Irene Adler's alive, and John sort of wishes she weren't, but not really, because she is somehow helping him see things more clearly.
Sherlock has the violin in his hands and faces the window.
"So. She's alive." John stands near the fireplace with a glass of scotch in his hands. Rocks on his heels. "How are we feeling about that?" he asks.
The chimes signalling midnight begin to sound. "Happy New Year, John," Sherlock says, obviously deflecting.
But John asks immediately, "Do you think you'll be seeing her again?"
Sherlock turns to face him, but then flips the bow gently in his hands. He lifts the violin against his chin and simply begins playing "Auld Lang Syne," turning back to the window.
John is nothing if not patient with Sherlock, so he sits down in his armchair and takes a sip of his drink and waits for his friend to finish playing.
Sherlock sets the violin down gently, then comes to sit in his own chair by the fire.
"Why do you want to know?" He hasn't met John's eyes, staring into the fire instead. "Are you hoping I'll get a girlfriend of my own? Stop running yours off?"
John chuckles a little. "No. I've no doubt that if you wanted a girlfriend, you'd have one." He takes another sip of his drink and continues. "And she's certainly interested."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "But?" he prods.
"But. Girlfriends, boyfriends. Not your area," John answers.
Sherlock's eyes flick to him momentarily. "No."
"But you find her . . . not boring."
"She's very clever," Sherlock evades.
"Cleverer than me," John says without thinking.
Sherlock looks at him then. "Are you jealous?"
"Yes," John blurts.
They blink at each other in surprise, and John takes refuge in his glass, pulling a long sip and swallowing hard. He sets it down. Sherlock simply stares at John, trying to deduce him and for once having a hard time of it.
"Not. Ah. Not sexually jealous," John attempts to clarify, and Sherlock relaxes a fraction. John sighs. "I don't know how to explain it."
Sherlock's face admits the smallest amount of vulnerability possible. "Try," he says softly.
John sees it, knows what it cost him to let John see it, so he nods. Clears his throat.
"You're my best friend, Sherlock. No question. And that's not obligation, it's not gratitude. Yes, you've done a lot for me. You brought me back to life, really. But I share my life with you now by choice. I'm here with you, solving cases, putting up with whatever that thing is in the fridge, all of it, because I choose to be."
His voice is rough, and he wants to blame the drink, but he can't. He dares to look up then, and Sherlock's expression is so carefully open that he must continue.
"I want to be with you-here, by your side-for the rest of my life."
His fingers rub at his forehead and he huffs out a breath, no longer caring what he sounds like. The words come out of him, quiet and fast. "And I hoped you wanted that too."
He can't make himself look up after that. The silence stretches long enough that John is certain he has made a grave mistake, ruined something between them. He hears Sherlock shifting out of the chair and then slim fingers are wrapping gently around his own.
"I do," Sherlock says softly, crouching next to John's chair.
John stares at their hands. He can't trust his voice to work, but he tries. "Good," he whispers. He looks at Sherlock then, locking eyes with his friend, his flatmate, his madman.
"The rest of our lives could be quite a long time, John," Sherlock says conversationally, and his hand remains where it is.
"God willing," John answers automatically, his voice still quiet.
"What about girlfriends? A wife? Children?"
John stays very still. "It's like you said. Anyone who wants to build a life with me will have to accept that you're . . ."
No adequate description occurs to him.
". . . part of the deal," he decides on.
Sherlock bites at his lip and says, "That would be a special woman, indeed."
John doesn't say what he's thinking, doesn't say that Irene seems to qualify, in some ways, as special. And he doesn't have to. Sherlock unwinds his fingers from John's hand and waves them at him in annoyance.
"Oh, don't be silly, John. Yes, I'm glad the woman is not dead. The world is more interesting with her in it. But that's the extent of my regard for her."
John raises a dubious eyebrow.
"She's a worthy opponent," Sherlock says, standing up. "A diversion."
He moves towards the kitchen, but stops, resting his hand along John's shoulder. John finds himself holding his breath.
"She's not you," Sherlock says softly. He grips John's shoulder, and John is more than a bit surprised at the reassuring gesture. John reaches up to Sherlock's hand and squeezes, surprised again when Sherlock lets him.
After a moment, Sherlock pulls away gently, and John lets him go.
"Goodnight, John," he says, crossing through the kitchen towards his room.
"Happy New Year, Sherlock," John replies.