Ugh! Longest chapter and I seriously wrote it in a few hours. Legitimately, I enjoyed writing this so much I want to cry. (Especially the last scene) (You'll see.)

A few things. I've got a few Q's on tumblr about Sherlock and John being out of character in this fic.

I'd like to think people are more then one dimensional... But yes, I did it on purpose. In this headcannon, John isn't really that good at hiding the fact he's an emotional wreck without Sherlock. And Sherlock secretly feels the same, he's just kind of like "WTF are all these emotions." So sorry if its weird, don't read it I guess.

I said this before, but, trigger warnings. Other warnings, this gets very angsty and um... a little above PG at the end.

Also, I know I want to write more for this story, maybe some smutty stuff, I actually haven't decided yet. I'll also be updating less often because, ya know, I'm in high school and I have stuff to do.

Also: LEAVE ME REVIEWS! I love reviews. I cry with joy every time I get a new review. I'm glad, favorites wise, you all love this story though.

I'm done. Enjoy! -ACR

I don't own Sherlock!

When John woke up, Sherlock was holding his hand. The tall man was curled up on his side, facing John, fast asleep. But his hand was out, wrapped around Johns and holding onto it for dear life.

And John didn't really know how to feel about that.

He just laid there, felt the sun coming up through the windows and falling down on them. He watched the face of his beautiful friend. Sometimes Sherlock was so beautiful, John wondered if he was human or some kind of God. That would explain a lot. But mostly, those eyes. John had seen a lot of blue eyes, in fact he had a thing for them. But Sherlocks were different. They were catlike, searching. They saw through him, watched every move he made, saw every emotion John had.

"John," Sherlock grumbled suddenly, "Are you watching me sleep?"

"No," John lied and turned away, "Why are you holding my hand?"

Sherlock let go, pulling his hand into him and keeping his eyes closed, "You were having nightmares, it was all I could do to shut you up."

John bit his lip. It had seemed to work, he didn't have too many nightmares last night. Not that he remembered. He felt rested. John stood up and grabbed his robe from his closet, heading for the bathroom, "Get up and eat something?"

"Do I ever eat?" Sherlock opened an eye and watched John vanish into the bathroom.

"No," John yelled back. Sherlock smirked. He was almost very happy with waking up like this, until he remembered the events of last night. His stomach dropped suddenly, the sight of the little cuts in the moonlight suddenly crushing down on him.

He'd only read one thing about cutting, once, for a case. Controlled pain, possible suicidal thoughts, Sherlock sighed at that. He didn't even know where to begin with dealing with this. He guess talking to him might be a good start.

He stood up slowly and walked up the bathroom, opening the door and only half-hoping John wasn't naked.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John glared at him, not naked but shirtless.

Sherlock approached him without answer and took his arm up, studying them. Not just his wrists, but stretched up his arm all the way to the crook of his elbow, tiny little scars that you almost could only see if you looked closely, or the light caught them just right.

John pulled it away and hid it behind his back, "What?"

"John…" Sherlock locked his eyes on Johns, and it took his breath away. For once, Sherlock didn't look like he could see through him, just like he was waiting for John to explain. Like a child who didn't understand.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing."

"It's…" John sighed and looked away, "When you left, I read a lot of books to get away from the pain. In one book, I heard about this… different way to get away from the pain. I tried it for a few months, and then I stopped. It's fine now, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock nodded, but he felt his heart cracking a little. It was his fault, of course.

"Can you leave now? I need to shower,"

"Okay," Sherlock almost turned, and then didn't. He reached his hand around Johns face and leaned forward, brushing his lips against Johns forehead. Then he turned and left the room. He didn't know why he did it, it just felt like the right thing to do. He needed John to know that he wasn't going anywhere.

John felt his face go red. He turned and leaned against the sink, sighing deeply. Why was his heart racing? This wasn't right. He got in the shower and let the water run over him for a while. His heart wouldn't stop beating fast, and now tears were running in with the hot water. He's seen how much of a mess I am.

Sherlock sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes, groaning to himself. He laid back in the bed and decided just to stare at the ceiling for a while.

John got out of the shower and ran his fingers through his hair, tying on his bathrobe. He looked at himself in the mirror and took a deep breath. It was okay. But when he opened the door, Sherlock was still lying in bed.

"Are you asleep again?" He nudged his knee.

"John," Sherlock looked like he was thinking, "Have you ever broken glass?"

"Yeah, as I kid. Why?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and stood up, "How does glass break?"

"Uh," John narrowed his eyes, "It kind of just… shatters."

"Exactly," Sherlock was looking around the room. He went to Johns side table and began rummaging through the drawers.

"Sherlock, what's your point?"

He kept looking through them, "You can't break glass into two even pieces. It cracks shatters. It isn't like paper, an easy or clean break. Lots of little pieces. It can't be broken without being damaged forever."

"Okay? And?"

Sherlock stood up and held up his findings- a thick, sharp razor. John saw it and flushed.

"It's a metaphor," He turned and walked towards the window, opening it and throwing the razor outside. He turned around and his eyes met Johns, "We're glass."

John just stared at him, "I'm sorry, what?"

"We can't break apart," Sherlock walked towards him until they were only a few inches apart, "Because we're damaged if we do."

"So… are you trying to tell me something?" He glanced at the window where Sherlock had just thrown his last good razor.

"I'm trying to say, I understand. You're broken and so am I, but I'm going to fix it, okay?"

"How-"

Sherlock reached down and pulled John into a hug. John rolled his eyes.

"Hugs can't fix everything."

"They can't?" Sherlock murmured sarcastically and pulled away, "Damn it, I thought I understood this emotion thing."

"Sherlock, you're good," John turned around and walked away, "But you can't fix everything. You're a human too."

"Right," Sherlock watched John go to his closet.

"Get out please, I have to get dressed." John wanted to ask why Sherlock had kissed his forehead in the bathroom, but decided not to bring it up. Today was already too weird.

As Sherlock left, Johns phone started ringing. He groaned in frustration, answering it.

"What!"

"Wow, rude." Lestrade muttered from the other side.

"Sorry. There's an idiot in my house."

"What? Who?"

"Uh, a girl." John saved, remembering Lestrade didn't know at the last moment.

"Oh, okay, sure." He could hear Lestrade grinning.

"Did you want something?"

"Ah, yes. Where were you yesterday? You didn't come into work."

Work. Shit. "Right, I stayed home. I didn't feel well."

"Well enough to have a woman at your house at 7 a.m.?"

"Do you want me to come in today?"

"Would you? I need some updates on these bodies."

"Right. I'll be there in thirty minutes." John hung up and pulled his pants on, grabbing a shirt.

Outside, Sherlock was poking through the fridge. He heard Johns door open.

"Jooohn. Why is your fridge so empty?"

"Because there aren't body parts in it anymore?"

"Oh, yes," he looked around, "Have you thought about us being glass yet?"

"No."

"You should, it's true."

"Has anyone ever told you that you act like a five year old?"

"Yes," Sherlock glanced at him as he walked by, "You. On a regular basis."

"Good," John picked his jacket off the table where he had left it last night.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes, work." John smiled at him, "Remember work? Money? I need those things."

"I'll be bored here alone," Sherlock leaned on the table, "Or I could come with you."

"Great plan, and we can tell Lestrade you're alive while we're at it," John muttered sarcastically.

"Okay."

John stopped moving, "Okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock nodded, "We'll tell him."

"Are you serious? Because maybe we should talk about this…"

"Nothing to talk about. I'll tell him, he should know. But only him. No police, just Lestrade."

John searched Sherlocks face to see if he was joking or not. He looked serious, "Okay. Get your jacket."

Sherlock left the room and John retrieved his phone again, hitting re-dial.

"Yes?"

"Lestrade? Can we meet somewhere in private? There's actually something I need to show you…"

"The return of the great Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade breathed, running his fingers through his hair, "Wow."

"You're already doing better then John," Sherlock leaned back in the stool he was sitting on. Why Lestrade chose to meet in this old, unused room in the basement of the police was a mystery to him. Though he supposed it was more of a good idea then anywhere he'd be recognized.

"I know it's a lot to take in," John patted Lestrade's back awkwardly, "But we wanted you to know, since you were directly involved with Sherlock having to leave."

"Someone was going to kill me," Lestrade shook his grey head, "I wished you had talked to me, Sherlock. Maybe there was a better way, a different solution-"

"There wasn't." Sherlock said sharply. His two friends just stared at him, "I ran possible solutions through my head for hours, it was the only way. There was no need to involve any of you."

"But there was to involve Mycroft?" John rolled his eyes, "You don't even like Mycroft."

"No, but he is my brother and he could help. Plus, he was the one who gave Moriarty the power to crush me in the first place. Yes, I know," He said towards Johns look of surprise.

"Who else knows you're alive? Besides us and Mycroft."

"Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock mumbled.

"Can we tell Molly? She's just upstairs I could call her…"

"She works here too now?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "You're all getting far too close for my comfort."

"Good to know you're still an asshole."

"Molly knows, anyway," John said.

"What?"

"She helped him fake his death," John sighed.

"Wait, she knew this whole time?" Lestrade frowned deeply.

John met Sherlocks eyes, "They've been seeing each other."

Sherlock rose his eyebrows at Lestrade, "You and Molly? Well that's rather disgusting, aren't you like twice her age?"

"So? Johns older than you." Lestrade glared.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but John cut him off, "Can we stop having this conversation, right now?"

"No," they both said in unison.

"You've been dead for a year, and now you're showing up telling me what to do with my life?"

"God no, just wondering why Molly is raiding coffins." Now John knew Sherlock was doing this just to piss Lestrade off.

"Excuse you!"

"What does John being older than me have to do with anything?"

"Aren't you two," Lestrade glanced at them, "You know."

"Why do people always ask us this?" Sherlock looked baffled.

"Um," John looked away.

"Well you live together! And John was so torn up when you left. I assumed you were at least sleeping together."

"Wow," John rubbed his eyes, "Can we leave now?"

But Sherlock was interested, "Johns my friend, he would be hurt."

"I'm your friend too but you didn't see me moping for months," Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Really, for someone so smart you're really simple sometimes."

"I'm extremely gifted in perception, I think I'd know if something more was happening here."

"Unless you don't want to."

"What?"

"Alright," John stood up, "I am definitely not having this conversation, in the basement of a building, with you two. Goodbye."

"Wait, I'll go with you-" Sherlock stood up, but John just held out his hand to stop him.

"Just… take a different cab. It's safer," He didn't make eye contact, just turned around and left. Sherlock stood there, unsure what to do.

Outside, John hailed a cab. It had started to rain, again. Shit, how much can it rain? He got inside and began rubbing his eyes, trying to keep from crying again. He really was an emotional wreck, Lestrade was right. He guess he'd never heard it said so bitterly, he thought everyone had understood. Nightmares, cutting, smoking, crying, they were all he had done for a year. He didn't work for two months, everyone had kept checking up on him, every day. Even Mycroft, even Harry.

And the truth was, they probably thought he was going to just kill himself. They probably didn't understand why John would react so hard to the death of his flat-mate, for a whole year. Or, they did understand, they saw right through him and everything he was lying about. Every little fake smile, every angry outburst. He probably annoyed them all so much.

And now Sherlock was back, John had never felt more pathetic. Spent his past year of a life crying, feeling lost for someone who hadn't even died- just left him. John didn't blame him. Sherlock would be better off without him, maybe Sherlock should have stayed away and John should have died.

John held back. He wasn't going to cry right now. Things were going to be fine. Even though right now, he felt embarrassed and sad and kind of more alone then he had ever been, it was going to be okay. He used to watch people die, when did he become so fragile?

Like glass.

Back at the apartment, he brushed past Mrs. Hudson and her greetings quickly, up to the apartment and grabbed a cigarette pack and a book. It was a little past noon when he sat on the chair and began re-reading about medical theories.

Sherlock had stayed and talked to Lestrade, and actually listened when his old friend told him what he saw in Sherlock and John. Soon, Molly joined them and after an overly heartfelt crying on her part, Sherlock went back to 221B. Before he could go up to the apartment, Mrs. Hudson stopped him.

"He looked really upset, Sherlock, maybe you should leave him to himself for a bit." She said with a smile.

Sherlock glanced up the stairs, "Fine. Can I talk to you?"

"Sure, dear." She led him inside and to her old, musty couch. He sat down awkwardly; everything was so small in here.

"Mrs. Hudson," She sat down across from him, "Do you think me and John are a couple, too?"

"Well, no." She shook her head, "I think couple isn't really the right word at all."

"What word would you use, then?"

"Lovers, maybe."

"We don't," Sherlock sighed, "We don't sleep together."

"Well that's your business, isn't it?"

"Then why-"

"Sherlock," she patted at her skirt, "I've lived a very long time, and I've seen a lot of couples and lovers of all sorts. But none were ever as different as you and John."

Sherlock muttered, "How?"

"He looks at you with so much admiration! At least that was it at first, but now I can tell he's in love with you. He's a very strong man, so why did he turn into mush as soon as he thought you were dead?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"And you, well. I had the benefit of knowing you before you met John. You used to be very cold, very prepared to be alone forever. And then you found him, and here you are, in my flat talking about feelings."

Sherlock laughed, "I suppose."

"The old you would have let those gunmen kill me, and Lestrade, and John, because faking your own death would be boring. But you were prepared to really have died, if you had to, am I right?"

"Yes."

"So there's your answer, I suppose. He loves you so very much, we all thought he'd throw himself on knives before he could be okay, so we were always checking up on him. Did you know he didn't visit your grave for two months after you died?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, "Mycroft told me."

"I tried to make him go, he had to get drunk off his ass before he went at all. And as soon as he did, he was better. He started working, solved cases. He was alive again, but only when he could connect to you. He makes enough money to afford a flat twice the size of the one upstairs, but he still lives there."

Sherlock nodded, "What about me?"

"You? You came back," She laughed fondly, "You wanted him to be safe more then you wanted him to be happy. But you still came back, because you couldn't stay away."

Sherlock smiled at her.

Mrs. Hudson pushed herself up, "Would you like some tea, dear?"

Sherlock stood and kissed the tiny woman on the head, "No. I've got some things I have to do."

Five cigarettes and half a book later, the sun was sinking. Sherlock still hadn't come back. John focused on the words, but in the back of his mind, something was nagging. A whispering that his best friend wasn't coming back and John believed it for real this time.

Finally, he put down the book and crushed out his last cigarette. He opened the door and walked down the stairs and outside, towards the alleyway behind the apartment. After a few minutes of looking, he found the razor; sitting on the ground. He picked it up mindlessly and returned to the apartment.

He sat down on the chair in the kitchen and laid the razor out in front of him. He had two choices here. Once more, for old time's sake, momentary control and then having to deal with more emotional pain tomorrow, and maybe forever. Because he wasn't getting better. Or, the second option, one more time, really deep, and no more pain. Ever.

And he knew which one sounded better. But he still sat there for five minutes and tried to get the courage to do it.

As he reached his hand out to pick up the razor, ready to end it all, he heard the front door open. He quickly hid it in his pocket.

"Hello?" It was Sherlock.

John stood up and walked quickly into the other room. Sherlock was standing there, looking normal as usual.

"Where were you?" John coughed.

"Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. A lot of people to see today," Sherlock looked away, "And I felt bad, about earlier. I thought I'd give you some time."

"I didn't think you were going to come back."

"How many times do I have to say it until you believe me? I won't leave again." Sherlock locked onto his eyes, and once again, John lost his ability to speak correctly. "I offended you, and I'm sorry." Sherlock removed his hand from behind his back, and handed a flower to John. A lily. John went red in the face.

"Oh..."

"I got you a flower. I hear that's how people apologize," Sherlock offered a cute smile.

John stared at the flower in his hands like it was a puppy, "Did you just pick it out of a garden?"

"I didn't actually have any money. I walked around looking for it for hours. I liked it."

John choked out a laugh, "You're an idiot."

"Does that mean you forgive me?"

John sighed and took the flower out of Sherlocks hand, "I wasn't really mad."

"You seemed upset," Sherlock frowned.

"I was."

"Why?"

John walked past Sherlock and towards the kitchen to find a vase for the flower, "I just… It hurt for Lestrade to talk about me like I was pathetic, like I wasn't there."

"My fault," Sherlock followed him, "I kept pressing him."

"And it kind of hurt for you to be acting so offended because people think we're together."

"I wasn't offended, I promise, I was curious."

John located the vase and put the lily inside of it, turning to face Sherlock, "Curious, really?"

"Yes."

"Alright, then you're forgiven." The weight of the razor in his back pocket was killing him. He tried to move past, but Sherlock blocked him.

"Is that all you're upset about? You're avoiding something. About me."

"No, I'm not."

"Don't lie." Sherlock focused on him.

John looked up, his heart thumping again. He took a step backwards and leaned against the counter.

"I just… Have you ever thought about it?"

"About… what?"

"A relationship. Not even with me, just… in general."

Sherlock blushed slightly, turning his head away, "I've never been a relationship person."

"I know." Johns stomach felt sick.

"I've never even kissed someone."

"Really?"

"I haven't," Sherlock laughed.

"That's just a little sad," John smiled at him.

"I know," Sherlock locked his eyes again, becoming serious, "I think labels on relationships are… pointless."

"Good for society, though."

"I hate society."

John rolled his eyes, smile fading, "Do you have a point to this conversation?"

"Yes," Sherlock looked momentarily scared.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John searched his face.

"I…" He sighed, "I will never be anyone's boyfriend, or husband, or lover."

John felt his heart crush for some reason, "Okay." He managed to choke out, but his voice broke.

"For a really long time I didn't think I could even have emotions towards people. But you changed that, you did." He took a step closer, "Now I have friends. Anger, jealously, happiness, sadness. Not just bored and excited, not anymore. I used to joke with Mycroft that if there was a heaven, it would be years of me, alone."

"Sherlock-"

"No, stop talking. Let me finish," John closed his mouth, "I won't ever be a boyfriend or whatever. But I want you to know, right now," He took another step closer, closing nearly all the distance between them, "I think I'm in love with you."

Johns heart started pounding so hard in his chest he couldn't breathe, he was getting dizzy…

"What?" He squeaked.

"Please, don't make me say it again." Sherlock whispered.

Sherlock grabbed the counter on either side of John, pinning him, he was so close John thought he was going to die. He wasn't looking him in the eye, looking past him almost, breathing on his neck.

"I think I knew the minute Moriarty told me you'd be dead, but I pushed it away. I acted oblivious because I didn't want to understand it. Please, I know you have to…" He didn't finish the sentence; just let his words drift out and fade.

"Sherlock," John was smiling despite himself, "You suck at feelings."

"I know."

John turned his head; saw Sherlock waiting there, inches away. Sherlocks eyes met his and he raised an eyebrow. John laughed, he was so ridiculous. Sherlock chuckled as well.

"So?" John grinned.

"So?"

John rolled his eyes and one thing flew through his head. We are glass. He leaned forward the last few inches and pressed his lips into Sherlock's. Sherlock froze for a second, unsure what to do. And then he was suddenly moving his lips like a pro; sliding his tongue across Johns lower lip and giving him chills. His arms wrapped around Johns lower back and pulled him into him, pressing torso's, turning his head to fit better into him. John found his hands grasping at Sherlock's collar, listening to his own heart slamming and Sherlocks breath coming in short, shallow little exhales.

After a few moments, Sherlock lifted John up and turned them both around, setting John on the table and continuing to kiss him. John spread his legs and Sherlock shifted in between them, his hands gripping hard at Johns back, holding him in place. Johns hands flew to Sherlocks head, burying his fingers in his curly hair. It was amazing, it all felt amazing. John then began grabbing hungrily at Sherlocks jacket, pushing it down off his shoulders. Sherlock flew his hands to the front of John and started undoing his shirt.

He got two buttons undone, maybe three, and lost his jacket, when he stopped. He gripped Johns shoulders and hesitated, finally pulling away.

John gasped for breath and Sherlock leaned forward against his shoulder, "I think we should stop."

"Why?" John gulped.

"I can't-" Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, "I don't think I can control myself here. But we need to be slow about this, I know that."

"Okay," John breathed through it, "I thought you said you've never kissed before?"

"I watch a lot of TV."

"Apparently." John started laughing, and Sherlock joined him. They laughed for a whole minute before calming down. Sherlock took a step backwards and rested his hands on Johns thighs, making eye contact with him.

"Thank you," he leaned forward and planted a kiss on Johns lips, soft this time.

"You're welcome," John smiled.

"I need a cigarette," Sherlock turned and started walking towards the refrigerator, "Maybe food."

"Alright. Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I love you too."

Sherlock turned away from John and just smiled.