A/N: Thanks for being so patient, guys! These past two weeks have been a blur of college apps and holiday chaos, so it's a relief t finally have a bit of time to get back to writing. I had a blast wiring this chapter, so I hope you guys like it too! Let me know what you think in the comments, your feedback means the world!

Enjoy!

The White Camellia symbolizes the deep, rich longing that often accompanies first love. Unlike the Bleeding Heart flower, which embodies painful unrequited love, the Camellia represents a sweet yearning that is filled with hope.

…

When John finally came back after those excruciating seven days, the garden around Sherlock seemed to burst with renewed color and life. Suddenly, the bees looked healthier, the roses appeared brighter, and the air smelled sweet with fragrant flowers and honey, as if nature's perfume was amplified by John's presence.

"So," John said, as they made their way around the garden, "you met Harry."

"I did."

John raised a brow at him, a faint smile playing on his features. "Thoughts?"

Sherlock took a breath, readying himself for a rather long reply. "Well, first of all, I can understand why the two of you butt heads quite often. She is unpredictable and wild, while you, in contrast, are steady and controlled. She frustrates you because she doesn't listen to you, and you frustrate her because you try to order her around. In short," he concluded, "you're both quite stubborn."

He wondered, briefly, if John would be offended by what he'd just said, but when he looked back at him, Sherlock realized he was smiling. Well, not quite smiling—it was more of a rueful grimace, but there was good humor shining in his eyes, so Sherlock wasn't worried.

"You're not wrong," John said. "Stubbornness runs in the family, I'm afraid."

"I also noticed that you two share several features," Sherlock continued. While this was true, he was really only pointing it out so he'd have an excuse to scrutinize John's face for a bit longer than usual. "Your eye color is the same, and you both have a strong jaw."

John didn't flinch under Sherlock's lingering gaze. "I suppose. But her hair is brown, you know. Plus, she has freckles and I don't."

"That's true," Sherlock conceded. "But you're also quite similar in stature."

John raised a brow, catching the insinuation. "Would you care to elaborate on that?"

Sherlock indulged in a wry smirk. "You're both rather short, is what I meant."

"Oi! Just because you're bloody ten feet tall, doesn't mean the rest of the world is short."

Sherlock turned his face towards the sun and smiled. "Six feet tall, John, not ten."

"Either way, you're still a giant. And I'll have you know that despite my 'stature', I can still kick arse if need be."

Sherlock didn't doubt that. John's strength was actually one of the first things Sherlock noticed about him. Buried beneath those cable knit jumpers and sensible trousers, was a powerful, brawny soldier who could probably haul Sherlock over his shoulder with ease if he wanted to.

"Yes, I'm well aware John."

"Anyway," John said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "Harry said that she likes you."

Sherlock raised a brow. "Really?"

John chuckled. "Yeah. And she also described you as 'strangely pretty'."

"The first part of that phrase makes sense," Sherlock said after a moment of consideration. He'd always known that he was strange-looking—his eyes were too pale, his cheekbones too pronounced, and his mouth too unequally proportioned. He'd come to accept it a long time ago. The only thing that gave him pause was the 'pretty' part. Sherlock was quite certain nothing about his appearance qualified as such.

John, however, looked baffled. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock sighed. "There's no need to coddle me, John, I know how I look, and it's fine. It's my mind that I truly value, anyway."

"Whoa, okay, wait just a minute," John said, coming to a halt on the path. Sherlock stopped too. "First of all, when Harry said 'strangely pretty', she just meant that she thinks you're very handsome and finds it strange, because she's attracted to women. And secondly, how on earth do you think you look strange?"

This was quickly becoming a very odd, very uncomfortable interaction. "Well, do I need to spell it out John? My features are a bit—" he tried to dredge up some of the adjectives that he'd heard in the past, "—alien. Long face, overly large bottom lip, sharp, protruding bone structure, etcetera. None of it is…pretty." His face felt hot, embarrassment spilling through him like a flood. He hadn't spoken this extensively about his physical appearance in ages.

John was quiet for a long time, but his blue eyes kept trailing over Sherlock's face in search of something. Finally, he just shook his head and sighed.

"You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" This was the first time in a long time that Sherlock had felt this lost during a conversation, and he didn't like it one bit.

John looked at him for a moment longer, his gaze softening, before he cleared his throat and turned his gaze back to the flowers. "Never mind."

…

As they continued talking and wandering about the garden, Sherlock debated whether or not he should tell John how desperately he'd missed him. It seemed like a tactless move, but for some reason, Sherlock felt that John needed to know just how important he was to Sherlock.

Right when he was considering how to stray from their discussion of strange dreams, John stopped in the middle of speaking and turned to him. "Sherlock, I know this may come across as a bit clingy, but this past week was absolutely terrible." He paused, catching Sherlock's eyes and then immediately glancing away. "And the reason it was terrible, was because I couldn't see you."

Sherlock halted. There was no way John just said what Sherlock thought he just said. "Pardon?"

John rubbed the back of his neck. "I missed you."

Sherlock stared at him in shock for several long moments and John stared back, looking more unsure of himself by the minute, until he eventually backtracked entirely. "Right, yeah, that was too much, wasn't it? I mean, we've only know each other for a month, I shouldn't have said anything, clearly I'm taking this farther than it—"

"I missed you too, John," Sherlock blurted out, hardly registering the words before they left his mouth.

John looked at him in surprise, his eyes filled with tentative hope. "You did?"

"Yes."

Sherlock wanted to keep going. He wanted to say, "I couldn't sleep properly all week. It seemed as though the entire world was painted in shades of grey."

He wanted to say, "I missed you desperately every single second and I don't care that we've only know each other for a month, because it feels like it's been a lifetime."

He wanted to say, "You are my new addiction, John. You are what I crave, what I want, what I need."

He wanted to say, "I've never felt like this about anyone and I don't know what to do because I'm afraid you might leave."

However, even Sherlock recognized that it was far too soon in their friendship to say such things, so he held his tongue.

"Oh," John said after a moment. He blinked several times. "That's really—good. Er, to know, I mean. Good to know."

John seemed pleased by his answer: color was high on his cheeks and his dark blue eyes seemed to be sparkling. The fact that Sherlock was the cause of this made his heart sing; he liked being the reason for John's happiness.

While John went back to placidly admiring the roses, Sherlock dazedly mulled over the fact that John had missed him. He'd actually missed Sherlock's presence, despite Sherlock's brusqueness and complete social ineptitude. Despite his awkward missteps and blunt outbursts. Despite his random bouts of pride and strange proclivities.

John had missed him.

"You look rather chipper this morning," Dr. Ford noted the next day. "Any particular reason?"

Sherlock tried to contain the ridiculous smile that was threatening to break across his face. "I learned some rather interesting information yesterday afternoon."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Apparently, John missed me while he was away at work last week."

Dr. Ford clicked her pen. "And how does that make you feel?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Pleased." After a beat, he added, "Surprised, too."

"And why does it surprise you?"

"Well, no one has ever missed me before," Sherlock answered honestly. "My parents were quite relieved when I finally left the house for Uni and never made any effort to spend time with me after that. Mummy and I haven't spoken in a year, and my father and I haven't spoken in five. The few times my mother has attempted to 'bond' with me have been absolute nightmares."

"What about your brother?"

Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft was always pleased to have me out of his sight. I caused him great stress when we were in close proximity, because he would constantly fret over all the 'trouble' I would get myself into. However, unlike my parents, I don't think his intentions were spiteful or cruel."

"Friends, then?"

"Right, yes, because I'm clearly the kind of person who has a lot of friends," Sherlock deadpanned. "If you're referring to Victor Trevor, he just wanted to have sex with me and then move on. And if you're referring to Janice Wesley, she only pretended to be my friend so I would do her Chemistry homework for her. The only friend that I haven't come to loathe is John. And, coincidentally, he is also the first person to miss me."

"John sounds like a good man," she said, as she scribbled something down on her notepad.

"He is." Sherlock sighed and leaned back in the sofa. "Certainly too good for me."

"You shouldn't think like that, Sherlock. From what you've told me, I get the impression that John Watson likes you very much."

"I suppose," Sherlock said after a moment. "I just can't imagine why."

"I have a message to relay," Mycroft said the next evening, in his You Are Not Going To Like This tone. "And I would like you to keep an open mind when you hear it."

Sherlock frowned and tightened his grip on the receiver. "Mycroft, if this has anything to do with Mummy…"

"Open mind, Sherlock," Mycroft said tightly. "Please."

He exhaled harshly. "Fine. Just spit it out, already. No need to hold me in suspense."

"I spoke with Mummy the other day and she mentioned how nice it would be to see you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "And why on earth would she say that? We haven't spoken in a year."

"…I may have given her the impression that you'd met someone."

"You told her about John?" Sherlock hissed. "Why the bloody hell would you do that, Mycroft? You know how Mummy is!"

"Yes, I know, and I really didn't mean to mention anything, but I was telling her how you're doing much better at the clinic and of course she wanted to know why, so I simply said you'd made a friend." Mycroft sighed. "But Mummy is as sharp as a tack, unfortunately, so it took her less than a minute to deduce that you and John are far more than 'just friends'."

"Mycroft," Sherlock said slowly. "Do you realize what you've done?"

"I know, Sherlock, it was a rather large oversight on my part. I shouldn't have said anything."

Sherlock groaned and let his head fall back against the wall. "She's going to be visiting me soon, isn't she?"

"Now, Sherlock, as I told you before, you should really keep an open mi—"

"Yes or no, Mycroft!?"

There was a long beat of silence, before Mycroft begrudgingly answered, "Yes."

Sherlock put his head in his hands in defeat, nearly dropping the phone in the process. "This is your bloody fault, so why must I reap the consequences?"

"Well, you can take comfort in the fact that you won't be dealing with her alone, Sherlock," Mycroft said grimly. "She plans on checking you out so the three of us may go out to dinner and 'catch up'."

"That sounds terrible."

"Yes, I know, but we still have to go."

"Why? She's just going to sit there and complain about the food and criticize me for two hours."

"I know Mummy is a bit…much at times," Mycroft amended, "but weren't you the one who told me that it is important to forgive family, no matter what they have done?"

Sherlock glared at the floor, annoyed that his own words were being thrown back at him like this. "I did say that there were exceptions to that rule if the family member in question has done something egregious."

"Yes, but the worst crime Mummy has committed is being judgmental and nosy. That's hardly enough of a reason to estrange her, Sherlock."

He supposed Mycroft had a point, though he had no intention of admitting it. "Fine," he exhaled. "What day is she planning on visiting?"

"Sometime in the near future, she said. You know how she is, Sherlock. She likes to catch us by surprise."

"Yes, it's one of her most cherished traits," Sherlock muttered.

"Have you ever made lists?" Sherlock asked John the next day, drumming his fingers absently on the cover of the journal.

"Yes," John answered. "I've always found writing quite soothing. Sometimes, when things get particularly difficult, I sit down and write all the good things I have in my life, so I can remember there are still reasons to get up in the morning."

Sherlock nodded. "I've had to do that several times during my stay here. The patients were dull and the staff members were too cheery, and it was the only thing I found even slightly enjoyable—before meeting you, of course."

John smiled and leaned his shoulder into Sherlock's. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to know if you'd like to make one right now?"

Sherlock knew it was an odd request, but he could not fight the desire to have some small, concrete piece of John captured forever within the pages of his journal. Even just a scrap of John's handwriting was precious, and to have it immortalized alongside his own would be a treasure.

"Sure," John agreed. "I'll write mine on one page and you can write yours on the other one. Then when we're done, we'll read each other's."

"Brilliant." Sherlock fell in love with the idea even more when John scooted closer to him so that their bodies were pressed together from shoulder to elbow. He flipped the book open and rested it on his knee, offering one side to John and taking the other for himself. John shielded his page with his flattened palm so Sherlock couldn't see what he was writing.

Good things (today)

Fair weather for carpenter bees

John is here

The sky is the color of John's eyes

Today's breakfast was mostly edible

Therapy is no longer unbearable

John and Harry have made up (for now)

Mycroft hasn't called with news of Mummy (yet)

John likes my (plum-colored, not purple!) shirt

"Done," Sherlock announced, placing his pen down on the bench.

John finished jotting something down and then placed his pen aside too. He kept his hand covering his page. "Tell you what, you can read mine later tonight, alright?"

"Why?"

"Just read it later, okay?"

Excitement and curiosity bubbled in his veins—he loved and hated being held in suspense. "Okay."

…

"Would you like my phone number?" Sherlock asked later that afternoon. John looked at Sherlock in surprise.

"Oh. Er, would you like to give it to me?"

Sherlock's hands felt unaccountably clammy, all of a sudden. Was it a mistake bringing this up? "I wouldn't be opposed to it. Would…would you mind receiving it?"

"I wouldn't. Mind, I mean," John corrected quickly. "I, er, in fact think I might like it."

"I think I might like it too. Very much."

There was a beat of awkward silence.

John cleared his throat. "So, your number then?"

"Ah. Right. Yes, here, I've written it down already," Sherlock said, handing over the scrap of notebook paper he'd spent all morning working on. It was quite difficult to seem perfectly casual while simultaneously appearing interested, but he was quite confident that he'd managed to do so; he'd smudged his handwriting in order to seem nonchalant and tore the paper's edge so that it looked hastily removed instead of carefully perforated. He hadn't stopped to realize that perhaps the fact that he'd written it beforehand gave away his enthusiasm.

"They only let us use the phones from three to six, but anytime in between is perfect," he told John.

John looked at the piece of paper as if it were gold. "I'll call you tomorrow night, okay? I get off my shift at five so I'll ring you as soon as I get home."

"Good," Sherlock exhaled, trying to ignore the excited patter of his heart in his chest.

"Good," John replied in turn, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

…

Later that night, Sherlock curled up in bed and finally opened his journal to John's entry. John's handwriting had a lot of looping curves and sweeping lines to it; it reminded Sherlock of a mix between a doctor's stereotypically messy scrawl and the bold, artistic lines of a a professor's cursive. He couldn't stop staring at it.

Things I am pleased with today

Harry decided that she was being unreasonable and apologized

Nice weather

Sherlock is wearing that lovely purple shirt again

Only three hypochondriacs at the clinic this morning

New Beginnings's cafeteria is slowly learning how to prepare drinkable coffee—no more tar-like sludge!

The bit about his shirt was quite flattering, but it was nothing in comparison to the final bullet point. As Sherlock read (and reread) the lines at the bottom of the page, his face went pink and his heart suddenly felt too big for his chest.

Sherlock's eyes are an incredible grayish-bluish color. There isn't a lot to say on the subject, I just want him to know that I think they are very pretty and I like looking at them. I suppose I could say that about all of him, really. Despite the fact that he clearly does not know this about himself, I think he's gorgeous.

A/N: *sigh* I love writing about these two dorks. Thanks so much for reading, everyone, and don't forget to let me know what you think in the comments!

Until next time! :)

(Also, guys, the special airs tomorrow! *heavy breathing* *flailing* IT'S NEARLY HERE, I'M SO EXCITED.)