John had no concept of time or space in the moments following Mary's departure. He just stood there, slouched against the wall, naked, gawking at Sherlock Holmes. His mouth was gaping, eyes wide, really no amount of self-control. Sherlock chuckled slightly and tossed John a quilt. Quickly John wrapped the fabric around himself. He realized his teeth were chattering, his body vibrating with shivers. He wasn't sure if it was from shock or the chill in the flat. His motor function was impaired by the lager, and the shock, so the first words he spoke to Sherlock in almost two years were horrid and slurred.

"Wh-what th-the b-b-bloody hell are you d-doing in my fl-flat you gigantic arse?"

As if he didn't hear John's words, Sherlock strode over to the fireplace and promptly lit a match, igniting the leftover wood from some long-forgotten fire. The flickering firelight cast an ominous glow over Sherlock's face, deepening the shadows under his eyes, sharpening the angular cheekbones and brow line. The flame jumped, and his silhouette was ignited with a red glow. A tremor shot through John's body, and he had to lean against the wall to regain his balance. Despite his inner monologue telling him this was indeed Sherlock Holmes, the imposing man that stood before John did nothing to lessen the quaking inside John's soul. Without warning, the silhouette spoke.

"I wanted to see you."

An interval of time passed quietly, a crackling fire and two bodies breathing, the only sounds. John was still leaning against the wall, cloaked in a quilt. Sherlock stood statuesque before the fire. His deep baritone cut through the blackness.

"John, I know this must be...confusing. Possibly even angering. I do apologize if I ruined your evening with your lady friend. I simply needed to know you were okay. I..."

Sherlock drew a deep, shaky breath that caught John's attention. Sherlock had never been one for pregnant pauses, shaky breathing, or caring if John Watson was 'okay'. John took a couple steps toward the fireplace, toward Sherlock. He was sobering up, and the reality that Sherlock was actually standing in the flat was suffocating. He drew a labored breath, moving closer, until he was an arm's length away from Sherlock. He was about to speak, about to reach out to make sure Sherlock was tangible, real, not a figment of his imagination or a drunken hallucination, when Sherlock spoke again.

"I've been hiding, John. Hiding in plain sight. I worked at a stuffy bookshop about four blocks from here. I had a horrid flat over that way too. Godawful place. I pretended to be some forlorn businessman who had lost my money but not my intellect. Hence the wardrobe." Sherlock tugged at the t-shirt. John couldn't help but smile at how odd the get-up looked on him. All lean and lanky, almost gawky. He stifled a chuckle with his fist, praying Sherlock would continue.

"I saw you, John. Two weeks or so. You must have noticed me, or someone you had hoped was me. I waited in that damn bookshop for you to come in, guns blazing, to smoke me out of my rabbit hole. But you never came. Then bloody Mycroft outs me. Bastard. Regardless, John, I hope I haven't caused you too much inconvenience. I meant no harm, truly. I.."

John had decided long ago that he would never feel for anyone the way he felt for Sherlock Holmes. Their relationship had no label, no title. It didn't need one. However when John heard Sherlock tell him that he hoped that faking a suicide and disappearing for two years wasn't any inconvenience, John knew he would never be so angry with another human being as long as he lived. Sherlock's abrupt turn to face John shocked John into motion before he even had time to process his actions. His fist made direct contact with Sherlock's mouth. John heard a voice yelling, heard two voices hollering, only to realize one voice belonged to him, and the other to Sherlock.

"YOU ARE AN INSUFFERABLE BASTARD, SHERLOCK. INCONVEINIENCE?! ARE YOU DAFT, MAD, OR BOTH?! THIS WASN'T A BLOODY FUCKING INCONVEINIENCE. THIS WAS MY LIFE. MY LIFE. YOU RUINED ME..."

"JOHN I KEPT YOU SAFE DON'T YOU SEE? CAN'T YOU SEE? MORIARTY WOULD HAVE HAD YOU ALL KILLED, THE WHOLE LOT OF YOU. BLOODY CHRIST I HAD TO LIVE LIKE A … A … FUCK, JOHN, I DID IT FOR YOU. AND MRS HUDSON, AND MYCROFT. AND DAMMIT YOU'RE MAD AT ME?!"

Frenzied, John launched himself at Sherlock, grabbing for any purchase he could find. Sherlock was momentarily too stunned to fight back, but regained his composure quickly enough to dodge a few of John's punches. John sank two fists into Sherlock's ribcage and felled him, Sherlock clawing desperately at John's chest. Playing the advantage from the floor, Sherlock grabbed John's feet out from under him, bringing John down on the floor of the sitting room. Crawling towards John, Sherlock attempted to plan two steps ahead of where he thought the soldier might be. Unfortunately, John had the upper hand in hand-to-hand combat. As Sherlock attempted to stand, John swiftly kicked a foot out from under him, grappling Sherlock into a hold that almost certainly deemed John the winner. John straddled Sherlock, pummeling him with blows that had no real force behind them, serving as a catharsis more than an attack. Sherlock simply let John go, until he realized John was sobbing over him. Gently Sherlock caught one fist, then the other, stowing the blows once and for all. John couldn't control his cries, and he unabashedly let his head fall onto Sherlock's heaving chest.


Pinned beneath his friend, Sherlock was helpless. He could taste the coppery tang of the blood spilling from his split lip. He couldn't be angry with John for hitting him though. He deserved it, more than anyone. A punch in the face was actually much less than what Sherlock deserved. He focused his attention back to the man on top of him.

"John. John. It's okay. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. What can I do? Let me make tea. I'll make you tea. John? John?"

Unsure of what more to say or do, Sherlock simply let his friend cry into his chest. Occasionally John would whimper "so alone" between breaths. Sherlock was sure he had never felt so alone as he did right now, beneath John. He realized he was still holding John's fists, and he released them, smoothing them out onto his own chest. John clasped one hand tight, intertwining their fingers, and Sherlock didn't protest. He knew he had hurt John. He had hoped the damage wasn't irrevocable, that he could somehow coax John back to the man he was before the fall. Now, Sherlock wasn't so sure that man even existed.

The man astride him was broken, so very broken. His pain radiated from him in waves. Sherlock could feel it now, the pain of loss and betrayal and loneliness. He absentmindedly began to stroke John's hair with his free hand, making small noises of affection to quiet his friend. He found that John's weight was not uncomfortable despite their awkward position on the hardwood floor. Shifting his own legs outward, Sherlock felt John align more comfortably along his body, legs stretched out now between Sherlock's own.

John had stopped weeping, but made no clear intention to move off of Sherlock's chest. After years of refusing to be touched by anyone except Mrs. Hudson, somehow this full body contact with John didn't feel awkward for Sherlock. He felt grounded. He felt warm. He was certain if John stood up right now, Sherlock would simply float away into the night sky, up into the atmosphere, lost forever. He was still stroking John's hair, purposefully now. He relished the textures and smells of John from his position. He felt a tear along the crease of his eye, and with a healing breath, Sherlock began to cry too. He made no sound, fearing that John would find his weeping foolish. However the sobs racked his body like a wayward ship lost at sea. Soon it was impossible to ignore the fact that Sherlock was crying, and John peered up at him.

"Hey, I'm supposed to have the mental breakdown. Blame it all on my PTSD. Not you, never you."

John cooed softly into Sherlock's chest, using his free hand to wipe away the moisture dampening Sherlock's cheeks. Briefly Sherlock sobbed even harder, mainly when John shimmied up to rest his head in the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, nuzzling the soft flesh between his shoulder and his neck. John reciprocated Sherlock's affectionate sounds, stroking his face as the tears slowed. Once Sherlock's face was dry, John simply continued stroking Sherlock's face. Occasionally his hand would move up into Sherlock's hair, small circles rubbed into his scalp to calm him further. Again Sherlock pondered how he had gone so long without direct human contact, how he had gone so long without John's soft, steady touch. He failed to remember why he abhorred contact beyond a handshake, but he knew he would never deny John if he asked again.


John nuzzled into Sherlock's neck, surrounding himself with all that was Sherlock. He pressed a tentative kiss in the hollow of Sherlock's collarbone. It was met with no resistance, so John continued pressing small kisses along the smooth skin of Sherlock's neck. He squeezed Sherlock's hand tighter, trying to signal Sherlock without using words. A quick, strong responsive squeeze gave John a heady feeling of power, and he took off on a sprint. Kisses poured from John's lips like Holy Water, over Sherlock's neck, along his jawline, behind his ear. Using his knee for leverage, John pushed himself up face-to-face with Sherlock. He came to an abrupt halt when Sherlock's clear aquamarine eyes were analyzing him through tear-soaked lashes. John sighed, remorseful for the damage he had inflicted on such a perfect man.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have.." He trailed off, preoccupied with tracing Sherlock's swollen lips with an index finger. Sherlock truly did have the most amazing features. John found himself slightly envious of his friend's pouty lips. He wondered what kissing them would be like. He had pondered that far more often than he liked to admit. With a steely resolve, John decided now was not the time to balk out on missed opportunities.

John briefly started into Sherlock's eyes, then dipped his head to press his lips gently to Sherlock's. A small hum of pleasure radiated out of Sherlock's mouth into John's. Smiling, he proceeded to drop light kisses upon Sherlock's battered lips. A small smile crept up his face, starting with his mouth, drawing up his cheeks, and finally crinkling his eyes. Sherlock's smile was less reserved, a large grin erupting in the darkness. John took that moment to absorb the sight that was Sherlock.

His aquamarine eyes nearly glowed in the darkness. The still-burning fire threw sharp angles to all his features, giving him a sinister appearance. His wide smile though, the one that dimpled his cheeks and made his eyes sparkle, that was enough to banish any evil in John's world. John traced Sherlock's jaw, dragging a fingernail gently down the pearly skin of his neck, running small circles up and down his collarbone.

Sherlock's breath hitched. John froze. I went too far. Shit. Maybe pull back, laugh it off, blame the PTSD, blame the booze, bloody hell blame Mary if you have to. His mind raced, trying to decide which excuse to use so that he could get out of this with the least amount of embarrassment. Chuckling, John sat up on his knees, bringing his free hand to rub the back of his neck in nervous habit. He glanced down at Sherlock, assessing the damage he might have done to their newly reestablished potential. Sherlock tipped his head to one side, resting it on his shoulder. His bright eyes burned with curiosity and something that John couldn't place; two years apart had deeply affected the connection between them. John shifted uncomfortably between Sherlock's spread-eagle legs.

"I uh, well.. Christ. Sorry I hit you. I can get you some ice. Or make you tea. I'll go make tea."

John began to stand when Sherlock snagged his hand. John's heart leaped in his chest, hope burning like a new ember. He cocked his head, hoping this would encourage Sherlock to explain at least a small bit of what was happening right now. Instead, Sherlock sat up in one fluid movement, bringing his face and torso flush with John's. In a second motion, equally as fluid, Sherlock released John's hand, grasped his face between his palms, and kissed John. His kiss began as a sweet moment, making John's heart constrict with emotion. Within seconds John knew this kiss would not lead to tea. This kiss would not lead to the life they had before the fall. This kiss was a beginning, to what John was unsure, but he returned the fevered kisses with reckless abandon.


Kissing John was as close to a spiritual moment as Sherlock was sure he would ever have. When John had begun nuzzling his neck, Sherlock was unsure. When John had wiped away his tears, Sherlock was unsure. When John kissed him, nothing had ever made more sense than that to Sherlock. The world righted itself. When Sherlock kissed John, he was sure. Sure he had never loved a person the way he loved John. Sure that he had never thought more about one person than he had about John. The small box that had been holding him underground splintered into pieces around him, glorious sunlight streaming in, casting away the demons.

Sherlock took his time kissing John. He explored John's lips, his tongue. He nipped and suckled and licked John's lips, moaning accolades into John's warm breath between each one.

"You are … so amazing … Dr Watson … I missed you …"

Sherlock's hands roamed over the slopes and peaks of John's body. John hadn't been able to put proper clothes on between Mary leaving and their fight. Sherlock was grateful for that fact now. He kept the quilt wrapped around John's shoulders too keep off the chill. Sherlock slipped his hands between John's naked body and the blanket, moaning softly at the feel of John's warm skin beneath his fingers. Working his way across John's back and shoulders, Sherlock deftly massaged and rubbed and pinched the soft bits, enjoying their give. As his palms skated across John's muscled arms, he grunted with approval. John seemed to enjoy this raw side of Sherlock, and Sherlock would not be one to disappoint.

He ventured down John's neck, grazing along his neck with soft nips. Sherlock felt John's body responding, a sheen of lust covering his goosebumps. He continued kissing and sucking along John's clavicle, dancing his mouth from one shoulder to the other. He reached the scar, pausing to examine it uninterrupted. To distract John from the intermission of kisses, Sherlock began pulsing his fingers into John's lower back muscles, a simple massage technique that drew a moan of contentment from the doctor. Sherlock's gaze rested on John's wounded shoulder. He could see where the bullet had made impact, where it had shattered the bone and torn the flesh; where the heat from the friction scorched the skin. All repaired now, yet still a constant reminder of John's old life. Sherlock chastely kissed the scar with respect and adoration for this brave man placed before him. He proceeded with his affections, covering one shoulder then the other. Sherlock stopped, pulling back to assess John's state.

"John, I. I feel like I need to say words but I'm not sure what those words are."

His eyes searched John's for some indication of what needed to be done now. John's kind blue eyes shone with emotion, though what emotion it was, Sherlock was again unsure. John exhaled with a chuckle and shrugged.

"Sherlock, I don't bloody know what's going on. I know I got stewed to put you out of my mind, intended to find some half-decent woman to bed, brought one home, and you're standing there like you never left. I'm half-naked, drunk, and you're laughing at my piss poor attempt to be rid of you. Mary's left. We've fought. And now..."

John gestured to the space between them, which only amounted to a few inches. His eyes were earnest, lacking the fear and rage of earlier. Now, they held adoration, warmth, and lust. Sherlock fiddled with the edge of his t-shirt, having returned both of his hands to his own lap.

He suddenly felt very vulnerable in front of John. He ducked his head, tearing his gaze away from his only friend. How could he expect John to want this? He isn't gay, Sherlock. Just because the whole world assumes he's your lover doesn't mean he is. Or ever will be. Foolish boy. You saw how mad with lust he was for that bar wench. The only passionate thing John's done to you tonight is hit you in the face. Stop fooling yourself. Before you ruin it all. His shoulders slumped, his gaze firmly locked on the carpet beneath them. He drew his legs from around John, sliding backward to allow himself room to stand, allow himself room to walk away from all this before it was too late for them to go back.

It was John's turn to catch Sherlock's hand as he was moving away. Voice wavering, John spoke softly.

"Sherlock. What're you doing? I'm sorry. I don't know what to say either. I-.." Sherlock could hear John's voice, thick with emotion, catch slightly as he continued

"I just can't go on without you Sherlock. Whatever you want me to be, I'll be that. Half the world thinks we're gay anyway. I don't know what that even means anymore. I don't know much, really. I'm an idiot, remember? I just know what I said to you at your bloody graveside still is true. And I just... Christ, I can't go back. I won't."

Sherlock hadn't completely stood, so he was crouching in front of John as the words tumbled out of his mouth. Sherlock raised a finger, silencing John's open train of thought. He gently cupped the side of John's face with his raised hand, rubbing his thumb along John's small cheekbone. His voice was heavy as he spoke the words he knew he had waited for, the words he knew would either break the emotional stalemate or bring his kingdom crashing down around him. He would risk it, he would risk it all, for John Watson.

"John. I was so alone. I owe you so much"

The force that John's body hit Sherlock with made him thankful he hadn't stood up. The force of John's kisses made him thankful they were now sprawled on the sitting room carpet. The force with which John tore off every article of Sherlock's clothing made Sherlock glad he had never enjoyed t-shirts and jeans to begin with.