He could remember fighting. They had fought at times, when their differences became painfully apparent and the gap between them seemed to stretch out for miles-huge, rolling disputes like thunder, and small lingering arguments that yipped and nipped at the ankles like a tiny, vicious dog.

What had they fought about? Little things. Unimportant things. Large things. Things that mattered. Whether the milk could be drunk five days past the sell by date. How the towels should be folded. Who they were. How they should be when they were together.

They had fought about sex, about what it meant and how it should be done. Those were the arguments that Sherlock could remember most vividly, now, months since the last time he had been touched that gently and with such great intention. But he had hurt John-he knew that now. Sherlock had never needed what John needed, and the discrepancy had stung on both sides.

"I didn't think it was so important," Sherlock could remember himself saying.

John had been angry that day, trying to hold it back, failing. They had had sex in the morning, and Sherlock had leaned into it, enjoyed it, even-but there was a gap, as there always was, between what he was experiencing and what John was experiencing, and that time the distance between them was so clear it was almost tangible.

"Of course it's important-maybe not to you, but to me, it's important. It's a part of everything, for me, don't you see? It's a way of being closer, of really being in the same place at the same time-it means something. It means a lot."

Sherlock had stared. "You don't think I care for you the same way you do for me," he had said, slowly, incredulous.

John had taken a deep breath, steadying himself. "No," he had said, "No, it's not that. God knows I'd kick your teeth in if you ever tried to suggest I didn't understand my own feelings-I won't do that to you. No. It's just that-Christ. Even when we're at our best, we have these disconnects, and I'm not always sure if just-just caring about each other is good enough. We have to be able to give each other what we need, as well. You need distance, I get that, but I need proximity. I need to be able to show you how I feel, to bring it outside of myself and share it with you. And having sex together, that's the whole point, the whole purpose. It's not just the sex-it's the together."

"You could just tell me, you know," Sherlock had said. "If you're feeling for me, and you want to share it. There are other ways of sharing. I would believe you." He ached for the closeness too, couldn't John see? He longed for it, breathed it in when it arrived. The sex was good, pleasant, sometimes wild and fantastic, but as far as Sherlock was concerned, it was no place for the quiet, red-ripe tenderness that overtook him when John listened to him playing violin, or knotted his hands into Sherlock's hair, or lay against him in bed, quiet and warm, or smiled at Sherlock across a room full of people, generating a path of pure light between them.

But John had sunk to his knees, searching Sherlock's face, still needing to fix things, to force the two of them into an impossible accord. "I know you would," he had said. "I know that for you, that'd be enough-that talking and living together could be entirely satisfying, could mean to you what sharing a bed does for me. But I'm always going to want that. There's always going to be a part of me that wishes we were close in that particular way-not just that we're having sex, but that it's resonating for both of us. Don't roll your eyes, I mean this. I want more and I can't get more and I don't even really want the specifics of 'more' if I know that you're not one hundred percent on board."

The problem had been painfully bewildering, near impossible to comprehend. "You could just satisfy yourself, if it becomes too problematic to do so together."

John had laughed at that, sad, bitter. "God. You're still missing the point. It's not just me wanting to get off-that'd be easy. It's me wanting you, wanting to be close to you. It's specific. Not exclusively physical, either. I want this because I want to feel us moving in time. Everything in the world that can be shared between two people, I want for us. To give you happiness in a way no one else does, a secret way. That's what I want."

The flat went silent after John had finished speaking.

"I don't think I could want it," Sherlock had said at last. You do give me happiness in a secret way, oh, John, you do, each time you touch me or make gentle fun of me, each day in which you come home to me, every moment in which you are unexpectedly strong, unexpectedly daring-can't you see, it's so clear, it's right in front of you. "Not in that way."

John had closed his eyes, nodded, stood up. "I know," he had answered, turning toward the door. "I know."

(On Molly's couch, Sherlock kept his eyes tightly shut, hands on the lids to block out all sources of light, turning the old problem over in his mind. What had been so wrong with wanting to please John, why hadn't that been enough? It was never a sacrifice-he enjoyed himself, liked John's body on his own, liked the strange smells and rough skin and soft stomachs. He had come for John, time and time again, and it was good, wasn't it? It always felt good. But the act in itself indicated nothing, and John's desire to make it something more sacred than the thrust and rhythm of naked bodies had always seemed laughable. And so he had hurt John. Again and again. Perpetual injury. Never enough. Could he have been better? No, no-that was the manner of thinking that had done John injury to begin with, the desire to change himself, trying to fake the significance of something inherently insignificant. What John had craved had been something earnest, genuine emotion in the most expected places. Sherlock hadn't dealt well with the genuine, not unless it was unexpected, understated-not in bed.)

The next time they had sex was different, both faster and slower. John's tongue against Sherlock's frenulum, gasps, kisses sticky with cum, one long scratch up John's back, fingers easing into Sherlock's body, lubricant somehow managing to smear across his chin. John hadn't tried to hold Sherlock's gaze, hadn't tried to make the sex anything else, but the change saddened him, and he had turned away when they were finished, making an invisible wall around himself, cutting himself away. He needed closeness, didn't think it was likely to be given. The action only made Sherlock long to give it, and so he had eased in closer, draping his arm over John's side, putting his face into his neck, his other arm above his head, scratching gently at John's hair.

"I do love you," he had murmured against John's skin. Rare. Precious. At once John had responded, turning round so they were face to face, pulling Sherlock into an awkward half hug, their bodies flush. Relaxed. That was what he had needed-that was good, then. Maybe there was hope for them. Maybe they only needed the extra time to learn one another's hearts and bodies, little by little, inch by inch, until finally they could carefully tend to one another's cracks, paint over the blips and bruises where so much casual wrong had been done. Sherlock had wanted to mend John's cracks. The scars, and grief. It wouldn't have been a bad way to spend his days, he thought, keeping John vibrant and awake and always glad. Maybe he could do it. Maybe they could do it together.

That's how they had slept that night, close, grateful, desperate, halfway-sad, sinking into the depths of a maybe that never reached it's conclusion.

Maybe it would someday, Sherlock thought, hoped, madly wished. When everything was sorted. Maybe there was still time.

Maybe.