As promised the chapter is up in time ( though sunday may not be sunday on every continent on the same day - I'll just stick to German times ;) ). Thanks alot, again, to ChickaDelSol/Marilou for constant reviewing! I'll consider everything you say and make adjustments :)
Well, now. No more talking. Have fun!
Kats

Confessions

"Until tomorrow, John." the younger said, turned around and walked around the room to check on his chaos.

John left without another word, got into the waiting cab outside and drove home with Mary. He didn't hear any of the words she said, still mentally bound to Sherlock's lips.

[Let's take a look at Sherlock ;)]

After a few minutes in which he had noticed nothing had been done in the flat, other than apparent dusting every now and then, Sherlock grabbed his violin, lowered the bow to the strings and just started playing. He didn't concentrate on the notes he was playing, just let his trained hand follow its instincts, while he drove off into his thoughts.

Of course he hadn't been testing John's intelligence. He wanted to know how John had been shortly after his death and how he felt about him now actually being alive. His reaction showed hurt, anger, despair, still present today. Begrudging. But they lay beneath a cover of happiness, joy, positive surprise over the regained life.

Then anger took over the detective. Anger for himself. He had been in love with his partner for long years and even though he always suppressed that feeling to protect the both of them, he now had to admit it. But he got carried away by the game of his body's hormones. Did he really reach his limit of self-control that easily?
His armed tensed for a second and a chord with the sound of utter torment reach his ears. He pulled himself together quickly, started playing again and continued tracing his thoughts. He had to get everything sorted now and he knew that.

Initially his plan was to explain John the circumstances of his disappearance, without giving away too much, but when he saw his friend after those two years – after those two years of pain –, he wanted nothing more than to rock himself in the safety of those arms that would always have welcomed him, if only he'd let his pride allow him to fall into them. He never really took it seriously, the care John showed for him. He never really thanked him, didn't want to open up. Just locking it all up inside. The love for the one person that, despite his admitted intolerable sociality, didn't laugh at him, didn't avoid him, didn't insult him, treated him with respect and friendliness. Not formally. Not as an etiquette. Out of a kind heart. Out of honesty. He never gave it the appreciation it deserved. Locked it behind a door of the thickest glass. Together with the pain and loneliness that struck him when he saw John with a woman. Locked and sealed. And then John came. A single look from him cut the glass like a diamond. The emotional implementation of Moriarty's break through the glass around the crown jewels.

Sherlock snorted. Moriarty. He, who's fault it was John got angry, in the first place. That he was hurt and abandoned. It was his fault Sherlock had to live in total isolation for two years, literally fought for his life, just waiting for someone to finally do what he was to scared to do. Scared. Maybe even hopeful. Hopeful for something better. Hopeful for John. John.
John, who had opened the room stuffed with emotions. John, who made the flood of feelings roll through Sherlock's palace from the top through every single room. John, who blocked his mind from clear thinking, dragging him into his game and getting lost in that game himself. John. His John.
He didn't know how to go on from here. He had lost control once and was afraid to lose it again. He wanted it. His heard begged for it. Begged for closeness. Begged for John.
His brain, however, predicted failure. He probably would lose his concentration. His work would suffer from it. His intelligence. Everything he had worked for. All those years. For nothing.
He thought about himself. His behaviour. He'd hurt John either way. By rejecting him or driving him insane with his nature.

Once again Mrs. Hudson entered the room, though Sherlock didn't notice her until she spoke.
"Why did they leave, now? Oh, Sherlock, You just bring chaos to people's lives, whether you are there or not. But let me tell you something:" she said in a warm-hearted tone. Sherlock lowered his instrument and turned to her. He looked at her as carelessly as possible, but the elderly lady knew emotions no matter how well hid they were and she saw his unrest.
"You're dearest to all of us alive." She put a plate of the freshly baked biscuits next to the tea and took two of the cups with her.
Sherlock observed her looking in pain and thankful at the same time.

"Please, eat the biscuits! I don't want to see I made them for nothing, after all." The woman smiled, turned and went to the door.
"And your play... It was beautiful. As if it told its whole own story. Please tell me You are composing it right now."
Sherlock shook his head, since he didn't remember what his instrument had been singing anyway. The woman look at him sadly and worried. Then she started smiling again and said softly:
"That changing mood in the melody, the changing rhythm and the irregularly changing time signature... It tells Your story." Still smiling, she turned and went down the stairs.

Then it got clear to Sherlock. The woman's words woke him from his coma. Her words were: /'Please tell me You are composing it right now.' - Present tense, still ongoing, unfinished action. His story, his life. Still ongoing, unfinished action./ He mustn't think about his own decisions that much. Just needed to find and practise moderation. He could just live his every day life as he did before. Decorating the time he spent with John with emotions. He smiled contently, let violin and bow unite once more and played. For a long time.

[Back to John]

Even as Mary and he were home he couldn't hear her. She probably gave up already, anyway. Without a word he went to his room and sat on his bed, looked out through the window, up into the sky, into nothing. By now his thought turned around what he had done with Sherlock. But he didn't stroll down on the memories of Sherlock's openness or the fingers on his skin, but of how it happened. First he was angry and then he was in the middle of a game of lust and desire. Had those been feelings for his friend long suppressed? Because of embarrassment? Because of uncertainty? No. Because of reflection! He never wanted to admit to be be in love with Sherlock because he never wanted to admit to desire someone of the same gender. He had suppressed himself all the time subconsciously and Sherlock's sudden blooming was the key. The key to the only locked door inside of his emotional world. A door that kept the biggest room inside of him locked firmly. All the other rooms of emotions had been twisted, puzzling, labyrinth or inn for further doors, which John never dared to open. Now that the supportive door fell out of its frame, it collapsed, pulling rock after rock from the unclear wall in his heart and John understood where the unfathomable depth of his emotions came from. One key to answer all questions and united all his feelings. He felt relieved and embarrassed. He had completely surprised his partner when same one opened his locked door.
Would Sherlock be uncomfortable with that? He himself had slept with lots of women – never with another man, though, but sexuality was nothing new to him. Sherlock on the other hand had already entered unknown terrain with sharing his feelings.
And John thought of his love confession. And the word confession became a whole logical sense in that. Both of them really confessed something. Awoke something that had been sleeping deep inside of them and confirmed themselves, confirmed each other that it was there. And he had challenged his friend right away. He was sorry, but he didn't regret it.
He grinned when he thought about all those times he bitched around about not being gay. The many times he did towards Mrs. Hudson alone. And how often he had defended Sherlock without even really noticing. Towards Donovan. Towards Anderson. Even towards his brother. He delt like laughing Mycroft right into his face because Sherlock finally showed some emotions. He was 'The Virgin' any more. He was his friend. His Sherlock.
He closed his eyes and drove off into memories. The time they had lived together. How many times did John mentally curse Sherlock's boredom. How loud had he mentally screamed about the story with Irene Adler, wished that those compositions for her had been for himself. Now he had earned a much higher price for all that. Sherlock's love.
He finally felt fulfilled. Right. Didn't deny he had to be gay or at least bi any longer. Without force. He wanted. He wanted to be wholly and fully. He wanted to be Sherlock's. And he thought he'd heard a violin. Not around him – inside him. The sound of Sherlock's uncontrolled controlled movements of the bow on the strings echoed in his ears. And he played something entirely new. Without sound, but with so much feeling. He played for him. For John.
For the first time in two years he would be able to sleep calmly tonight. Without nightmares of Sherlock dying in any physical, psychical or metaphorical way. And he would call his friend. The next morning. And he would meet him. And he would apologise and stay with him the whole day.