Chapter 6

Sherlock had done it again. He had had a good thing, and somehow he had managed to mess it up. And this time it was even worse. Not only might he lose John, but he had no idea how it had happened. That is, he did know what had happened, but not why. He didn't even remember it. For some reason he had told John that he loved him, and now John was expecting something of him. Something he didn't know how to give. He supposed that he must love him, otherwise, why would he have said it, even in a state of mingled relief and exhaustion? But he wasn't even sure what it meant.

He had been ill for two days now and had found himself avoiding John, not because he didn't want to be close to him - his body was aching not just with fever, but with the desire to touch, to feel, but he was afraid that he had hurt John, and that somehow, not knowing what he was doing, he might make it even worse. He had slept in one of the chairs, to avoid the issue of them sleeping together like they used to. It had been two horrible nights, restless and filled with unsettling dreams.

John looked up as Sherlock let out another sigh and put down the book he had almost finished. "Mrs. Hudson asked me what has gotten into you, earlier. She said you were scowling even worse than ever when she got here to bring biscuits while I had gone to the shop. And I'm starting to wonder as well. You don't even beg for hugs anymore." He looked at Sherlock with his eyebrows pulled up. "You do realize that you can actually talk to people about what is bothering you, right? Instead of sitting there sighing like an old steam train?"

Sherlock pulled his blanket tighter around his body. "I'm just sick of feeling like this," he answered, and then hurriedly added: "Of being ill."

"Probably you'll feel better tomorrow. Is there anything you need?"

"Sleep," Sherlock muttered, half hoping that John wouldn't hear him.

"Then sleep. Go to bed for a change." He sounded more bitter than he had intended.

Sherlock couldn't help himself. For the first time in days, he looked directly at John, hearing the confirmation of his worst fears in the other man's voice.

"What are you looking at? Bedroom." John pointed at the door. "I won't join you if it bothers you," he added more quietly.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered as he got to his feet and shuffled to the bedroom, shoulders slumped. He was not going to get any sleep anyway, he knew. But at least John wouldn't have to look at him.

"Is... that a 'yes it bothers me if you join me' or just 'yes I will go to sleep'? Only checking." John didn't quite manage to keep the hurt feeling out of his voice.

For a moment Sherlock considered escaping the question behind his closed door, but then he decided he was being a coward. He turned to face John. "Yes I'll go away," he answered.

John frowned, confused. "That wasn't the question. I don't want you away, you just need sleep. But it's alright if you feel more comfortable on your own in the bed, it's yours after all."

"What about you?" Sherlock asked. "What will make you comfortable?" He couldn't find the right words to ask what he really wanted. His brain had been working itself to exhaustion over this for the last two days, and he was finding it hard to think straight. He just couldn't bear the thought of locking himself up alone in his room. Last time he had done that, John had left.

"Ah. Glad you ask. I've missed you the two past nights." John pressed his lips together for a moment, determined not to be ashamed of those words. "So unless you go heavily protesting, I'm coming with you."

Sherlock stared at him in shock. "But I thought..." once again, his mind fumbled for the words.

"Apparently you're not as good at thinking as you think you are," John said, pressing a quick kiss on Sherlock's lips as he walked past him and indicating with a head movement that Sherlock should follow him into the bedroom.

Bewildered, Sherlock followed, his lips tingling, his body yearning for the closeness he had been denying it.

Without bothering to get undressed, John lay down on the bed and pulled Sherlock on top of him, immediately catching his lips for a long kiss before he pushed the curly head down on his chest. "Sleep," he ordered, smiling.

His mind struggled, but his body insisted, and with a desperate sigh, Sherlock obeyed.

John just happily lay there, one hand softly stroking Sherlock's back while the other played with his hair, until his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep as well.

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he felt safe, warm and happy. His mind let him enjoy it for almost a minute, before reminding him why he had been so miserable these past days. His body tensed, but the warmth of John against him, the weight of his arm around him, made it impossible to feel anything but content.

He listened to John breathing, and when he was sure the other man was still asleep he whispered, so softly it was barely more than an articulated breath: "I think I do love you. But I'm not sure I know what that means. I need time. I want this, want you. But not if it means hurting you. Until I can be sure that won't happen, I need to leave you alone. Forgive me."

As carefully as possible he slipped out of the bed and grabbed some clothes. Hopefully he'd be far away by the time John woke up. The note would not explain, but it might keep John from worrying too much. He switched the sim-card in his phone, and as he walked down the stairs, swallowed his pride and called Mycroft.

John woke up much later, still warm and the sheets smelled of Sherlock. He stretched with a groan and rubbed his eyes. Sherlock was gone, but he expected that the other man had woken up and got bored, so he walked to the kitchen, where the note was lying. Sleepily squinting at it for a moment, he read 'I'll be gone for a while. No need to worry.' in Sherlock's scrawl. Very helpful, he thought. He sent a text with simply "Where?" in it, and went for a shower and clean clothes.

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Sherlock, reluctantly got into the car with Anthea. "Your brother was so pleased to hear from you," she informed him not looking up from her Blackberry.

John picked up his phone while he was towelling his hair and frowned at it. The text had been returned with a 'failed delivery' notification. He sent the text again, but the same happened. Trying to call wasn't any use either. "Where has he got to now," he mumbled to himself, pouring his tea.

Arriving at his brother's estate, Sherlock made his way to the suite reserved for him, but so rarely used. As he climbed the stairs, Mycroft entered the hall, and watched him with a mingled look of concern and sadness.

"Hi Greg, it's John Watson."

"No, I don't have any cases for Sherlock. Tell him to keep himself occupied with something else. It's so bad that I'm almost getting bored myself these days, were it not for all the paperwork."

"Ah, that wasn't what I was going to ask. Sherlock has gone somewhere, I have no idea where, but I take it you don't know either then."

"No. He gets lost a lot these days, it seems. Have you talked to Mycroft?"

"No, you know. It's Mycroft, he's probably busy, and I don't feel too keen on contacting him anyway."

"I think you should, though. He'd like to know if his brother is doing something stupid again."

"I'm not even sure he is. He might be out for a walk for all I know. It's just that something seemed off the last days, more than normally I mean."

"Call Mycroft. Pub tonight?"

"Yeah, I'll come. See you."

John put down the phone and sighed. He knew Lestrade was right, but he wasn't looking forward to it as he took his phone and called Mycroft.

Mycroft answered his phone on the second ring, expecting the call. Calmly he explained that Sherlock was taking care of a little business for him abroad, and would be out of touch for at least a couple of days for 'security reasons'. "He told me to tell you it was not in the least dangerous and you would have found it very boring."
After hanging up, he made his way up to Sherlock's rooms. It was time for a brotherly talk.

And you would have found it very boring. Bloody hell! Sherlock should know by now that he preferred to be at his side anyway. But then, since he had told him, jokingly, about Sherlock's little slip of the tongue, things hadn't been quite the same. John hadn't really thought of it anymore at first, but when Sherlock was so sulky for days, it had crossed his mind again and again. He sighed and prepared for a few boring, quiet days. At least he knew Mycroft would keep an eye on his little brother.

It took Mycroft the better part of two days to get the whole story out of his little brother and then another two, to convince him that he was being an idiot. Finally, he put him in the car, sending him home to Baker Street, and then sent John a text, letting him know his 'flatmate' was coming home. He sincerely hoped the two would keep each other busy for a while, letting him get back to running the country.

John had had a nice night out with Lestrade, even though most the detective inspector could talk about was the stress of his divorce. He had started the next day enjoying the silent calm in the flat, a bit hung-over, but soon he was bored and wondered what kind of case Sherlock was on. He decided to take advantage of the situation to clean up the still smelling flat, hoping that the cleaning products would get rid of the stinking acid, and indeed it was a little bit better when he was finished on the next day. Mrs. Hudson had come in to announce that she had made far too many biscuits to eat on her own, so another afternoon was filled. The next day, though, there just was nothing left to do, and John hoped that Sherlock wouldn't stay away for long. The flat was hatefully quiet and out of pure boredom John went for a shower, missing the text Mycroft had sent him.

Sherlock was not sure what he would do when he got home. But Mycroft had been very insistent that running away was not an acceptable solution to his current conundrum. His brother had told him, in no uncertain terms, to stop being such a fool and just talk to John about how he felt.

Sherlock knew that it was the right thing to do. It was logical. So why did it terrify him so much?
At first he had been afraid that John might be mistaken in believing that Sherlock loved him. That he would be letting John down. But the days spent at Mycroft's had made him realize that he did indeed love his friend. He had thought about him constantly and missed him. He had read about the emotion other people called 'love' and had in the end conceded the point that this was how he felt about John: he loved him.

So why was he still so worried? And then, as he slowly opened the door to their flat, it hit him: What if John didn't love him?

When he came out of the shower, John didn't bother to put on a bathing robe, since there was no-one there anyway. He just draped a towel across his neck to catch the drops from his hair and left the bathroom to fetch fresh clothes in his bedroom. The shower had done him good and he was carelessly humming, until he suddenly saw a movement in the corner of his eyes. He quickly lowered the small towel to his hips as he turned around with a jolt. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! You scared me to death. Why didn't you let me know that you were coming home?"

Sherlock just stood there, mouth slightly open, cheeks flaming red. It took a moment for John's question to register. "I... um... Mycroft said he would..." He finished lamely. Then he hesitantly took a step forward, letting his eyes fully appreciate the sight before him.

"Yes. Well. Good to have you back. I'll make tea in a minute, just let me go and get dressed." John wondered whether it was his imagination, or Sherlock really was staring. And blushing. And looking adorable doing so.

Sherlock smiled shyly. "Can I get a hug first?"

John smiled back and rearranged his towel so he could keep it up with one hand. "Of course." He put a few steps forward to give Sherlock a one-armed hug and kissed his cheek. "Missed me, then?" he teased.

"Very much," Sherlock replied, as he wrapped his arms around John, and bent down to kiss his neck.

"You even admit it," John smiled, a bit surprised, but happy to snuggle further into Sherlock. "I'm also glad you're back."

Sherlock put his hands on John's cheeks, and kissed him. The kiss was long and slow, filled with all the longing of the days spent apart.

John breathlessly kissed him back. Had their kisses always been this intense? Had he forgotten about that because it had been a few days?, he wondered.

Sherlock hoped the kiss would ask the question he couldn't put into words. Desperately, he embraced John, pulling him as close as possible.

John buried his face against Sherlock's collar bone, catching his breath. He felt vulnerable, naked except for a small towel while Sherlock was still wearing - was wearing, he corrected himself - several layers of clothes, but there was nowhere he would rather be. I love you, he thought, but he said nothing because he didn't want to alarm his flatmate.

Surely John must feel the same, Sherlock thought. How else could it feel this right? He fought his fear, and spoke. "John?"

"Yes?" he answered, the fabric of Sherlock's suit jacket brushing his lips.

"I... " why was this so hard? "I think I meant it."

John frowned. "Meant what? That you missed me?" He stepped a little bit back so he could look at Sherlock's face.

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. John wasn't making this any easier. "No, well yes, I did miss you... But I was talking about the other thing..."

John stared at him, questioningly. "You do realize that we haven't talked to each other for 4 days, right? What on earth are you talking abou- ooh." Suddenly it had crossed his mind, and his mouth formed a perfectly round 'o' for a little longer than he made the sound. "Are you- are you actually saying that you love me? Sherlock?" His heart was hammering in his chest as he looked up at the other man.

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded.

John smiled widely. "Good. I love you too." He pressed another kiss on Sherlock's lips and the smile didn't leave him; he was beaming.

Sherlock whimpered in relief as he clung to John.

"You've probably known for ages that I love you," John said. "It must have been obvious to you before it even was to me."

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. "I had no idea. Must be a blind spot."

John smiled. "Well. It's good to have it confirmed that you love me too, even though I already thought you did. I'll, um, get dressed then." He suddenly remembered to pull the towel up a bit so it was once again covering the bits it was supposed to cover.

Sherlock grinned mischievously. "If you must."

"Well, at least for a while," John smirked. "Probably you haven't even had lunch yet and I'm not going to cook naked. We'll see about afterwards." He bit his lip and turned around to go upstairs, hoping that he hadn't alarmed Sherlock by saying what he was thinking.

Sherlock laughed happily and flopped down in his chair. Mycroft had, for once, been right. Telling John had been a great idea.

(Forever thankful)