CONFESSIONS

A week passed and Sherlock's semi-happiness seemed to continue on for the time being and that was enough for John.

He wasn't sure how Sherlock was coping and how this transformation had occurred, it was a long journey recovering from depression (or the black as Sherlock called it) but Sherlock seemed to be progressing in leaps and bounds. Of course, John worried about if he was hiding The Black or just masking it. But he couldn't help feel a certain compassion and sincerity behind the man's words and actions. Sherlock was never very good at carrying on a lie, especially when John was around.

And Sherlock too was clueless, all he could confirm was that when he was with John, The Black seemed to leave or at least decrease and he was happier. He still wasn't sure why he had kissed John - his emotions were a muddle especially for a man who was thought by many not to have any.

After a week spent solely in the house, John knew he needed to go to visit Sarah. He had been unreasonably angry at her and he couldn't stand to think about the way he had shouted at her. She had made the correct decision lawfully, morally, and for the best it seemed.

He decided to go to the Clinic Thursday afternoon. He spent the morning with Sherlock and then after a last cup of tea told Sherlock of his plans.

'But why?'

'I told you. I want to talk to Sarah, she's a good friend'

He still hadn't told Sherlock about what had happened even though he had an inkling that Sherlock had at least partially recognized the situation. He didn't want to admit to his moment of weakness. He needed to be strong for Sherlock.

'But you haven't talked recently.'

'Hence why I should go talk to her'

'Can't you phone her?'

'I think it would be better in person'

There was a second silence before Sherlock muttered a barely distinguishable note of agreement.

John grabbed his coat and said goodbye to Sherlock. When he was down the stairs, he had a small word with Mrs Hudson to call him if anything got bad. He felt guilty for leaving Sherlock on his own but he was getting better and he needed to do this. He hailed a taxi and gave the cabby the address of the clinic. The ride was uneventful in the quiet traffic and passed with silent ease despite John's constant yearning. Of what he wasn't sure, home? Perhaps.

When he had reached the clinic, John paid the driver and walked through the glass panel door. He had chosen the jumper which Sarah had said was her favourite back when they were dating; it was navy blue with a thick cable pattern stretching down to his grey jeans.

The clinic was empty, especially compared to last time. He could see Sarah already; she was leaned over the computer tapping something onto the screen. She glanced up and noticed John. Her mouth opened and risked a small, sad smile. He smiled back, relieved. He walked quickly up to and round the desk. He faced her and he could feel a lump rising in his throat.

'Sarah, I'm sorry'

'John, you don't need to be.'

He opened his arms and she stepped into a warm, friendly hug. Different from the one he'd had with Sherlock.

They talked a little and she asked about Sherlock. He told her that he seemed to be improving at a fantastical rate. She watched pride shine in his eyes when he talked about Sherlock's recovery.

'He's fantastic, unbelievable.'

'I thought he might be'

'What do you mean?'

'He's got you.'

She smiled knowingly at him and he grinned back even though he couldn't quite identify the spark of emotion in her eyes.

Then he heard it. There was a screech of tires and the banging of hands on a door. He hadn't realized the time - 04.00 pm - he'd really been here for two hours. Then the yelling. He couldn't identify the voice. Was it a woman in labour? Whoever it was appeared to be in extreme pain. Sarah looked to John and her face was suddenly serious.

'I think it's for you John.'

John didn't understand but he walked towards the wailing and the crying and as he approached he could identify his name among the shouts. It was disintegrating into sobs. He started running towards the increasingly identifiable silhouette through the frosted glass. Closer. Closer.

Finally, he reached the door and wrenched it open.

Sherlock fell to his knees and grabbed onto John. It was raining and Sherlock was soaked through.

'John. I-I-I can't do it without you J-John. Please.'

'Sherlock.'

'I need you please, John. John. Please.'

'Sherlock.'

Sherlock was hunched at John's feet and John crouched so he was at Sherlock's level.

'Please John.'

Sherlock lifted his face. Tears were streaming down it. His hair was untidy and had been blown by the wind in a thousand directions. His eyes were alight with fear of the black. John had never seen him like this. How could he have left him for so long? John questioned not only his responsibility to care for Sherlock but also how he had managed to stay away from the man for this long. A thousand emotions cascaded through him and John's tears started to form their own puddle next to Sherlock's. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him. He let him sob and he let himself sob too.

'John'

'Sherlock'

They pushed against each other so they could look into each other's eyes. And it wasn't about the black any more. They needed each other more than they ever had anything. John stared and stared into his eyes; black pupils surrounded by green, blue and grey speckled circles. He held him tighter than he ever had and before he knew why or how, John leaned towards Sherlock. Their foreheads were pressed against each other in the need to be close to each other. Their lips met out of nowhere and it felt like they were everywhere. The kiss was soft and gentle and it set them on fire.

Sherlock could feel John's forehead, his arms, his lips. He had never been more at peace, more happy in his life. The tears continued to flow in a waterfall down their cheeks and the need turned to need and the love turned to love. All he could think of was that he needed John and he didn't want to be in a world without him. He had never had any more emotions than he had now and there was no point in trying to hide it from John, his John.

They parted and stayed pressed against each other for a long time. Eventually, they both silently rose to their feet and John pushed the door open. They leaned against each other for support and even though the tears continued to fall, they were of happiness, not fear.

John had his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder and their hands were tangled around each other's backs. There were no more words; they could never do justice to the expressions they could share by skin.

They walked hand in hand, where they belonged, through the wind and the rain.