voice level and allowed no-one to see his face then people would still assume that the detective felt nothing.

"I am not good at these sorts of things, John." He began. "I never have been, it is, regrettably, one of the only areas of knowledge that I lack." Modest as usual, thought the blonde sarcastically as he smiled a little in spite of himself. "I don't know what the feelings I have for you are, I can't define them as something that has a label." The brunette allowed himself a glance in his companion's direction.

"You don't have to be able to label a feeling for it to be real." The ex-soldier told him, with a slight frown.

"What I mean to say," began Sherlock as he turned fully to face the other man and cleared his throat. "Is that I can't define how I feel because I have never felt as strongly as I do now. I am not even familiar with weakened versions of the emotions you manage to so selfishly manifest in me." It almost seemed as though the detective were angry with the doctor for making him feel at all, which in essence was true. "But I will say, that whatever it is I have been feeling, when I see you, when I read those letters, and when you confessed to me just now – I want to feel more of it. I want to understand it. I want..." he trailed off, unsure of himself. It frustrated him to be unsure, but it seemed to happen more and more lately; especially in Doctor Watson's presence.

"I want to spend all my days with you, I regret when we are apart, and I loathe the burden I placed upon you when I had to fake my own death. I am not sure of anything when it comes to you, and you know most of all that this makes me angrier than anything else; but right now I want to agree to this – I mean, I would like us to investigate taking our relationship further." He paused, only to take in the shocked expression on his friend's face. "Is that desirable?"

"Do you really need to ask me that?" came the reply, it was confident, as though nothing had changed and John had meant to live this moment for all his life. The doctor was grinning at the detective, the corner of his mouth twitched momentarily into a smirk.

Standing up on tip-toes, the shorter man put a hand on the back of the brunette's neck and pulled him down to meet him – it was a short kiss, sweet and innocent to serve its purpose as a reassurance.

Sherlock looked down at John with shock on his features, it made the blonde laugh to see his companion so animated, and the brunette found himself laughing too, until they both filled the air with the sounds of this unusual reaction to their current situation; the weight of 2 years without each other lifted in that moment with their voices.