Chapter 17:

It was dusk. Light was just peeking over the horizon when Sherlock burst into the living room of 221B, he was gleeful as he jumped, clutching a small black box in his hand. The man threw it into the air, watching it spin and then resting safely back in his protective palm. "Are you alright, dear?" Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson enter the room. "You were making quite a racket!" The man skipped over to her before holding her by the shoulders and kissing her forehead. "I couldn't be better." He beamed, "you wouldn't happen to have any purple wrapping paper would you?"

In John's last week, he was shocked to discover how many admirers he had; after each lesson he taught, a couple of students stayed behind, explaining how much of a better teacher he was and how they would miss him when he left, they sometimes gave him gifts, such as chocolates or maybe a book. Of course there were a few students who acted coldly towards him, but John was expecting it. What universities didn't have a few troublemakers? The staff were also very friendly towards him, someone always spoke to him in the staffroom and they looked intrigued when the doctor spoke about his adventures with Sherlock. Quite often during the time John was there, the students tried to move him off topic so he can talk about the cases he and Sherlock had solved. This started when John had only been teaching for a couple of days.

He had finished his last lecture for that day and everybody in the room was leaving. The paperwork in John's briefcase spilled out though, as he made his way towards the door; this earned a few laughs from the students leaving. He fell to the floor with an agitated sigh, he was clumsily shoving his paper back into the briefcase when a young man crouched by his side and started to help him.

"I wouldn't trust the cases they give you here, Dr. Watson, they are probably older than this building."

"Oh, I'll keep that in mind," John paused, "what's your name?"

"Edward." the lad answered, his eyes fixed on the sheets of paper on the floor.

"Thank you for helping me, Edward. It's very kind of you."

"No problem." he replied, placing the last of the sheets into the case. "Buy a new one."

The doctor laughed, "I will."
They both headed towards the door when they heard a loud buzzing sound from behind them. John looked over his shoulder, only to find a familiar phone, screen down on the floor.

"Is that yours?" Edward asked as he walked over to pick it up.

"Oh, yes. I must have dropped it when I went to pick up the papers." He felt sick at the thought that he nearly left his phone in the room, anyone could have found it. Anyone could discover his and Sherlock's relationship. Edward walked back to him, inspecting the phone for any cracks or significant damage when the phone vibrated again, the student couldn't help but notice the name on the now brightly lit screen. He looked up at his teacher in bewilderment. "Y-you know Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," John replied proudly.

"But he's like, famous! He came back from the dead! He is practically the smartest man alive! Oh my God! How do you know him?"

John couldn't help but chuckle at the student's enthusiasm. "Would you believe that he's my flatmate?" He smiled.

"Watson!" The student cried. "I wondered why your name was so familiar! You're him! You're John Watson!" This was strange for John, Sherlock was normally the one who was in the centre of attention, because of this, John felt like a celebrity. His smile grew. "Oh my God! You're awesome! I love your blog, especially The Speckled Blonde, that was amazing!"

"Thank you," John laughed, "sorry, but I have some more work to do, have a good evening."

"And you Dr. Watson!"

Since then, John was constantly harassed by curious students, he found it rather amusing.

Before he knew it, it was his last day, naturally, most of the people at the university were upset, they took it quite well though. During his last lesson of teaching, John thought about how much skill he had developed throughout the month: he had more confidence, he learned how to move distracting things to the back of his mind (thanks to Sherlock who didn't text often, but when he did, he seemed to time it precisely in the middle of John's lessons) and his social skills had improved, the only person who he really spoke with now was either Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Stamford or Sherlock, so to meet new people and to get to know them was quite beneficial. He had no regrets with his decision to take this job offer, sending his detective the occasional text had made the whole experience better than he had expected.

It wasn't until he finished saying his warm goodbyes (and writing autographs) to countless amounts of students and staff when John started to feel excited, in less than 24 hours he will be reunited with Sherlock Holmes. As a bonus, the detective had forgiven him; nothing made John happier than the thought of being in Sherlock's loving embrace when he walked into the living room of 221B. The doctor made his way to the reception to say a final goodbye to Brian and to collect his hard earned money before he left the university for the last time...

"Maybe John should go more often." Mrs Hudson joked as she watched Sherlock practically sprint around the flat.

"What? Why?" Sherlock was confused, hurt with the thought of John leaving him again.

"I've never seen you so eager to clean!" she laughed. Sherlock had spent the whole day tidying up, dusting and polishing for John's arrival. He felt sick with anticipation. Sherlock looked at the land lady, her hands were full with shopping bags.

"Marvellous, thank you for doing that for me." He had given Mrs Hudson all of the money from his wallet that morning and asked her to get a much food as she could carry, as the cupboards and fridge were bare. "Not a problem, dear." She replied as she walked into the kitchen and dumped the heavy bags on the table, "would you like me to cook anything?"

Sherlock paused. "No, it's alright, you've done enough of my jobs for today," he started to wipe the mirror clean, "in fact, I will unpack the shopping bags too; if you want to do something, you can make me a cup of tea."

"Are you sure you don't want me to put the food away?" the landlady asked as she turned on the kettle.

Sherlock hid his growing smile. "Positive."

After Mrs Hudson left, the raven-haired man decided that the room couldn't possibly be any cleaner. As he sipped his tea, he observed the contents in the kitchen (Mrs Hudson decided to take the food out of the bags while she let the kettle boil). A few ingredients caught his eye, spaghetti, bolognaise sauce and something that made him worry that the landlady knew about his and John's relationship: red wine. He soon dismissed the thought as everyone knew that John liked a good drink when he's had a stressful day. As Sherlock started to put the food away, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket before it chimed happily.

'Just boarding-JW'

Despite the excitement that just rushed through the detective, he was worried that he wouldn't get everything ready in time. There was no way that Sherlock was going to put the mountains of food away, dispose of the severed head in the fridge, and cook a romantic meal in one hour. First, he needed to get rid of the head, he took a sample of the saliva from the head before pulling a biohazard bag out from a draw behind him. Tick. Tick. Tick. He threw the heavy bag out of the window and hoped it would land beside Mrs Hudson's bins; he didn't have time to go down the stairs and do it. Tick. Tick. Tick. The kitchen soon smelled of strong disinfectant, every single window and door in the flat was open to diffuse the scent which burned Sherlock's eyes while he scrubbed away at the fridge's interior. Tick. Tick. Tick. John had sent that text at 8'o clock; it was now 8:30 and the food hadn't even been put away yet. John's plane would land at around 9'o clock and it would take 20 minutes to get to the airport. "Mrs Hudson!"

Moments later, the landlady was in the kitchen, complaining of the strong scent. "What are you doing?" She demanded.

"I'm running out of time, I need to get a cab in 10 minutes and the food needs putting away." He threw the nearly empty bottle of disinfectant away. "Can you help me?"

"I offered to do that!"

"I know, I thought I had time to do it myself." Mrs Hudson could clearly see the stress on the detective's face, it was very rare for him to express this much emotion. She gave in and took the right side of the kitchen while Sherlock took the left.

10 minutes later Sherlock wrapped his coat and scarf around himself. "Would you mind finishing off?"

"Not a problem, dear, it won't take much longer."

"You're brilliant. Thank you."

Within seconds, Sherlock had sprinted down the stairs and ran out of the building. He caught a taxi drivers attention and jumped into the vehicle. "London airport please." he commanded as he pulled out his phone and dialled. "Angelo, I need you to do me a favour..."

Another mundane flight, then again what flights weren't mundane? The only thing that kept John happy was the thought of Sherlock. He was excited to see the detective's face for the first time in 4 weeks, John wondered how Sherlock would react when he saw the little treat that he had planned for him, when meeting Brian, it reminded John about Sherlock's admiration for moustaches, because he wouldn't see Sherlock for a month, it was the perfect opportunity to grow one. The doctor felt sick with anticipation. The plane rumbled aggressively as the wheels of the plane made contact with the ground of London; a wide smile escaped John's lips. He couldn't be more relieved to know that the flight was over. As he walked through the exit of the plane, he shivered. The frost-bitten air cut John to the bone, the thought of Sherlock's warm embrace couldn't sound more appealing. He swiftly made his way to luggage claim, his teeth beginning to chatter, why hadn't he bought a thicker coat with him? As John walked towards the conveyor belt, he scanned it for his suitcase; he couldn't find it anywhere; shit. As he continued to wait, he became more and more impatient; more and more worried. The crowd around the luggage claim began to disperse after 15 minutes and John was still left empty handed. 'Brilliant,' he thought, 'they've lost my suitcase.' He eventually turned around to leave, he was too cold to wait any longer and John was keen to give Ryanair a strongly worded phone call. The doctor stopped in his tracks though; he suddenly found his suitcase in the hands of a very tall, slim figure

. As John and Sherlock's eyes met, the room was empty. Nothing existed except the two men. When their eyes locked, the two were suddenly paralysed. Sherlock took this to his advantage by deducing his partner: John's eyes were bloodshot and his eyelids were heavy, he was tired and stressed from the journey, John had always hated flights. His facial expression, however, was quite different. His eyebrows were raised and his mouth was open, revealing his surprise to see Sherlock. the corners of his open mouth were turned up though, he was smiling. Even though he had expected that, Sherlock was relieved that John was joyous to see him, the detective felt warmth rush through him. Wait, what's that? Was this another thing to get him to forgive John? Above his smiling lips was a soft-looking, dark blond moustache. Sherlock endeavoured to hide his smile of amusement with his scarf that was wrapped tightly around his neck. Sherlock then scanned his eyes over John's body, his arms were folded, he was either defensive or cold, cold was most likely, it was winter after all. The blond was also shivering. Yes, definitely cold. The detective snapped himself out of his deductions and sprinted over to John, dropping his suitcase in the process. He pulled the doctor into his warm embrace, gripping him tightly as if he was worried that if he let go, he would never see John again. Sherlock felt the blonds' muscles relax under his tight cuddle. The detective pulled back slightly and gazed into John's eyes, his vision was blurred as he blinked away tears of happiness. "Don't you ever leave me again, John Watson." His voice was deep and low, close to a whisper. John was speechless, he could barely move, all he could do was nod before Sherlock gently tilted his chin up with his slender hand and caressed John's lips with his own; the kiss was gentle but passionate. "I love you too much."