John caught the ball and raced forward. He made it the few metres to the halfway line before an opponent slammed into him. On the ground, with heavy bodies strewn over him, he managed to scrabble the ball out to his teammate. The crush of weight pressing him to the grass lifted and John sprang to his feet, darting back into position.

Adrenaline surged through him with the pounding of his heart. He felt the flex and tension of his muscles like a blessing as he ran. His body had been aching to work off his frustration through the torturously long days spent recovering. His medical knowledge of convalescence told him that a rugby match was probably not the best move so soon after recovering, but his medical knowledge could be damned for now. He had aggravation wound through him tightly enough to make his head spin and he needed physical action to break it.

A player from the other team cut toward him with the ball and John leapt at him, tackling the man to the ground. In a moment he was up again. The ball sailed toward him and John snatched it out of the air. He shoved aside an attempted tackle with his shoulder and spun, suddenly finding himself in open space. He tore forward, dodging an attack from the left, pushing his muscles as he cut from a full sprint to change direction. There was a thrilling kind of freedom in the exertion—the sheer reliance on muscle memory, the speed of interpreting fast movement around him, and the immediate response of his reflexes.

"ALL RIGHT, WATSON!"

"COME ON, WATSON!"

John heard his teammates shouting as he neared the goal. An opponent was at his heels but there wouldn't be enough time to catch him. John dove over the line, landing hard on his stomach with the ball firmly on the ground. A successful try.

Hell yeah, John barely had time to think as he jumped to his feet and was immediately almost knocked over again by three of his teammates and the combined force of their enthusiasm.

"Oi, Watson!" Lee Sullivan called, jogging up to him and slapping his congratulations around his shoulders. "That footwork was lousy," he said, broad smile giving him away. "It's one thing if you don't care about the game, but would you mind not cocking it up for the rest of us?"

"Thanks, dickface," John grinned, flipping him his middle finger as they made their way back toward centre field.

"I don't want to alarm you," Sullivan said casually, "but there's a GQ model on the sideline who's been watching you for the past ten minutes."

John whipped his head around. Sherlock was there, standing off to the side of the field, leaning against the pole of one of the lights that illuminated the park at night. His breath caught and he had to consciously exhale to keep it steady.

"You know him?" Sullivan asked.

"That," John said, "is Sherlock."

Sullivan lifted his eyebrows. "Ah, Sherlock Holmes." He looked over at the dark figure across the field. "Better known as the reason you never come to the pub with us."

John didn't respond.

"Wait, this doesn't mean you have to leave, does it? There are fifteen minutes left. We're going to win, you can't—"

"No," John cut him off. "I'm not leaving. I'm going to ignore him, and we're going to finish this game."

Sullivan grinned. "Fuck right we are."

If John had been on his game before, with Sherlock's eyes burning into his back he was a force to be reckoned with. He hadn't heard from the detective since the incident in the kitchen three days ago. Not a word. Three days. Sherlock had shoved him back and left him there and god knows where he'd been since.

When he hadn't come back that first night John had sent a text to Mycroft.

Is he safe?

He'd gotten two words and one letter back.

He's safe. M

He channelled his anger into his movement, allowing it to push him, strain his muscles aching with the need to fight. Sherlock thought he could do that? Sherlock had kissed him. Not the other way around. Sherlock thought he could kiss him like that and then walk out without a word? Three days and no word? Fuck that.

An opposing player was sprinting toward him with the ball. John threw himself forward, smashing into a body moving full speed. He hit the ground hard, but he was up again in a flash. His teammate passed the ball backward and he caught it, tearing up the field to gain valuable ground. He somersaulted forward when he was tackled around his legs and he landed on his back.

"Damn, Watson," Sullivan said, offering John his hand, "tell your model to come to the games more often."

They won by a significant margin and it wasn't until after the necessary handshakes and polite refusals to join his teammates at the pub, and less polite refusals to introduce them to 'his friend,' that John turned to look back at Sherlock. He was half-surprised to see him still standing there. His eyes were fixed on John where he stood in the centre of the field and the stare was piercing enough, even from a distance, that John had to look away.

The sharpness of Sherlock's gaze was not something memory could hold. It didn't matter how many times he'd experienced it. Each time Sherlock looked at him like that John felt his hair prickling the back of his neck and his muscles tensing. John crossed his arms, looking off toward the trees lining the park's paths, empty on the cold, grey afternoon. He waited for Sherlock to come to him.

He didn't wait long. Sherlock was striding across the field and stopped just in front of him. Too close. It was always too close. His coat was unbuttoned. He was wearing one of his more flattering suits (as though the wanker owned an unflattering suit) with a grey shirt underneath, deep blue scarf hanging loosely around his neck. He stuffed his gloved hands into his coat pockets. John, in his rugby kit—knee-high black socks, black athletic shorts, and a red and black striped shirt—set his jaw and didn't step back. He had the spikes on his rugby boots dug into the grass, good traction if he needed to knock Sherlock over. (He really might need to knock Sherlock over.)

"It's a violent game," Sherlock remarked.

John bristled, silently daring Sherlock to tell him he should be at home resting. He could let Sherlock know just how fun it had been to be at home resting the past few days in an empty flat with no goddamn sign of the person who was supposed to live there with him: the person who had kissed him and then apparently changed his mind and didn't feel it necessary to give any kind of explanation.

But there was no disapproval in Sherlock's expression. In fact, if anything he looked faintly impressed. While John normally savoured the rare instances he could impress the consulting detective, he was in no mood to appreciate it now.

"What do you want?" John did his best to keep his voice even.

Sherlock looked puzzled for an instant—perhaps at John's tone or perhaps at the question—but it faded quickly. He glanced down John's body and up again. It was all John could do to keep still while the detective's penetrating eyes raked over him, reading god-knew-what from the thin material of his clothes, his skin. Sherlock stepped forward, ducking his head to kiss him. But John grabbed a fistful of his coat and thrust him back, holding him at arm's length.

Sherlock looked down at John's hand, startled.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John snapped.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You didn't mind last time."

John released Sherlock with a shove. "No. Not until you ran out the fucking door. Three days, Sherlock. Three days and I haven't seen or heard from you. Not one word. Do you have any idea—" John cut off the words. It was obvious Sherlock didn't have any idea. He didn't empathise. It wouldn't occur to him to consider how it would feel if the situation had been reversed. Wherever he'd been these past few days he probably hadn't given a thought to what John was feeling—the nausea that had gripped him when Sherlock pushed him away. The crushing, suffocating desperation John had felt at Sherlock letting him kiss him like that and then leaving as though he'd changed his mind—as though he'd re-evaluated and decided it wasn't good enough or wasn't worth it. As though he wanted nothing more to do with him. Sherlock wouldn't have considered any of that. He never would.

"Fuck off," John said, suddenly feeling more tired than anything. He turned his back on the detective and crossed to the other side of the small field in the park they used as a rugby pitch every Saturday. His gym bag was the only one left and John slung it over his shoulder as he walked to the path leading out of the clearing. Sherlock had taken a more direct route and was waiting for him by the trees at the edge of the path.

"I left to sort things out," Sherlock said as John approached him.

John stopped and held himself steady. "What things?"

"My mind palace."

John frowned. "What?"

Sherlock dropped his eyes and John thought he could almost see a hint of colour at his cheeks. "There was… water damage."

John breathed through his nose as a calming strategy. Normally he didn't mind when Sherlock talked incomprehensibly about genius mind palace stuff, but right now— "Look, I'm not in the mood. We'll talk later," John said, trying to shove past him.

Sherlock's hands were on him in a flash. He grabbed John by the shoulders and shoved him back into a tree, pinning him there.

John felt his body respond to being pushed with a surge of adrenaline. He locked his eyes on Sherlock's and thought the whole thing would be a lot easier if the man didn't have to be so distractingly gorgeous all the time: his nearly black, beautifully curled fringe sweeping across his forehead, impossibly bright eyes electric with the same arousal John could feel quickening his own breath.

"I don't want to hit you," John heard his own voice dangerously low, a natural warning.

"Then listen," Sherlock hissed, gripping John's shoulders hard enough that the bark of the tree dug into his back. "I couldn't do it before. My mind hasn't been set up for anything like—" Sherlock's gaze wavered from where it had been boring through to the back of John's head. "I needed to… rearrange. I can do it now."

"What is that supposed to mean?" John's patience was stretched to the breaking point.

"It means I can do this." He swept forward, catching John's lips in a bruising kiss.

John dropped the gym bag. His lips parted in surprise and Sherlock pressed his advantage, pushing his tongue into John's mouth. His taste shocked through him, filling his head so completely he could barely think beyond the word 'more.' Sherlock was on top of him, pushing into him, his mouth, his hands, his hips. That expensive almond shampoo blurred to a background note beneath the raw scent of Sherlock's skin. He smelled like the night, like the electricity of a storm, like adrenaline. It sent a wave of aching desire through John's body and he nearly groaned at the sensation. For a moment he wanted nothing more than to kiss back just as roughly; bite at the detective's full, improbably soft lips. He'd never wanted anyone more, and at the same time he knew he wouldn't be stupid enough to put himself in the same position he'd been in three days ago.

John gripped Sherlock's upper arms and shoved him back hard.

"Fuck, Sherlock!" John breathed.

Sherlock snarled in frustration, "What's wrong with you? I thought you wanted this!"

"Right," John panted, "I kiss you back and what? I see you again in another three days? I don't like your system."

"You haven't been listening," Sherlock growled, grabbing John's right arm and jerking him towards him. "I told you I fixed it."

"No, you haven't been listening. I told you to fuck off."

John tried to turn away but Sherlock only gripped his arm tighter.

"God damn it!" John whirled around and hit him. His left fist caught the side of Sherlock's face hard enough that he dropped his arm.

John was too stunned trying to register what he'd just done to duck. Sherlock hit him back fast and he reeled from the impact. But his reflexes were quick, and he grabbed Sherlock's coat before he could move back out of reach. Sherlock twisted and John grunted trying to hold him. Sherlock snatched John's shirt and pushed him back, but John spun them, slamming him back into the tree. Sherlock gritted his teeth, eyes flashing brighter than anything on that grey afternoon. He propelled himself off of the tree with surprising force. John tripped backward they hit the ground hard.

They rolled, snarling, grappling, but eventually Sherlock got the reach on him. He flipped John onto his back and straddled his waist, getting his arms into an unbreakable grip, clearly remembering the move from when John had pinned him in the same position. Sherlock was a bloody quick study and it was both annoying and unfair that any trick could only ever work on him once. John dropped his head back into the grass, giving up his efforts at struggling. He exhaled heavily through his nose, eyes making clear the unwillingness with which he was accepting his position.

For a minute they only breathed together, Sherlock's weight pressing heavily into him, and John felt his adrenaline seeping away, down into the ground, as his muscles relaxed.

It was still a while before he spoke, and when he did his voice was flat—a defeated break in the emotion that had threatened to crush him a moment ago. "Where did you go."

"Mycroft's flat. He rarely uses it."

"And it didn't occur to you how it would be for me—having you take off like that. Not hearing from you for days after—"

"No." Sherlock's face was blank. John believed him.

"I can't do this. I can't give you that much and still not be a priority for you."

Sherlock was watching John's face steadily. "I can't empathise with you, John. But you're an idiot if you don't know you've been my priority from the day we met."

John wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the statement. Sherlock would carry on talking to him, oblivious to whether he was even in the room. Sherlock would forget him at crime scenes. Sherlock's work was his priority. Everyone knew that. John scoffed, turning his head to the side.

"Think, John," Sherlock said, deep voice automatically ensnaring John's attention, forcing his eyes back to Sherlock's and holding them there.

Sherlock was looking into John's eyes intently. He was serious, John realised. With a slow exhale John closed his eyes, willing himself to consider the possibility rationally. With Sherlock's body firmly pinning him to the ground he wasn't going anywhere anyway. Memories began to surface in his mind.

"Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere," he'd grumbled to the woman at the Battersea power station. But it wasn't true, was it. Sherlock had followed him then. And then again on the railway lines, investigating Andrew West's murder; Sherlock was suddenly at his side.

"How long have you been following me?"

"From the start."

From the start.

"Amazing how fire exposes our priorities."

Sherlock had used fire to expose Irene's, and Magnussen had used fire to expose Sherlock's.

The sharp crack of a gunshot. "Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now."

It had never been for Mary though, had it. Sherlock didn't care about Mary. It had been for John. Sherlock's pressure point. In the moment Sherlock shot Magnussen the consulting detective had chosen John over his work. He'd known he would be sent away. He'd known there was a chance he would never be able to work in England again. And he'd done it not even to save John's life. He'd thrown away his entire career only to prevent John from losing his wife: for John's happiness.

"Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always…"

John felt his throat go dry. He couldn't swallow.

"John I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right? Sherlock was complaining—er, saying…"

Sherlock talked to John when he was away because he wanted him to be there. Sherlock left him at crime scenes when there was fast work to be done, and he texted John as soon as he'd done it. Prioritising for Sherlock wouldn't have anything to do with being polite or coddling, careful communication, waiting around patiently for the sake of someone else's fragile feelings. That wasn't in Sherlock's nature and he respected John too much to affect it. Prioritising for Sherlock would mean fitting John into his work where no one else fit (which he'd done). It would mean wanting John at his side during cases and between them (which he did). It would mean dropping everything if John was in danger (which he'd done). It would mean choosing John over his work, if he had to (which he'd done).

Oh god. John couldn't believe it had taken him this long to understand. This was Sherlock prioritising him. A high-functioning sociopath's way of proving over and over again that there was nothing more important to him than John. He couldn't empathise with him, but he could prioritise him.

The consulting detective's work was everything to him, and John was more.

How could he not have known? How could he have been so blind not to see what even strangers seemed to pick up in a glance? He'd been stupid, so stupid—

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." John's eyes flew open at the sound of Sherlock's voice: deep silk answering his thoughts as though he'd spoken them out loud, reading his mind the way he always could.

Sherlock's eyes were flecked with gold, wide as he watched him. John couldn't help squirming under the intensity of his gaze and the weight of his body.

There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.

Sherlock cared for John more than anything, and John had been too stupid to see it. Sherlock was like no one else; of course his way of showing affection would have nothing to do with being affectionate. But that didn't make it any less true, any less real or intense.

And wasn't it everything John had wanted? He didn't give a damn about politeness and coddling—the kind of anxious, careful courtesy people use to walk on eggshells around each other. Wasn't the lack of all that what had attracted John to Sherlock in the first place? His directness and his disregard of the social niceties that trapped everyone else into hollow small talk and fixed smiles. John had done nice before, and frankly nice was not what he was looking for. He didn't need Sherlock to wait politely for him at crime scenes, to be considerate and gentle, to text him and ask him how his day was going, to hesitantly confirm his actions were ok with John before he did them, to be patient and understanding with his words. He wouldn't be Sherlock if he did any of those things, and John wasn't interested in anyone who wasn't Sherlock.

God fucking damn it!

Sherlock had let go of John's arms and John surged upwards, catching the detective off guard and flipping him over onto his back, straddling his waist, reversing their positions.

Breathing hard he tried to steady his thoughts. This was everything he'd ever wanted. He had it here, now, wide-eyed underneath him, but still he had to know why—

"Damn it, Sherlock! Why? Why did you leave like that? I can't—"

Sherlock was still and John didn't even bother getting his arms into a grip. "I divorce myself from my emotions by locking them out of my mind palace," he explained. "My mind is precisely organised and there's chaos if emotion gets in."

John waited, aware of Sherlock's sinewy form beneath him. He kept his eyes on his face, pale irises striking beneath dark hair, beautiful, somehow no less so for the red smudge darkening the porcelain skin just below Sherlock's right cheekbone where John had hit him. The air was cold around them as the afternoon faded toward evening, but though John was only wearing his rugby shorts and shirt his muscles were warm from the game and his skin was hot from the energy pulsing beneath it. His bare knees were pressing softly into the grass on either side of Sherlock's waist.

"There was a significant amount of emotion during— When we—" Sherlock's cheeks coloured, a fainter shade of red blooming beneath the mark from the fight. "I had to leave to prevent considerable damage from being done. I spent the days I was gone redesigning my mind palace."

"You—you redesigned your mind palace?"

"To incorporate the emotion I have for you." Sherlock blinked, steady. "Now that it's integrated into the structure of the palace it's no longer a threat to its integrity."

John stared down at him in amazement. "You redesigned your mind palace. For me."

"It was surprisingly easy to do once I realised what needed to be done. You fit," he said simply. "You fit in my life and it turns out my emotion for you fits in my mind palace."

There was a long silence in which John wasn't even trying to think of a response. Words drifted aimlessly in his mind; his thoughts scattered and blurred. A coherent sentence seemed an unreasonable request.

Sherlock waited and finally John breathed. The deep inhale and long, shaking exhale had something to do with relief, panic, exhaustion, confusion, victory, and defeat.

When he spoke his voice was soft, barely more than another breath lifting and lowering his rib cage. "Christ, Sherlock." He shut his eyes and when he opened them again the detective's gaze was burning into him, making John feel the heat through his skin. But John kept his eyes steady on Sherlock's and didn't waver. "What do you want from me?"

Sherlock blinked once, and then without warning swept upward, catching the side of John's face and kissing him firmly. John pulled a sharp breath in surprise, but he reacted quickly, meeting his lips, reaching his left arm around him to support him and twining his fingers into the curls at the back of his head with his right.

He felt Sherlock struggle briefly with something behind his back and then his hands were on him again, ungloved now, sliding through his hair, burning into the skin on the back of his neck, his face. Firm, gentle, the clever hands of a chemist.

John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair and was rewarded by his lips parting in a small gasp. John took the opportunity and slid his tongue into his mouth. And god that taste; it was almost alarming how fast his body responded to it. Sherlock leaned up into the contact, and John felt the field and the park around them dim to nothing.

He lost himself in the slide of tongues, the heat beneath his hands radiating through the detective's thin shirt. This was Sherlock. Lean muscles, heat, ivory skin, scent, perfect mouth, taste. Sherlock. Heavy breaths echoed in his ears as they broke through years of tension, years of building need: half unconscious, half willfully ignored, now turned feverish.

John leaned forward and Sherlock yielded, allowing John to solely support him, pushing him down into the grass. Lying fully on his back again Sherlock licked at John's lips and John opened them, encouraging Sherlock's tongue as it met and stroked his own. Sherlock slid his hands down John's sides, and down over his hips to his thighs, playing for a moment with the hem of his shorts. John noted with interest Sherlock's fingers moving around and over the tops of his socks, stroking the sides of his calves.

John smiled against Sherlock's lips as the thought occurred to him. "Sherlock," his voice was rough from kissing, "do you like my kit?"

The detective's silence was enough of an answer. With a huff that wasn't quite laughter John leaned up, drinking in the gorgeous sight that was Sherlock spread beneath him, breathing hard, flushed, pupils dilated. The image alone could have knocked him backward. It rocked through him, instantly removing any hint of mirth that had risen at Sherlock's appreciative attentions to his rugby clothes.

He leaned down, bracing himself with his hands in the grass on either side of Sherlock's head. Sherlock watched him cautiously as he stayed for a moment, trying to steady himself as a kind of primitive want-take-have coiled through his muscles. He moved a hand to Sherlock's neck, tugging off the scarf in one quick motion. Sherlock turned his head to the side just slightly and it was all the invitation John needed. He ducked his head, bringing a teeth-edged kiss to the pulse point just below his jaw.

He felt Sherlock shiver beneath him but John held him steady as he kissed his way down Sherlock's carotid artery to the base of his neck. When he sunk his teeth in there, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough, Sherlock's hips arched involuntarily and John groaned at the sensation. Sherlock's arousal was as obvious as his own. Not good for public places.

He breathed to calm himself and reached for Sherlock's left hand with his right. Sherlock intertwined their fingers, locking their hands together. John felt a slight tingling where the recently healed cut in his palm was pressing against Sherlock's: Mirror image scars that were neither the first to mark their skin nor would they be the last—the latest in the lines of silver thread that wove them together, visual evidence of the damage that connected them, deep and permanent.

John was pressing Sherlock's hand firmly into the grass as he held himself above the detective. No, his detective. His beautiful, maddening, genius, dangerous, delightful, high-functioning sociopath detective to whom he'd been irrevocably bound from the start. He'd been fooling himself if he'd ever thought otherwise. No number of girlfriends, not a wife, not even Sherlock's death had been strong enough to pull them apart. No matter how many times either had strayed, they'd always ended up back at each other's sides. They belonged to each other, and John could have laughed at how painfully obvious it had always been.

An obvious fact.

But on the other hand he knew the years were necessary. Without the girlfriends, even the wife, there wouldn't be the same level of certainty he felt now. He knew with doubtless conviction that Sherlock was what he wanted, more than anyone or anything he'd ever wanted before. He held the side of Sherlock's face, taking a moment to try to make himself believe it was real, that he could have this.

It couldn't be possible and yet it had to be, because Sherlock was lying under him now looking at John like he might want him just as much. But still the idea seemed to jam the gears in his head. He couldn't believe Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, the man who scorned all forms of affection, especially physical—could want this, could want this with him, out of all people— But what was it Sherlock was always saying to him?

When you eliminate the impossible... whatever remains, however improbable…

It was improbable, the whole thing was absurdly improbable and yet no more so than anything else they'd been through. They lived together at the intersection of incredible occurrence and improbable circumstance and perhaps it wasn't all that surprising that this would conform to the same pattern. Sherlock was right. Of course he was right. The smug bastard was always right. However improbable, it must be true.Sherlock had redesigned his entire mind palace to be able to do this, and that meant more than any affirmation he could ask for.

It must be true.

Sherlock was watching him, sharp, penetrating eyes seeming to read all that was in John's mind, only waiting for him to come to the conclusion on his own.

John dove down kissed him decisively, deeply, with no less passion for the slow pace. When Sherlock gripped his hips John couldn't stop himself from rolling them down, and the soft groan the contact pulled from the detective was enough to make John force himself upright, panting. He had to take control of the situation while it was still possible. They had to leave. Now. The things he wanted to do his flatmate were not legal outdoors.

"Come on," he growled, the frustration of breaking off the kiss scraping his voice course.

He lifted himself up off of his detective (a certain section of his mind kicking and screaming in protest) and stood. He offered his hand to Sherlock, who took it, and once he was standing the flush around his neck was even more apparent, and even more appealing, and John had to remind himself of the effort it had taken to get them both upright to prevent him from knocking Sherlock back down.

He lifted his gaze from Sherlock's neck and was surprised to find he was looking at him hesitantly, and all at once John remembered that Sherlock (most likely) had never done this before. Technically John had never done this before either, not with a man, but he was a doctor: he knew the logistics at least in theory. But Sherlock had chosen not to be physical with anyone until now, and John resolved not to push him. They would go as slow as necessary—

John found his thoughts cut off by Sherlock grabbing his waist and yanking him forward into a kiss. And then Sherlock's hands were in his hair and he was biting into John's lower lip and the flash of pleasure-pain had him amending his previous thought: or as fast as necessary.

Sherlock seemed to have the same idea because he pulled back and grabbed John's wrist, dragging him along until John had recovered enough to keep pace as they made their way out of the park.

"You want to walk," John started, "or—"

"Cab."

John grinned, and as he slid into the seat next to Sherlock and looked over at his scientist, whose curls were sticking out in disarray from where John had been running his fingers through, he wondered if he'd ever been happier. He was winded and giddy from the kiss—god in his entire life he'd never had a kiss like that (only kissing Sherlock the other day in the kitchen could rival it). He should have known tapping into an emotional side of Sherlock would be as explosive and dangerous as any other side.

He was amazed to find that the fluttering thrill gripping him now was no less intense at thirty-four than it had been when he was fifteen. If anything it was even more powerful now, because the person sitting next to him, whose hand was still gripping his wrist as though he'd forgotten to let go, was a force stronger than any he'd ever encountered.

"You pulled your punch." Sherlock's voice broke through John's thoughts. His flatmate was looking at him with some amusement in his eyes.

John didn't bother denying it. He shrugged. "I like your face."

Sherlock smirked, though John didn't miss the genuine pleasure beneath it.

"And the, erm, what The Woman said… That time at her place…" Sherlock wasn't meeting his eyes.

John remembered.

"Yeah, I always"—he cleared his throat—"I've always liked your face."

Sherlock eyes widened just perceptibly. His lips quirked to a small smile as he turned to look out the window.

"You pulled your punch too," John pointed out. The spot on his cheek didn't hurt nearly as much as it should considering Sherlock's skill in fighting.

"Well I don't dislike your face either," he returned, eyes fixed on the passing streets.

John bit his lip to keep himself from smiling too broadly. The compliments of Sherlock Holmes. He found them far more endearing than he should. He desperately wanted to pounce on the detective and snog him senseless right here in the backseat of the cab, but he knew cab drivers frowned on that sort of thing, and despite the near-shag in the field they hadn't discussed any ground rules for public behaviour. He couldn't imagine Sherlock going in for PDA, and actually in the past (in more controlled times, he supposed, when his lips weren't still stinging with the scrape of a consulting detective's teeth and the heat of his tongue) he didn't really go in for it either.

He turned to look out his own window. He knew none of this was going to be easy. Sherlock would still be Sherlock. He was difficult: temperamental, impatient, moody, sulky, explosive, and without hesitation John knew there was nothing he wanted more. The other side of Sherlock's passion was his volatility and John loved both. Sherlock was a challenge, his challenge, and over the years John had proven repeatedly that he was strong enough to match him.

John knew he would still lose him for endless stretches of hours or even days to his work, but as long as Sherlock wanted him there at his side through the cases, and as long as Sherlock would reach for him in between, then it was fine. It was all fine.

John shut and locked the door to 221B. He turned and his breath hitched. Sherlock was looking at him with unguarded want and he felt the new lack of barrier between them like a cold breeze—exposing enough to make him shiver. He stepped through it, reaching for Sherlock and pulling him in close. His mouth was warm and his lips were soft and John's thoughts blurred to a haze as he pushed Sherlock's coat off his shoulders.

The game is never over, Sherlock had told him once. No, they would still play the game; that wouldn't change. In fact, there might even be little visible difference to those who knew them. Because they were right; they were all right: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Sally, Irene Adler, all of his girlfriends, even Moriarty and Magnussen and Moran. He was Sherlock's boyfriend. He'd been Sherlock's boyfriend since the night they'd run through the alleys after the serial killer cabbie, forgetting his pain, his loneliness, his past, as Sherlock pulled him into his world and asked him, without ever asking him, to stay.

They'd been a couple without benefits and John couldn't believe the sheer idiocy of the concept. But he had to remind himself that he hadn't known. Not because it wasn't obvious—it was—and not because people hadn't told him—they had, repeatedly. He hadn't known because he hadn't been ready to know. And he assumed the same was true for Sherlock. The feeling—that electricity—had always been there, but until now they'd moved around each other as though there was a wall between them, unacknowledged but constant. Now it was gone, and there was a sudden, dizzying freedom in being released from what had been an invisible cage.

John pushed his hands through Sherlock's hair on either side, pulling those soft curls back from his face. He stopped, just for a moment, and opened his eyes. Sherlock's eyes were still closed and he nudged his face forward at the sudden absence of John's lips. When he didn't find them, his lashes fluttered slowly open and John was struck speechless by the open warmth and transparent need in his eyes.

There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.

Sherlock had deceived them all into thinking he didn't need this. But he did. He was human. Flesh and blood. It was so obvious and yet John had never seen it. He had always needed this. Touch. Physical connection. Warmth. Sherlock had always needed to be convinced he was loved. And John could convince him.

He reclaimed his mouth, demanding and fierce, and Sherlock melted into him with a small noise that made John's blood pound in his veins. He yanked Sherlock's shirt out from his trousers as he worked his mouth. He ran his hand down the front of that expensive grey shirt, flicking open buttons and letting his fingertips trace the trail of bare skin. Sherlock responded by slipping his hands beneath John's shirt and sliding them up his back.

This was right, exactly right, and his body only confirmed it as his nerves sang with every touch that burned in the best way. It made sense. They fit together. They balanced each other. They could push each other as easily as they could restrain each other. They could get through to each other when no one else could. They needed each other. John could see it now in Sherlock's eyes as he ran his hands over his flatmate's bare chest: the hazy, needy, heart-wrenchingly clear want that had him more aroused than he'd ever been in his life. He was going to give Sherlock everything he wanted and more. Always, he hoped. He hoped he would always be able to give Sherlock everything. Because he fully intended to spend the rest of his life trying.

What had been ambiguous in glances and gestures could now be direct, explicit and real. Now when his detective was in one of his sulkier moods between cases, instead of only setting tea mugs down at his side, he could press him back into his chair and kiss him until he remembered just how well he was loved.

Sherlock surprised him by breaking off and dropping his face to John's neck. He pulled his hands out from under John's shirt and wrapped them around his back, pulling him in tightly. He stayed still, steadying his breathing, and John embraced him, holding him securely beneath his open shirt.

And standing there, holding on to each other in the living room of 221B as though it were just the two of them, as though there weren't eight million people rushing through the city around them, John knew he had never been happier. His wedding day didn't come close to this—just this moment, standing here with Sherlock pressed close, and the promise of more, the promise of everything. Everything from the way Sherlock would look when he let John take him to bed and take him apart, to the new cases and clients and gunshots and blog posts: their life. It would be their life as it always had been but now without bars and barriers—enhanced, free to be all it could be: research and experiments and fieldwork and Barts and bickering and the violin and sex. Whenever Sherlock didn't have a case John fully intended to make his head spin in a different (but he hoped no less enjoyable) way. (He hadn't earned a reputation over three continents for being just mediocre in bed.)

He tightened his hold on Sherlock and thought he had to give credit to all the people in their lives who had seen how apparent it was from the very beginning. Because it really was obvious. There were no two people who belonged together more than Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Obviously.

The end!

Thank you everyone so much for reading! In my completely unbiased opinion you all are the best readers in the fandom, and hardcore (41 chapters of slow burn, yeeeah!). Thank you for following and favorite-ing and your wonderful reviews! They've been a much-needed support in doing something as crazy as writing a novel-length Sherlock fic.

Thank you all x221!