A/N More than anything, this chapter is really just set-up for the next, when (FINALLY) things actually happen ;3 We're nearing the end of this fic, and I'm hoping to gather a few more reviews before it's over, so even if you have commented on a previous chapter, another one here would be much appreciated ^^

Thanks to Vamsi

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

[8/10]

As guilty as it probably ought to have made him feel, it was indeed a relief when the time came for Harry to be on her way. Apparently, she hadn't yet broken her vacationing streak, and was next headed for Brazil. John wasn't sure how to react when she cheerily announced that she fancied herself a 'bit of a traveler these days,' and chose to respond with not-entirely-faux enthusiasm when he delivered her to the airport. She left with a bit of a prance in her step, boarding the plane with such an exotic destination in mind, and he couldn't help but wish briefly that her visits could be enjoyed rather than just tolerated. It would be nice if the two of them could get along a bit better, but he supposed they were just too different from one another.

Funnily enough, Sherlock absolutely detested Harry- or so it seemed- and the two of them, in fact, were much more similar than either would care to admit or, probably, even notice. Their attitudes were practically polar opposites, yes, but their negative qualities were nearly identical. Stuck up, selfish, sarcastic and condescending... how was it that the people John tended to grow close to were such utter jerks?

This thought kept him amused on the way home, right up to when he walked in the door- at that point, it completely evaporated. Though Sherlock wasn't shooting any walls, there was a new 'hobby' that he seemed to have picked up.

"Isn't there some sort of rule against having an open flame in a flat this crowded?" John suggested meekly, unwilling to take another step into the room.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock replied with a snort, not looking up from the huge burner he had positioned haphazardly on the desk. "There's a fireplace right there, and a stove in the kitchen."

"I can see you're not using either of them."

The detective looked up finally. He wasn't wearing any semblance of goggles or the like to protect himself from the furnace-like heat that John could feel from across the room, but didn't seem to be burned at all. On the contrary, he appeared quite normal, and the doctor would never have expected anything out of the ordinary to be occurring except for, well... the flames dancing eight inches into the air.

"Please, John, I needed something that I could work at from all angles. And before you ask why I didn't do it in the kitchen," he continued, "the table there is far too cluttered. It is nice to have a somewhat bare surface to work on."

"And what kind of marks are you going to be leaving on it? You do realize that's wood, don't you?"

"Of course I do. I'm not stupid."

John bit back the could've fooled me that lingered on the tip of his tongue, instead warily approaching the center of the room. "What are you, er... burning, anyways?"

"I'm not burning anything. I'm checking how well the smoke detectors work. I must say, they seem rather inefficient."

"Ha, ha," John muttered bitterly. "Really, though. Is there any particular reason why you chose to put a... big fire in the middle of the desk? Gone pyro?"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "In fact, I'm testing flammability. These so-called fireproof materials don't seem to last more than twenty seconds when exposed to open flame, which is, of course, a bit of a concern for someone trapped in a burning house. I thought I might lend the clothing industry a hand... of course, it looks like they really have been trying their best. None of the materials I've concocted here are any more efficient..." He almost absentmindedly brushed away a pile of what seemed to be small fabric squares, so that they fluttered through the air and coasted to the ground, then sighed, rose, and stalked over to the couch, which he collapsed back onto, ignoring the heavy bounce of the cushions.

John practically ran over to the burner, hands shaking as he turned off the gas and, for good measure, yanked the cord out of its socket. Scraps of charred fabric lay in a glass dish next to it, presumably the not-so-lucky victims of Sherlock's little experiment.

"What were you thinking?" he hissed, turning to glare at his flat mate, who was now sprawled across the couch, looking more than a little disinterested. "You could have burned the flat down!"

"She survived Moriarty's explosion. She would have been fine," the other replied grouchily, raising a hand to slap the wall. It might have been a fond gesture, but John got the idea that Sherlock was more likely to be attempting to cause the building pain.

"She would've," he agreed with true appreciation in his voice, glancing around at the walls, the familiar cluttered surfaces, the two chairs positioned in front of the fireplace and the television. He really did like 221B- he wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, but it truly did seem to have become a home to him, more so than anywhere he'd lived before. There was a certain... atmosphere to the little flat that couldn't really be recaptured. Though, he admitted to himself, that feeling probably had less to do with his actual surroundings, and more with the person he shared them with.

As absolutely infuriating as he could be.

"Where did you get that... burner thing, anyway?" he asked, not letting the subject be changed quite so easily. Walking in to Sherlock burning piles of cloth wasn't something he wanted to send down the 'forgive and forget' path too quickly.

"Work," was the only reply.

Well, that could have meant any number of places. Sherlock's work was with him wherever he went, after all.

"Work," John repeated. "...Should I not ask?"

"That would probably be best, yes."

He hesitated for a moment, then settled for a simple nod before sinking into his chair. "Well, then. Just promise me that you won't go building any more bonfires while I'm out of the house? ...Especially not on wooden surfaces ?"

"I'll give it a try," Sherlock murmured.

"That doesn't sound like a promise."

"It's not."

John couldn't have done anything to stop the smile that spread across his face then. It was just... so Sherlock, and anything Sherlock was, well, brilliant. The up side of Harry's visit had been that, now, he was feeling much better about Sarah. She seemed almost like part of a separate lifetime now, a separate him- as though there was the Sherlock John and the Sarah John, and their lives had only intersected for a brief while before going on their own individual ways once more. As odd as it was, he'd been toying- not seriously, just half-jokingly- with the idea of alternate realities. Probably sparked from watching too much Doctor Who. Still, telling himself that there was a version of this life in which she was still alive and well did wonders to make him feel better.

Of course. You use a fictional concept to reassure yourself about your dead girlfriend. John Watson, the sci-fi geek.

That was easier to think about, now, as well- dead. The fact that Sarah was, in fact, dead wasn't too overwhelming, because it only emphasized the fact that the rest of the world was alive.

Sherlock was alive.

And that- that was absolutely fantastic. If he had been the one to die- that utterly brilliant man- John honestly didn't know if he would have survived it. It would have shattered everything, in a far less repairable way. Because while Sarah had been his, well, his romantic interest, their relationship hadn't really gone beyond that.

Sherlock, on the other hand... he was John's life. Everything seemed to revolve around him, like the earth around the sun- though he doesn't even know about that... Sarah's death was like the moon disappearing. It was disconcerting, unsettling, a huge light having suddenly gone dark, leaving him to long, dark, lonely nights.

But if the sun had vanished...

Well, John would be blind without the sun.

Stop it, he chided himself, heaving a small sigh. You're making this sound like a badly written romance novel. Your life is no book.

It's no romance, either. Not anymore.

Why did that last thought feel so... wrong?

That was when the first thoughts started materializing.

No. No. There's no way- of course not. Not him. His stomach was churning at the very idea-

Though it wasn't necessarily a bad type of churn-

Oh, no. Oh, God, no. That... how did that even... I'm straight, he repeatedly told himself, as though that was the most ridiculous thing about the situation. Of course, he didn't see Sherlock as a man so much as a... well, a... person, he supposed. A person, with a spirit, with all manner of spectacular talents and quirks and...

Dear God.

Just because he's your friend, he told himself furiously, that- that means nothing else. Nothing else at all. Why can't two men just have a platonic relationship these days? They can. Of course they can. You're being ridiculous. It's just exhaustion- dealing with Harry does that. Nothing else is going on. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Nothing.

With that, he shoved the very prospect to the back of his mind, where it lurked in shadowed seclusion, still not entirely dismissed.

You have to tell him eventually.

But that's not necessarily true, Sherlock thought to himself. There's no reason why I should have to, none at all. Why can't it just stay a secret?

There was a reason, and he knew it. If he didn't tell John eventually what he had said in the freezer, then Moriarty would. Sherlock didn't know when or how, but he was positive it would happen. Whether with intentions of casting them farther apart (to induce weakness) or shoving them closer together (for amusement), the psychopath was sure to reveal Sherlock's thoughtless, stupid declaration at some point or other.

And John would rather hear it from you than from him.

I could always deny it...

Don't be stupid, he probably has it on tape or something.

That was most likely true.

But still. Why did it have to be so hard, so impossibly hard, to even comprehend going through such an action? Because it was. Sherlock didn't know how he could tell him, or when, or what sort of excuse he could possibly conjure up for saying it at all... it wasn't something that John would want to hear. He knew that. But... he had to get it out. He had to.

Eventually.

And yet he knew that the longer he put it off, the harder it would become. Oh, John, by the way. Remember that walk-in freezer that we were stuck in half a decade ago? Well, I never told you, but when you were unconscious from being shot, I actually told Moriarty that I was in love with you! Isn't that just brilliant? Shall we throw a party?

Damn it.

He'd just have to resign himself to telling John at a certain point, sooner rather than later. Just get it out. The quicker he'd said it, the quicker it would be forgotten.

As if he'd ever forget something like that.

Well, perhaps not forget, then, but at least... well... dismiss? Accept? Respond to? No, that was one thing that was never going to happen. He was sure of that. John was... well... not accessible.

And what makes him that way?

He's not interested. Not in me. That would be utterly ridiculous. He's shown from the start that something like that, a... romantic relationship would never come anywhere near working. So just... just forget it. No, don't forget it. Finish it. End it. Tell him that you said it, but that you're... over him now. The phrases- romantic, over him- grated in Sherlock's mind, painful cliches that seemed to make the whole ordeal a thousand times shallower than he thought it to be. Things weren't getting anywhere like this. He just wanted it to be over. Wished it had never happened, he'd never said that stupid, stupid thing...

And yet...

If it was all gone...

There would be something lacking. This new dimension that John had brought to his life... he didn't want, couldn't stand for it to be cut out again. The only thing that was keeping him moving forward was the hope, the feeling that he got every time he looked in John's direction, the fantastical hope that maybe, someday, somehow...

But that day, that how, would never come... unless he took the reins and, well, said- admitted- told John that he... that he'd said... it.

Tomorrow.

The determination was suddenly there, solid and blazing, steely and irrevocable.

I'm going to tell him tomorrow.