25 August, 6:31 Central Africa Time Zone

Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda

Sherlock checked his wristwatch for the fourth time in two minutes, his foot tapping nervously in the dirt. The van holding their gear and tools was packed and idling in the road and most of the research team was milling around a second van, looking bleary-eyed and impatient to be on their way. Sherlock glanced down at his mobile grasped in his hand, and sighed at the lack of messages. His stomach had been in knots for the past twenty-four hours and it was beginning to feel like the tiny amount of toast he had eaten at 5:00 am that morning might be making its way back up his gullet. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Molly cautiously approach him.

"Sherlock," she said quietly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "We can't wait any longer. We've all got planes to catch tonight in Kigali." Her expression was full of sympathy and suddenly Sherlock couldn't stand it. He violently twisted his shoulders and upper body around, throwing off her hand.

"Then let's go," he growled, defences up against her pity.

"I'm sure something's just come up, Sherlock. If we could wait for him any longer, we would. But Laney's flight is at noon…" she trailed off as though she too was stalling for time.

"It's fine," he said firmly. "Let's go." He was embarrassed that he was causing such a scene. The whole team was waiting on Sherlock, and they all knew who he himself was waiting for. It was mortifying. Furthermore, he was berating himself for exposing himself this way, exposing his feelings to his team and exposing his heart to John. Reaching down, Sherlock grabbed his bag sitting at his feet and turned towards the van. The research team started climbing in and Lestrade started the vehicle, its exhaust pipe stirring up a cloud of red dust. Behind him, Molly gave his shoulder another pat and climbed into the front passenger seat. As much as he wanted to, Sherlock refused to look behind him, refused to scan the horizon one last time searching for a sandy coloured head of hair. His hand reached up to the door handle, preparing to hoist himself up into the last empty seat in the van, when—

"Sherlock! Wait! Sherlock!" A shout rang out and Sherlock spun around, his heart in his throat. A fair-haired figure on a bicycle was tearing across the open field, the rising sun behind him throwing him into silhouette. "Sherlock!" John practically launched himself off of the bicycle and it fell to the ground in a clatter, wheels still spinning aimlessly. Sherlock's bag slipped from his shoulder to fall to the ground as John crossed the last couple of metres separating them on foot. Suddenly Sherlock had an armful of gasping John and a pair of lips pressing against his own. Shocked and stunned, Sherlock stiffened initially, but quickly recovered, his own mouth softening against the kiss. It was chaste and closed-mouth, but John's hand had slipped up to cup the back of Sherlock's head, his fingers weaving into the dark curls there. Sherlock's hands gripped the back of John's neck and his hip, a finger slipping under his blue scrub top and stroking the warm skin there.

Behind them, cheers and wolf-whistles erupted, reminding Sherlock that he was standing next to a van full of his colleagues, exhibiting extremely unprofessional and decidedly un-British behaviour. He quickly detached himself from John's mouth and used his grip on John's body to put some space between them. John grinned wide and blushed, but Sherlock saw the look of sadness and uncertainty that flickered across his deep blue eyes; that look matched the emotions roiling in Sherlock's own gut.

"You've got three minutes, Sherlock. Then we're leaving whether you're in the van or no," Lestrade called out from behind the steering wheel. Sherlock nodded, grabbed John's elbow and led him several yards away from the van.

"I'm sorry I'm late," said John, still out of breath from his frantic bicycle ride and the kiss. "I just came off my overnight shift and rode up here as quick as I could." He reached out and gently took Sherlock's hand in his own, his thumb stroking Sherlock's palm.

"John, I…" began Sherlock, but the words died on his lips. What should he say? Should he make some kind of declaration? A profession of feelings? A promise to wait for John?

They had seen each other only a handful of times after John had left Sherlock confused and aroused in the research tent. Their next meeting had been awkward and tense, neither of them brave enough to bring up the cause of the discomfort. Since then, there had been no mention of their almost-kiss and the palpable lust that was practically rolling off the both of them in waves was studiously ignored. Sherlock was miserable and frustrated; he not one to typically leave things unsaid, but he was willing to follow John's lead in this situation.

The confusion and uncertainty he had been experiencing for the past weeks were coming to a head, and it seemed that now, now was the time to make decisions and take action—to either put up or shut up. John was looking up into Sherlock's face, patiently waiting. Again, those sapphire eyes expressing every sentiment that Sherlock was attempting to suppress within himself.

"John, may I write to you? I'd like to stay in touch, if you're agreeable," Sherlock felt himself blushing and John gave a quiet chuckle.

"You had better stay in touch, you wonderful git." John's grip on Sherlock's hand tightened briefly. "I want to hear all about London, and your students, and your cases. Ring me, Skype, or email, but you had bloody well keep in touch." The uncertainty had faded slightly from his expression, and Sherlock felt something in his chest ease a bit. John took a deep breath, visibly preparing himself to say something. "We perhaps should have had this conversation days ago, but I suppose there's something to be said about last minute declarations." His hand travelled up Sherlock's wrist until it gripped Sherlock's forearm and held him fast. "I'm not asking you to wait for me or anything, but I've enjoyed spending time with you these last couple of months. I'll be home for a bit over the holidays, and I'd like to see you then. Can I ring you when I get back into town? Would that be all right?"

"It would be quite all right, John."

"Sherlock!" called someone from the van as Lestrade revved the engine.

"You should go," said John. He rocked on his feet, obviously debating whether to reach for Sherlock again.

"Good-bye, John Watson," said Sherlock softly, offering his hand to John, who gripped it fiercely.

"Good-bye, Sherlock Holmes," replied John, a million emotions cascading over his features simultaneously. Sherlock gave a perfunctory nod, spun on his heel and returned to the van. He retrieved his bag from the dirt and with one last look behind him and a small wave, he climbed into his seat, pulling the van door shut.

The van disappearing over the horizon kicked up a swirling cloud of dust. John had to cover his mouth to stave off a coughing fit, but he refused the cover his eyes, preferring a face full of red dust to missing the last glimpse of Sherlock. All too quickly, the dust cloud settled and the van was gone. Soon Sherlock would be on board the plane that would take him a full continent away from John.

John kicked at the sparse grass at his feet, his shoulders deflating a bit in defeat. Well that didn't go as I had hoped. He wasn't sure what he had expected; hell, he wasn't sure what he wanted. "What is wrong with me?" he shouted out loud. Sherlock had made it quite clear that he was fine with anything. John just wished that he had more to offer. Why was he so cautious to tell Sherlock how he felt? John had had a speech prepared for this morning—Sherlock; you're brilliant and I'm bloody mad about you. How hard would that have been to say? John tugged at his scrub top in frustration.

He turned and slowly walked back his abandoned bicycle, retrieving it from the ground and setting off back to hospital. Today was going to be a long day; he had just come off an overnight shift, so he didn't have work to distract him from the pang of loss he was feeling. As he straightened up, wheeling the bicycle back down the hill, he was frankly shocked at the depth of his emotions.

But, should he really all that surprised with the acuteness of the feelings that Sherlock's departure had wrought from him? Wasn't this proof positive enough that this could yield something real between them? John thought that he was being naïve to think that the intensity of his emotions regarding Sherlock would lessen over the next four months. But still, the time between this moment and December stretched in front of him, empty and uncertain. Here he was, at the start of a long stint of time away from Sherlock, the outcome of which was largely unclear.

The rest of the way back to hospital, he permitted himself a few minutes of emotional wallowing, vowing to himself to buck up and carry on by the time he reached the doors of hospital.

Showered, changed, caffeinated, and resolved, John left the canteen with his second cup of tea in hand. If he wasn't going to sleep, and wasn't on shift, he may as well catch up on some case notes. As he drew up to the nurses station, John saw Adelaide chatting with one or two other hospital staff members. She turned and caught his eye, as he sat down heavily in one of the empty chairs behind the station desk.

"G'day, Dr. Watson!" she said cheerily. "All right?"

"I'm persevering."

"Your glum face says otherwise, John. Sherlock left yet?"

"Just this morning. His flight leaves in a couple of hours from Kigali." Adelaide leaned over and sympathetically patted his wrist. She then began to straighten her papers and charts on the desk in front of her.

"I know just what you need, John," she said, standing and tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

"Oh yeah? What's that?" John muttered morosely.

"I'm off for a shower," said Adelaide brightly, ignoring John's question. "I'll meet you in your room in twenty-five minutes."

"Oh, I'm not sure—"

"Twenty-five minutes, John!" she called over her shoulder.

It was clear that Adelaide wasn't going to allow him to wallow in his puddle of self-pity until suppertime. John leaned over to check the staff schedule, noting his next shift wasn't until the following evening. With a sigh, he stood, bid goodbye to the few hospital staff still gathered around and head for his room. So much for afternoon kip he had been contemplating. Sleep was an excellent avoidance technique.

Twenty minutes later there was a sharp knock on the door of his room.

"It's open." The doorknob jiggled for a moment and then swung open to reveal a showered Adelaide, arms full. "What's all this?" asked John, regarding the bottles and packages she had dumped on the cotton coverlet on his bed.

"This," she said, spreading her arms like a magnanimous lord showering gifts on his peasants, "is the patented 'Adelaide Taylor breakup survival kit'."

John shook his head. "Sherlock and I didn't breakup. We weren't, we aren't dating. We're just friends—"

Adelaide held up her hand to cut him off and rolled her eyes at his protestations. "Save it, John," she said rummaging through the pile on the bed. "Fine then. We'll call it a 'Just friends who want to bugger each other's brains out but are being total wowsers about it so we'll deny our feelings for each other and suffer needlessly' survival kit."

"Oh come—" John began to protest.

"None of it, John!" Adelaide selected a bottle of some ominous brown liquid, two packets of crisps, and a slightly smashed Starbar, from her stash. "Now, let's stuff ourselves full of junk food and get utterly rotten!"

Seventy-five minutes and an inadvisable amount of mediocre whiskey later and John was feeling quite a bit more forgiving towards the universe at large.

"Mmmm, Adllllllaide! Addie! Such a beautiful arse…"

"Johnny! I didn't think you were still interested!" Adelaide laughed.

"Not yours. I don't want to look at your arse anymore – no offense!" John shot up from where he was laying on the dusty floor of his room. "I'm sure yours is still a nice arse!"

"Pass me th' bottle, John-boy, and allllll will be forgiven!"

"Bottle? Oh yes. Whiskey was a good idea, Addie. One of your best." John blearily glanced around the floor, finding the bottle and clumsily handed it to Adelaide. "Toss me another packet of crisps, yeah?"

Adelaide sat up from where she was reclined on John's bed and threw a bag of Monster Munch, hitting John squarely on the head.

"Oi!" he said indignantly as she laughed.

"So," Adelaide said a moment later after her laughter had died off. "Professor Skeleton has a nice arse? I never would've thought, given how bony and lanky he is."

"Mmmmm," repeated John, sounding like a starving man regarding a banquet of his favourite food. "It s'lovely. So lovely and I let it slip right through my fingers. What was I thinking?" he bemoaned clutching at his head in misery.

"You were thinking with your brain instead of your cock, which was very smart of you. Or stupid? I'm not sure which…"

"Both," replied John. "Where's that bottle?" He scooted across the floor until he was leaning with his back against the side of his bed. Adelaide dropped the whiskey into his lap. John unscrewed the cap and took a swig straight from the bottle, wiping the mouth of it with the hem of his t-shirt before passing it back up to Adelaide.

"The thing is, Addie, I don't know what I expect to happen when I see him again. What if things change before I get home? What if he meets someone? We didn't make any kind of promise."

Adelaide made a sympathetic noise and dropped a drink-clumsy hand down to pat John's head. "John-o," she sighed. "You obviously are nuts about him. You'll just have to hope that your affection will still be there when you see him again. If it's meant to be something, then it'll work out."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," she confirmed, emphatically. "Honestly, why are you men such babies about your feelings? Why didn't you tell him these things? Tell him how you're feeling? Tell him that you miss him and that you can't wait to see him in December? Tell him you hope that he'll let you rub yourself all over him, and preferably without clothes."

"But what if—"

"Augh! Enough! Now listen you to me, John Watson." Adelaide stood up from the bed, marched over and planted her feet in front of John. Her slight sway and the watery-eyed look John gave her as he craned his face up to regard her the only giveaways to the fact that this was not a sober conversation.

"I am happy to play agony aunt for you from now until December," she continued. "I'll listen to you moan about himself and his perfect arse. I don't mind living vicariously through your epic romance of the century. But take my advice, please, and tell that man that you're absolutely gone on him. It'll make us all feel better."

"All right," John acquiesced.

"Good. You can't mope around here for the next four months and expect us all to put up with it. We have work to do and people to help without you being all Heathcliff on the moors from now until the holidays."

"You're right."

"I know I am," she concluded with a nod and settled down on the floor next to John, both of them leaning up against John's bed. "I'll allow you tonight to wallow, and tomorrow to recover, and then I expect you to go back to saving lives tomorrow evening, or rather, tonight. What time is it?" John's watch told them it was half two in morning.

"One more nip from the bottle and then I'm going to my own room to sleep." She took the bottle, saluting John with it. "To you and your fine-arsed true love!"

John, rolling his eyes, took his turn and drank to Sherlock's arse. For a moment, he and Adelaide leaned against each other in companionable silence.

"You're a good friend, Addie," hiccupped John.

"Ugh," Adelaide laughed. "If we're getting to the sad confessions portion of the evening, then I'm leaving. Up!" She stood, and grasping John's hands, helped him to his feet. "Go and brush your teeth. You'll thank me in the morning."

As John prepped for bed, Adelaide cleaned up the party. She turned her back as he undressed to his pants and vest.

"Sorry I'm such a soppy drunk," mumbled John as he climbed into bed. "Harry – my sister – she's the fun drunk of the family."

"S'alright," replied Adelaide as she set a bottle of water and a packet of two paracetamol on his bedside cupboard. "You're allowed to be soppy until the start of your shift tonight. Then I want John Watson, super M.D., back in place." She helped John twitch his mosquito curtains in place.

"See you later, doc," she called softly from the door. She supposed John's snore could be interpreted for a "Thanks for everything," or a "Goodnight!" of sorts.

26 August, 2:33 GMT

Baker Street, London, United Kingdom

A plane ride, several layovers, and a taxi away, Sherlock Holmes let himself into his stuffy flat. London was hot – hotter than Rwanda had been sixteen hours ago – and sticky. Sherlock was already dreaming of the cool and sterile air of his lab at UCL. But that relief would have to wait. After dropping his messenger bag on the coffee table and wheeling his suitcase into the back bedroom, Sherlock turned into the kitchen and filled the kettle. As he stood waiting for it to boil, Sherlock let his exhaustion and the buzzing of his brain spin out, filling the room with its white noise. It was hardly uncommon for him still be awake in these early morning hours, but between the long day of travel, the heat, and the miasma of emotions that filled his gut, Sherlock wanted nothing more than a cup of tea, a cold shower, and his bed. No doubt tomorrow was going to be an equally long day; he was surprised not to have heard from Mycroft by now. Aside from the demands of his family and his job, he had several messages on his mobile from DS Donovan begging for him to ring her when he got home. It was both gratifying to know how much he was needed here in London.

The kettle clicking off echoed loud in the empty flat. As he was filling his mug, his mobile rang. Sighing, he dug the phone from his pocket and confirmed his suspicions before answering.

"I really need sleep before I talk to you, Mycroft. Can't this wait until, well," he glanced at his watch. "The later morning?" Sherlock picked up his tea and carried it into the bathroom, setting it on the sink and sitting down on the lid of the toilet.

"Welcome home, little brother. I too have better things to be doing, so I'll be quick."

Sherlock toed off his trainers and tossed them across the hall through his open bedroom door. Without standing, he reached into the shower and turned the spray on. "Yes, I suppose running the country is a 24-hour job, isn't it? How ever do you manage it?"

"I do my best, Sherlock." Mycroft barrelled on. "Mummy arrived in town yesterday in anticipation of your return. She and I are taking tea tomorrow at the Ritz. 2pm. You'll be there."

It wasn't really a question, but with Mummy of Mycroft, it never was. "Yes, yes. I'll be there."

"Splendid. I'll ring off now. Good night, Sherlock."

Disconnecting the call, he tossed his mobile after his shoes, stripped, and climbed under the cool water. Feeling the grime and sweat of travel wash off him, Sherlock rested his head against the shower wall. He thought back to that morning, the way his heart and stomach had leapt when he heard John cry out. He thought about the feel of John's mouth against his, of the satisfaction of giving into temptation, brief as the kiss was. He thought of the feeling of the nape of John's neck under his hand, and the simple rightness of that moment; standing in the middle of a field, kissing John under the rising African sun. Shivering under the cool water of his shower, he thought of those few minutes, set in the context of the over seventeen million minutes of his life so far, and he ached.