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Sherlock

As soon as John closes the door behind him, Sherlock crumbles. His hands shake, his head is spinning and suddenly, his knees buckle and he finds himself sinking onto the floor. He releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding and assesses the new development.

He had kissed John. No. He had kissed John and John had kissed him in return. They had kissed.

Sherlock brings his hand up to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to make sense of all the thoughts and emotions that are currently whirling around in his mind.

He is confused, that's for sure. Confused at himself, at John, at everything that happened in the last minutes. John had always insisted on being straight, always having his 'I'm not gay' on his lips even when people just looked at the two of them, denying everything over and over again to the point of desperation, as if...
As if he had been trying to convince himself.

The detective inhales sharply as he remembers that look in John's eyes - it had only been there for a moment, just before he'd closed his eyes - just before he'd kissed him. There had been something there, something...

And then there was the fact that, although John had gone out as he said, he'd asked Sherlock to stay. No, he had demanded Sherlock to stay. And although Sherlock knows that this is far from over, the fact that John doesn't want him to leave anymore has him hoping. Hoping they will get through this.

His thoughts are interupted by a growl from his stomach and he can't help but smile at the sound. He gets up slowly, feeling a lot more relaxed than before, and walks into the kitchen. A quick examination of both the fridge and the pantry shows that John has very little food and Sherlock starts to make a mental note and shopping list, before realizing that although John asked him to stay for now, that doesn't mean for certain the detective will be moving back in. This thought makes him pause, suddenly anxious again, his hunger forgotten. What if John makes up his mind at... wherever he's gone right now and decides he doesn't want Sherlock to stay after all? What if he throws him out?

The detective shakes his head, willing the dark thoughts away. If anything, John taught him not to dwell on the many possible scenarios life offers and he forces himself to focus on the toast he was making. John, apparently, still eats the same jam he used to eat and Sherlock doesn't hesitate to apply a thick layer of the sweet spread on both pieces of toast. With a plate in his hand, he returns to the sofa and curls up again. His tea has gone cold by now and he dismisses it without a second thought.

His mind drifts off again to the moment he kissed John. Although he never actually thought about it, he finds himself trying to recall the taste of John's lips, trying to compare it to other things he's tasted and to find a similar thing, if only to understand why the taste was so exquisite to him. He can't put his finger on it, but there was something unique and sharp and sweet and so wonderfully John about it that he finds his stomach fluttering at the thought.

And then there's the feeling of John's lips against his, his smooth neck under Sherlock's palm and, last but not least, the feeling of John kissing him back, pressing against him as Sherlock pulled him close and relaxing into the kiss, if only for a moment.

The detective smiles, a real smile, for the first time in years, and sets to wait for the doctor to return.

John

John descended the stairs slowly, in a dream-like state. Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat as he reached the bottom and called to him "John, are you alright? I thought I heard raised voices."

John hesitates briefly before lying smoothly "Just the TV, sorry. I'll try to keep it down." Mrs. Hudson gives a smile and nods, before slipping back into her flat.

John lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and continues out the door. He hated lying to her, but the last they needed was a sobbing Mrs. Hudson clutching Sherlock like a relived mother when the two of them are still trying to sort out whether or not they'll have a life together. Better to wait and let her find out in her own time.

He takes to the street, the sharp chill gnawing at his coat and he wishes he'd taken a moment to slip on a jumper underneath. But he'd been to anxious to leave to think properly. He still couldn't think properly.

He'd always thought there couldn't be too much of a good things, but this entire evening was proving him wrong. The impossibilities where piling up and it was making his head spin and exhausting his mind.

He wasn't sure which was more surprising, the fact that Sherlock kissed him or the fact that Sherlock was alive to kiss him. Everything that had happened were things he'd hoped for, longed for desperately but never thought he'd actually see them happen. And here they are, layed out on a table in front of him.

He passes the pub he used to frequent in the years before, when Sherlock was in a black mood of boredom and John needed escape. Old habits die hard.

He passes it instead of going inside, because now isn't the time. But he laughs, with a bit of genuine humour in his smile, when he thinks that this could be just another night between the two of them. Having had a "little domestic." John would take to the streets and Sherlock would wait for him to return and they'd sort it out. Or ignore the issue until it popped up again.

It's almost as if the three years didn't exist and the world was already righting itself. returning to it's normal mode of function. John and Sherlock together as things should be. But it wasn't that simple.

They still needed to decide how this was all going to work. then he realized with sudden clarity that he was the one who needed to decide. Sherlock had already made his decision, he'd already made his move. By coming back for John, pleading with him, kissing him, he'd made a point of letting John know that he wanted them to be what they used to, perhaps more. and now he was sitting in the flat awaiting John's decision.

John reached up to rub his hands over his face in frustration, then realized his hands were empty completely empty. No cane was clasped between his fingers. No pain throbbed at his leg.

Who the hell do I think I'm kidding. I can't function without the bastard." he thinks suddenly and realizes his decision has been reached. There was never really a decision to begin with, just his defensive system trying to prevent further harm. But he's too deep in to pull back now.

The early days of their friendship was rough, learning each other, side-stepping boundaries and growing to understand the other's functions. This would be the same, just more intense. And suddenly John finds himself looking forward to the fire-fight.

Not wanting to bother walking back for another half-hour he hails a cab and books it to Baker street. It takes less than fifteen minutes and he practically leaps from the car as it pulls to a stop. He tosses some bills at the driver and is inside and up the steps in no time flat.

When he opens the door to 221B he spots Sherlock seated on the couch. John's face is perfectly calm and unreadable. He can see the nervousness taking root in Sherlock's eyes and it's several moments before either speak. When John says nothing Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh "Shall I pack then?"

John shakes his head and smiles "No. In fact if you ever leave this flat again without me I will kill you myself."


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