Le gasp! I actually completed something fairly soon. xD This is totally new for me, but within the past week I found a lot more inspiration than I should probably, mostly because I've been caught up in useless romantic fantasies over my girlfriend while pitying my actual relationship with her. xD So yeah, when I get depressed I write either Johnlock, Wincest, or TenJack, so this is what spurred me on to update quicker. Not that you actually wanted to know that.

Anyway, with this cheesy, fluffy update, I hope you like. xD To be honest, I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with in this story. Wait, actually, no, I do know where I'm going, but I don't know how to get there. So until I figure that out, I may as well make chapters like this. xD

Anyway, I hope you like!

R&R, please? I would greatly appreciate it. xD

Dear John

Chapter Eight: Remembering

~oOo~

Third Person POV

"I can't believe this."

"You'd better John. It's not like you can stand and take a shower alone – that offers too many risks that I would much rather not entertain." Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes with a plain look to his features, almost like a blanch, leaving the blonde that had been complaining all of the three days he had been home to get even more agitated. He had never been this inconvenienced before – he could barely open his left eyes now, because of the scabbing on the wound down his face, his leg was cramped and pained and bloody bloated, his chest hurt and the bullet wound on his leg was more than tender.

"I have to sit in a bloody chair in a bathtub and get washed for the first time in months by my boyfriend. Now, I'd think there is something wrong with this picture." John complained as Sherlock maneuvered around his form that was sitting on top of the toilet seat, situating him out of the cloths that he had been wearing for the three days that he had been home. Right now he felt extremely helpless – well, helpless and like a walking vegetable.

His body did really hurt like hell.

"Quit complaining. You're getting a shower after I wrap up your knee, and not even the doctor can say anything about it."

"Ah, of course. Because I'm totally supposed to be showering. I shouldn't be showering for another week."

"Well tough. You haven't had one in months."

"Got kind of used to it, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask."

"Hmph."

"Besides, you'll realize how much you missed showers after getting in one, so I'd rather not listen to your ramblings."

"In a chair."

"People have done worse."

John huffed out another sigh but let Sherlock win the conversation, mostly because he knew he was being extremely unreasonable and bipolar. Of course he had wanted a shower, but John Hamish Watson usually did everything that needed be by himself – he never let others take care of him. Maybe it was a weird quirk of being a doctor (and a soldier) or something, but he didn't really like it. It felt like he owed the other person something. Retribution. And he didn't like that.

"Sorry." John apologized after a moment, another long sigh deriving from his lungs. Sherlock, who had just placed a towel down on the metal chair to keep him from freezing his ass off, turned and looked at him, a small smile and a raised eyebrow being the one thing that John picked up on. Another huff. Sherlock was just rubbing it in, wasn't he?

"Quite alright, John. After all, you take care of me all the time." Sherlock replied honestly as he turned around and kneeled in front of John. "Alright, the shirt."

"The shirt?" John raised an eyebrow. "Can't I keep it on until you wrap my leg? I'll freeze." It was quite chilly in here. That, and his chest was sort of disgusting to look at. He hadn't even dared to look in a mirror, either, to see the tear of skin on his face. It wasn't pretty, he was sure.

Sherlock shook his head but complied. The blonde watched for a moment as Sherlock's curls bounced on top of his head, and suddenly he realized that that was one of the things he had missed most about Sherlock. He missed his hair. That obnoxious, unruly tuft of beautiful dark, ebony locks was something that comforted John – in a strange kind of way. That, and his eyes. His hair contrasted beautifully with his eyes.

"You're staring." Sherlock pointed out, already turned away to grab the clear wrappings. John did the best that he could to stretch out his leg, using his arms to move the appendage instead of his mostly useless asset. Sherlock kneeled and took the plastic to John's unwrapped leg, his face contorting a little bit as he watched the staples pull at John's skin. The blonde forced out a small chuckle.

"What, scared of a few staples?" John taunted, his mood swings still forcing their way through. Inwardly he cursed himself for being so bloody irritable, but he had a feeling he deserved the few days of utter relaxation…well, as much relaxing as he could get. He only got out of the bed once or twice a day to use the restroom, which was, of course, still quite difficult – and that left the rest of his body completely and utterly shut down.

"Of course not, John. Who do you think you are speaking to?" Sherlock shook his head, as if offended that he was teasing the other for his lack of stomach. John rolled his eyes.

"I'm just saying. There's a difference between the living and nonliving."

"I put severed heads in the fridge. Not only severed heads, but eyes, fingers, fingernails, livers, intestines, hearts – I don't think these staples will make me quiver anytime soon." Sherlock rebutted a little quicker than needed, giving John all the information he needed. With a snort, he couldn't help but find irony in that. Maybe being living really did change Sherlock's viewpoints on that. "What?" Sherlock managed out, appearing to be slightly offended.

"I'm guessing a living specimen is a lot different than the dead." John said as he watched his lovers perfectly long fingers wrap the plastic around him, tight enough to keep the water out but loose enough not to cut off any blood flow circulating in that area. That could be difficult what with his wound and everything.

"No." The dark-haired man stated after a moment. "But my John and other people are totally different topics. I don't like seeing you hurt." He had confessed, making John's heart leap once more. Well, this was progress. Ever since he had supposedly died and came back Sherlock had been a lot more romantic – not that he minded before, but now he was slightly more comfortable with their relationship. Not that that was a good thing, though, that Sherlock had changed. That meant that John had put him through a lot.

Saving those thoughts for later.

"Yeah, well, I think we're even." John smiled at his own comment. "You left me alone for three years, remember."

"You know how to cope better."

"Not when I lost you."

The both of them opted for silence just then, Sherlock simply doing his job with a furrowed eyebrow and John staring up at the ceiling. They were both most likely thinking the same thing: they were extremely sorry for putting their lover through that. In Sherlock's defense, though, they hadn't confessed their love until after the fall. It had put John through a lot and after he realized that his friend was very much alive, he knew he wouldn't pass up on the chance to tell the other how he felt.

He could still remember that day so clear….

The day that changed everything.

"Is there something you need, John?" Sherlock questioned as he moved around the table from one of his experiments, wiping his hands off with a towel. The man's signature eyebrow raised was placed rightly with question, and John couldn't help but let his lips quirk at the adoring scene. God, the face he had never thought he would see again. With him, in 221B Baker Street, where the two of them belonged.

John was extremely nervous. It had been about six days since Sherlock had returned, and five out of those six days he had been debating telling Sherlock his feelings. Now, he knew that telling the sociopath would most likely crush him all over again, but he knew he would have to. After all, what if something happened on the next case, and he wouldn't actually be able to tell Sherlock how much he loved him? God, how much he adored that smile and that laugh and that devilish glint in his eyes while he was in the middle of thinking up a prize scheme.

After a long debate with himself the other night, he had already run himself out. John was going to tell his very much alive flatmate that he loved the bloody bastard more than life itself.

"John?" The same voice he had fantasized over for years pulled him out of his thought process, sending him blinking back to the real world. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen with Sherlock looming over him not a food away, staring curiously and slightly worriedly into the blonde's startled orbs.

"A-Ah, oh, I'm sorry." John mumbled as he took a step back, blush reappearing on his face. "I just wanted to, uh…say that…."

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted, looking blandly into his flatmate's eyes. John tore his gaze from the other and looked down in shame.

"I just wanted to say that you – I…."

"What?"

"….Your my best friend." What the bloody hell, John. Why did you just say that?

Sherlock's raised eyebrows flew down as he furrowed them curiously, tilting his head to the side. John laughed nervously and turned away, waving his arms around like an idiot because of the embarrassment he had just made of himself. "Ah, sorry, that was weird wasn't it?" He joked it off, taking a few steps in the other direction, away from Sherlock. "Sorry. That came out weird, I mean, I just….Oh, never mind. It's good to see you back in the game. Ha-ha!" John rambled as he shook his head, still inwardly cursing himself.

Quickly John made way for the stairs so he could seek refuge in his room and scream into a pillow like a pubescent teen because of his own stupidity – but of course, he always forgot one thing. That Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, Sherlock Holmes.

"What were you going to say before you came up with that absurd notion?" Sherlock said from somewhere behind him, most likely the same spot. With his foot on the first step, John turned and smiled weakly, feeling the blush on his face a lot easier than he should have. Oh, he must look like an idiot.

"Nothing. I just wanted to say glad your back." No, that's not what I wanna say, Sherlock. I bloody love you.

"No, that was more or less a cheap cover that I don't enjoy. I don't like being lied to to my face, John Hamish Watson. I hope you know that." John flinched. Of course he knew that. His hand tightened on the side rail.

"It's nothing, Sherlock. Please leave it." John shook his head and took a few steps upwards on the steps, before he was once again stopped by Sherlock's voice.

"If you don't say what you were going to say now, I don't believe you ever will. And if my deduction skills are still working properly, I feel that if you tell me right now you will be quite surprised with the answers.

Ah, yes. Surprised and disappointed. Thanks, Sherlock.

"No, no, I really don't think so. Deducing something like this isn't something you were ever good at." John teased with a small smile, seeing Sherlock's features twist into annoyance. Yet, it was true. Sherlock had never noticed, so he wasn't too alarmed by the obvious bluff that the other was sporting.

"Try me."

Two words that John was sure that if they had not been said, they still wouldn't be together. Those words had settled his heart so quickly, like a snap of the fingers, and John realized that he of course had everything to lose, and he was going to risk it all. Stupid but justified. Sort of. A bit. Maybe hopelessly.

"I…think I need a drink." John had stated, staring at the stairs almost longingly. From the corner of his eye John saw Sherlock's lips twitch.

"You can have one once you tell me." Sherlock had slung the towel he was holding over his shoulder in a classic Sherlock move and took a few steps back, leaning against the table with a toothy grin. He crossed his arms over his chest, and the blonde couldn't help but think how inviting that position was. John took this time to step down from the steps and instead move back through the living room to where Sherlock's chair was, being his faced the opposite direction from where Sherlock was standing. He plopped back down with a huff and a glare.

"I need a few drinks in me before I'm able to talk." John inquired quite adamantly, giving Sherlock another reason to raise his eyebrow.

"A game, then." Sherlock insinuated.

"A game?"

"Yes. You get a swing of brandy every time you answer one of my questions, and if not, you are unable to drink and I will move on to the next one. You won't get to question me, but you will be able to loosen up to talk freely." Sherlock suggested with that sickening smirk of his, and John simply couldn't refuse.

So there they were, three questions and three swings in, John knowing that Sherlock was getting exceedingly warm with his assumptions. The first question had been if it was something that Sherlock had been involved in often, which he said no, obviously. Sherlock had nodded and proceeded to watch John take a swing. It burned as he swallowed, but it did feel quite good. He was lucky he still had this bottle left – he refrained from drinking as much as he could because of his sister.

Though, when revealing something like he was going to, John knew he would have to be drunk. Then he would claim he didn't remember the next morning and they could go about their merry way. Which would not be fun, but John could live through it.

The second question was, as he so distinctly put, 'Are you currently questioning your sexuality?' from which John had said 'no.' This trumped Sherlock and John thought it was quite funny, seeing as Sherlock always led himself to believe John was completely straight. That was a complete lie. He just didn't like dealing with men after a while – they got terribly possessive in a bad way, and they were a lot more intimidating. He hadn't had a male partner in over ten years, which was the reason that Sherlock wouldn't know.

Glad for his diversion of the question, he took another swing. Sherlock furrowed his brow while he leaned back in John's chair, trying to read the blonde and see what he was trying to say.

"Is it something that anyone other than you know?" Had been the third question.

"Of course not, no. Only me." John replied. Another swing. Ah, this time he felt a slight buzz. He was getting there.

"Only you…." Sherlock drifted, thinking. His hands were clasped together with elbows on the armrest, almost like a sinister villain plotting some sort of sick scene. John fought back rolling his eyes and grinned instead. This could be quite fun. If not utterly terrifying and heart-wrenching, by the by.

John smiled slightly as he looked away, thinking how amazing it would be if he could just let it out and walk away right now, going outside to relinquish in the cold air and think about what he had just said and where it was cheap enough to move to next. This game was seriously a new form of torture, and to be honest, he had no idea why he was playing it in the first place.

"Is there sentiment attached to this situation?"

"Plenty."

Sherlock nodded off again, staring into space with his fingers locked around each other in a classic thinking position. John thought back to all the times he had seen the other sitting like this, and couldn't help a pang of remorse that soon enough, he wouldn't be able to see it anymore. That was terrible. No, that would be terrible…oh god, should he really go through with this? Would he be able to deal with living on his own again? Going back to…to the nightmares?

John's breath caught as he, too, stared off into space. He didn't know if he could do this. He didn't. Obviously he didn't have enough alcohol in his system, either, which that thought also made him slightly more depressed. Acting like his sister, what was this? Hiding behind the alcohol?

"Are you –."

"No. No, I can't do this." John mumbled through his slightly slurred lips. Setting his bottle on the side table that Sherlock rarely ever uses, he stood wobbly, brow furrowed and head pounding. Man, was he a wussy. Justified, though.

"John?" Sherlock questioned just as he took a step towards the stairs to drown out his own miseries.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I just have to – I can't –."

"John, do you love me?"

That managed to stop John right in his tracks. His back stiffened and his fists clenched tight, heart leaping at a million miles per second. The silence is deafening, and the blonde can feel Sherlock's gaze on him from a mile away. The brandy is settling in, leaving him in what should be a pleasant buzz, but instead he just wished he was downright hammered. Hell bent on getting his wish, John turned around and stalked back to the table that was next to the chair he was previously sitting in, and grabbed the bottle from its position on the table, taking another swing.

He didn't dare look at Sherlock. He just couldn't.

With his back stiff and his heart hammering, John turned away from Sherlock and took another swing, deciding to head back for the stair again. He just wished for one more night in his bed, one more night of sleeping in Sherlock's flat, one more night of pretending everything was okay – obviously, when it wasn't – and then he would be prepared to face the consequences in the morning.

"John."

John didn't stop this time. His throat was dry, and while as taking another swing while getting up the stairs, he solved that problem quite quickly.

"John, listen to me."

But he didn't want to hear it. What was Sherlock going to say? He couldn't rule out anything, having it being Sherlock, but whatever it was he could hear it in the morning.

Nothing could prepare him from what he heard next, though.

"John, John stop. Stop it. Stop drinking and listen to me. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you." Sherlock had growled out, he himself losing patience quite easily. John had stopped walking up the stairs at that moment, and with a little less precision than he would normally have, he dropped the bottle on the stairs. The doctor could feel it slip through his fingers almost in slow motion, but after that he couldn't be bothered with that after he had heard forbidden words falling from the other's lips that he wouldn't dare think of.

Right then, he had a flashback of when Mycroft told him that Sherlock was incapable of love.

"He doesn't feel, John. He feels in experiments, in cataloging and hypothesizing, but not once had I ever heard a purely sentimental sentence from him. Not even as a child. He had never said 'I love you' to anyone before, not to their face, not over phone, not over text or thoughts or writings. It just doesn't happen, so I'd advise you to stop these fleeting feelings before you get hurt. Sherlock will not reciprocate them."

John's heard had sunken on that day, not because he was told he had no chance with Sherlock, but because Sherlock had never uttered 'I love you' to anyone. The mere thought was terrifying. He remembered thinking again how lonely Sherlock must have been during his years of growing up – but now, now he heard that falling from the man who couldn't even feel in that way.

Somewhere wherever Mycroft was sitting, watching them through his surveillance cameras or something, John knew that Mycroft's mouth was hanging open.

John turned to Sherlock slightly, only to see that Sherlock's stature was stiff, hands clenched at his sides and his head cast down, eyes squeezed shut so tight that he could see each and every wrinkle even from his position on the stairs. Gulping, John stared down at the fallen, broken bottle, and then back at Sherlock. He repeated that action thrice, before pausing all hopes and thoughts with one accusation.

"Don't experiment on me, Sherlock. It's not nice. I don't want to hear something so –."

"So what, John? So fake? So inconceivable from a person like me?" Sherlock stated coldly as he looked back up, a fear in his eyes that John had never seen before. The fear of being rejected. "I suppose it's granted, you thinking that this is an experiment. I have never felt like this truly about someone, John, you have to understand. It just doesn't happen. I don't like being fawned over and I certainly don't like trying to put myself out for someone, but John, I would for you. I love being cared for from you, I love watching you smile and I love when you say something particularly clever and seek for my approval, no one else's. It's not an experiment, John. I love you."

John supposed Mycroft has passed out over his chair by now.

And that night, he had thoroughly snogged Sherlock Holmes out of ever thought and wit he ever had. He knew they wouldn't have sex for a while, but that just didn't matter.

He finally had Sherlock.

"John?" John snapped out of his thoughts while hearing said man call for him. The doctor glanced down and saw his lover staring up at him with his brow furrowed in concern. Feeling suddenly warm and happy, John smiled and lifted his hands to wrap themselves in Sherlock's hair. Leaning down, he did what he now had the authority to do – he kissed Sherlock.

It wasn't sexual or even forceful, but a tentative brush of the lips before pulling away. If Sherlock had blinked, he would have missed it. John continued to smile.

"I secretly like being fawned over by you as well, Sherlock." He said as he recalled that moment in Sherlock's speech.

Sherlock looked confused for a number of seconds, and then his mind came around as well. It didn't take Sherlock too long to figure out why he was saying this – he was Sherlock after all. Wistfully, the dark-haired man smiled up at John as well, before proceeding to rip the plastic and arm John into the shower.

They didn't talk after that, but in the silence that they shared, neither Sherlock nor John could be any happier.