For the first time since he can remember, Sherlock can't seem to keep focused. Inspector Lestrade gave him a few vague details about the dead woman laying face-down on the tarmac, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to pay attention. Now, he's kneeling down beside her in the morning rain, sifting through her hair and studying her eerily serene face. She's been dead for two hours, he notices. She's been dead for two hours, she's not ambidextrous, and her death wasn't in fact a murder. He spouts off a stream of deductions about the young woman and her death, and decides to ignore the "freak" that comes out of Seargent Donovan's mouth. The wind picks up, and Sherlock shivers violently.

He regrets not inviting John to follow him to the crime scene. The morning feels plain and maybe a little empty without John's uses of "Brilliant!" or "fantastic!". He gives the woman's body another once-over, looking for the tiniest details, but his mind is still on John. Even so, Sherlock tries his best to continue impressing Lestrade and ignoring Donovan, and it isn't long before he decides that he's had enough of the cold, grey street and chilling rain. He stands up, adjusts his scarf, and with a simple "text me any more details" thrown in Lestrade's direction, Sherlock swishes his coat out behind him as he cuts through an alley on his way back home.

An empty cab passes him by close to Baker Street, and slows down almost dramatically, as if asking Sherlock to stop and hail it. He ignores the cab. He turns and cuts through another alley, even though it means he'll have to walk around the entire block a second time before reaching 221B. He doesn't mind, though. He needs to think.

John kissed him last night. Without a word, he walked across the floor, put the violin down, and before Sherlock realized that it was really happening, their lips pressed together and a rush of warmth coursed through Sherlock's veins. Sherlock's chest tingles at the memory. He can almost smell John's worn-off cologne, and he can almost feel the feather-light brush of John's stubble against Sherlock's skin. He feels confused. The question isn't why John kissed him, it's why John wanted to do it in the first place. He goes out of his way to kick a small rock on the edge of the sidewalk, and he watches as it bounces across the cement and lands with a plink in the storm drain. The rain starts to come down harder, and it sneaks in through his upturned coat collar and tickles the exposed skin at the back of his neck. He quickens his pace until the end of the block comes into view. An odd sense of intrigue and anxiety starts to float up from his stomach into his throat, but he swallows it down, and with a deep breath and a shake of his head, he enters the flat.

John isn't home. Not that Sherlock was hoping he would be. Okay, yes, he was hoping John would still be there, and Sherlock can't help but feel slightly disappointed by the man's absence. He shrugs his coat off and hangs it up with his scarf on the hooks by the door. He toes out of his shoes, and peels off his damp socks, tossing them into a corner. He fishes his dressing gown out between the cushions of the Chesterfield, and flops down with a huff. He reaches down and pulls a nicotine patch out of the small box on the floor. John would have gotten after Sherlock for leaving his things lying around, but Sherlock just sees it as convenient, since he doesn't have far to reach for them. He slaps a new patch on the inside of his forearm, and closes his eyes. The sound of the rain pattering on the windows helps to calm his racing thoughts, and for the first time in ages, Sherlock drifts into a light sleep.

Sherlock is unexplainably, unbelievably happy. He and John are sitting in the sand by the sea, while the sun smiles down at them, as if it's tapping into Sherlock's joy. A small crab skitters past, and leaves a little trail in the sand behind him. Sherlock wonders if the crab is happy, too. The gulls flying over head swoop down in search of food, but find none, and disappear into the sky. John rests his head against Sherlock's shoulder, takes him by the hand, and begins to whisper endearments into his ear.

"You are amazing," he says.

Sherlock feels himself smile.

"You are beautiful. Clever. Brilliant."

"John..."

"Sherlock, I'm in love."

"John."

There is no answer.

"John?" Sherlock wakes himself with his own voice. "John?"

The flat is silent; John is still not home. Sherlock rubs his eyes, and reaches into his pocket for his phone. There are three new text messages from Lestrade. Sherlock's deductions were right: it was a suicide. He snorts. Boring... He throws his phone into John's armchair, and peels off the nicotine patch. He stares up at the ceiling, and little snippets of his dream replay themselves in the back of his mind. How could it be possible to feel such euphoria? He remembers what John said to him, and he begins to wonder. Could John really be in love with me?

For the second time today, he thinks back to last night's kiss. The idea of John being in love with Sherlock doesn't seem so ridiculous after all. Sherlock smiles to himself at the thought. Before he can stop himself, he thinks about kissing John again.

When the door to 221B opens and John's footsteps slowly make their way up the stairs, Sherlock is given seconds to decide. He doesn't want to attach sentiment to John. He doesn't want to attach sentiment to anything, for that matter. But another part of him wants to breathe in that cologne again, feel the warmth of those lips, and take John by surprise. When the door opens and John comes in loaded down with groceries, Sherlock is already there. He takes the bags out of one of John's hands, and sets them down by the counter. Before he gets a chance to hear John ask about his sudden willingness to help with the shopping, Sherlock cups the shorter man's face in his hand, and closes the gap between them.