And today, it's Ninotsjka's turn to update! We're currently working on a plotline and it's going well. We hope you enjoy this chapter!

Enough babbling, on with the story.


Sherlock

Defeat.

That's all Sherlock can feel right now. He tries to think, tries to come up with a response - a proper response - that will explain everything, a response that will take away the pain and - most importantly - that aweful look of hurt, disappointment and hateon John's face. He has to make the doctor know that he is sorry, that he is more sorry than he has ever been.

But how? The detective chews on his lower lip as he tries to form the words, but every sentence he comes up with sounds wrong and incomplete and he know he can't fuck this up, because if he does, if he says something that is not the complete truth, than John will be gone, lost to him forever.

He stares at the doctor, who stares back at him as if he's challenging him, daring him to say something, anything. Sherlock unfolds his legs, which were tucked underneath him on the couch, and fiddles with the ear of his mug. He runs through his Mind Palace, searches every room for something, anythingthat could help, even remotely. His search gets more and more desperate when he finds nothing; there must be something, something he can use to tell John just how sorry he is.

A huff from the doctor pulls Sherlock out of his Mind Palace. John has gotten out of his chair, a look of disappointment on his face. "I'm going out. By the time I'm back, I want you to be gone."

Sherlock stiffens. His mind chants a chorus of 'no, no, no, no', but he sits frozen as John limps away from him, his face determined as he reaches for his coat, pulling it on almost robotically. His face shows no emotion, but his whole body language breathes pain and loss and something Sherlock can't and won't name. He grabs his cane, hesitates for a moment and then he walks towards the door, ready to step out of the flat and out of Sherlock's life.

Forever.

Something in Sherlock's mind clicks, falls into place and he's out of his chair in a second. "John, wait."

The doctor halts, his hand on the door knob. He does not turn around, but Sherlock sees the tension and the anticipation in his shoulders and he doesn't know what he's doing, but he's doing it anyway, because he cannot let John step out of his life, not after all this, after everything he did to make sure John would live.

His body seems to move through water. Everything moves slowly, blurred and he finds his limbs heavy as he walks over to John, who has turned halfway around to look at him.

It's those eyes that make him leap forwards. Before Sherlock knows what he's doing, he's standing in front of John, turning him around so they're facing each other properly. He has no idea what to do - he's never done this before - but when those deep blue eyes gaze into his and he sees the tiny, almost invisible spark of hope in them, he looses all his control and he presses his lips against John's, pouring everything he has into it. He feels John stiffen and fears he will pull away, so he grabs the back of his neck and pulls him closer, holding the doctor to him and clinging to him for dear life.

Because it was John Hamish Watson who made Sherlock do it. John is the reason he jumped, the reason he left, the reason Sherlock kept going, kept on fighting and, above all, John is the reason Sherlock Holmes returned.

John

"John,wait!" the words came out with a ragged desperation to their tone and despite his cold fury and throbbing hurt, John paused, complying with Sherlock's request.

His mind's furious dialogue did nothing to propel him forward."Wait for what Sherlock? You obviously don't have anything to say to me. Wait? What do you think I've been doing for the past three years you fucking bastard?!"

But his harsh thoughts remained unspoken as he heard Sherlock rise from the chair and soft foot-falls approach him.

He knew, before Sherlock lay a hand on him, what Sherlock was trying to do. " I should just go now." he tells himself. "If I turn and face him,look at those damned eyes again there is no way I'll be able to walk out. That's what I should do. We can't work. Not anymore. What're you doing? Just walk!"his mind screamed at him as Sherlock's soft hand landed upon his shoulder, turning him easily about to face him.

A sharp breath tore from his lungs as he realized that thisisn't what he'd counted on at all. Sherlock's pleading, begging, with those damned eyes and desperate voice. That he expected. That he could manage. Not this.

This will complicate things, twist and puzzle them even more, it's not a good idea, he knows. But he doesn't turn away. He can't. Because now Sherlock's leaning forward, eyes searching his and he knows he can't hide anything anymore. Sherlock's read him entirely and knows the love that wells withing for Sherlock.

Tainted by grief and boiled by anger, but there it remains. It's now such a part of John that his reaction is instinctual. When Sherlock's soft lips press against his, searchingly, pleadingly and Sherlock's hand wraps around his neck, drawing him closer, John melts into the kiss. There's nothing else to be done.

And he's suddenly bombarded. He's heard reference of people conveying emotion through touch, through kisses and such but to be honest he always thought it was a far-fetched idea. Not anymore. Pain, grief, desperation, fear all pour from Sherlock's lips into John's understanding.

Flashes of scene play like a high-speed movie in his mind as he wrangles with this new, emotionally intense side of Sherlock. Sherlock, planning and plotting his own demise, Moriarty casually threatening his world with a grin, Secret glances in John's direction, subtle sadness hidden within his eyes. Months in the cold. Desolate, empty hotel rooms. Fire-fights.

And suddenly it's all too much and John's shoving Sherlock off, stumbling back, shaking his head as if to free it off the images rooted there. They both stand, drawing deep unsteady breaths, waiting for the other's reaction. It's all there now, out in the open. Everyone has lay their cards on the table.

"It was all for me. It was for us"John realizes with a sudden, startlingly painful clarity. Sherlock did this for the chance, for the hope of what they might be once the world righted itself again.

Sherlock speaks, his voice a quiet whisper, mingled with fear and hope "John?" is all he says. A simple question with a thousand connotations.

John draws a deep breath, mind still whirling and says in a rough whisper "I'm going out. Just for a bit - I - I need to think." he turns and reaches for the door before adding "Be sure you're here when I get back." and then he opens it and exits.