A/N: I'm sorry about this poor excuse for a chapter I just wanted to put something up before I went away. So... here you go. And I'm sorry if the characters are OOC. I tried.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or its characters.

Chapter Six:

John paced his kitchen, waiting for the phone call that could deliver him his dream, or crush it mercilessly. It had been over a week since the fight between himself and Sherlock. John's anger had faded quite quickly, but he was determined not to be the one to apologise. It was a point of pride. Sherlock seemed to have chosen a similar route to John, though there were moments where the latter would catch sight of a cloak disappearing round a corner or the lens of a camera flashing in the sunlight. Sometimes John would walk into his lounge room and know, without any physical proof, that Sherlock had been there. He wasn't sure what it was, nothing was ever missing or moved, but something gave away the detective's presence. The phone rang, cutting short John's thoughts and nearly startling him off his feet. He answered it with a breathless, "Hello, Jon Watson speaking."

"Mr Watson, this is Miss Danvers, from the enlistment office?"

"Oh, yes? How are you?" John replied, remembering Miss Danvers quite vividly.

"I'm fine, thank you. I'm just calling to inform you that you have passed your physical examination and you will be required to come in tomorrow morning at ten to fill in the final forms. Will this be acceptable?"

"Yes, yes, that would be perfect!" John said, barely containing his excitement. "I'll be there ten sharp, Miss Danvers. Thank you!"

"Good luck, Mr Watson." And with that, Miss Danvers hung up. John put down the phone, looking as though he might burst into song at any moment. As it was, he decided the news called for some tea and biscuits. Sticking his head in the pantry, he searched for his favourite tea (a very nice kind he had gotten for Christmas) and some chocolate biscuits he only ate on occasion.

"Good news, I take it?" A voice asked.

"Holy- Ouch!" John shouted, bolting upright and smacking his head on the pantry shelf. "Sherlock!"

"Yes, hello, John." Sherlock said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "So, good news?"

"How did you- Never mind, I don't care right now." John said quickly, pulling out the tea and biscuits and continuing with his celebration brunch. "Tea?"

"Yes, thank you. One sugar, no milk."

John hummed, pulling out two mugs. "And yes, it is good news. I passed my physical."

"Of course you did. You are a healthy, energetic, fit young man, after all."

"Are you flirting with me?" John asked, eyebrow raised.

"Not at all. I'm just complimenting you."

"You're practically purring, Sherlock. Stop it."

"I'm happy for you, John. Isn't that appropriate?"

"But you're not happy for me." John replied. "You hate the idea of me going to war."

"And when I expressed that opinion, you got angry with me." Sherlock said evenly. "So, now I am expressing positive emotions. Isn't that better?"

"Not when I know you're being insincere." John said, setting Sherlock's tea in front of him. "Now, why are you here?"

"I came to… apologise. It was rude of me to go behind your back and invade your privacy. I assure you, John, I wasn't being malicious. I simply wanted to know why you were rejecting me despite our mutual attraction." Sherlock murmured.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not-"

"John. Please. You're about to go to war… and it may sound sentimental, pathetic even, but… I'm going to miss you." Sherlock sighed, getting to his feet. "I've never wanted anyone like this. I've never wanted to hold someone, cuddle them at dawn, and kiss their forehead… It's a strange feeling. And right now, it hurts."

"Sherlock, I… I can't. I just- It's… I'm sorry, Sherlock, I am." John said quietly, moving back to the kitchen counter.

"You couldn't even try?"

"I- I can't, Sherlock."

There was silence, tense but fragile, that encompassed the entire room. Sherlock's perceptive eyes never strayed from John's face, while the latter did everything he could to avoid looking at the man. John shook slightly, though his face remained impassive, hands clenched. He focused on his breathing, eyes closed, and let himself relax. In, pause, out, pause. In, pause, out, pause. His mind so occupied with an automatic process, he didn't notice his personal space being invaded until the scent of cigarettes and chemicals and something sickly sweet overpowered him. Turning around slowly, he was met with a startlingly close Sherlock, and his eyes slammed shut in response.

"John, I swear to whichever god you believe in that I will never hurt you." Sherlock whispered, his breath tickling John's lips.

"What if I don't believe in any type of god?" John replied, his mind screaming at him to run and fight and kiss Sherlock.

"Then I swear on my life and my heart and my intelligence. I want you to be mine, John. I want someone, but not just anyone, so I don't feel so- so it won't hurt anymore."

"So what won't hurt anymore?"

"That part of me that craves a human touch. The part that, no matter how deep I bury it, crawls back to the surface." Sherlock said, leaning an inch closer. "It's the part of me that's fascinated by you, enraptured by you, totally and irrevocably captured by you. It won't let me focus, John, unless you're by my side. I need you."

"I'm sorry. I just can't… not now."

"You don't have to kiss me. We don't ever have to have sex or anything like that. You can date women and marry them if you want. All you have to do is stay with me."

"Sherlock, please, just let me think." John breathed. "Just step back a bit please."

"Will you think about it? Will you at least consider it?"

"I will just let me think."

"I- When you decide, call me. Or text me." Sherlock said, backing away. "Whichever one you're comfortable with."

After Sherlock left, John let out a shaky breath and moved to the table, his legs seemingly replaced with jelly. He rested his head in his hands, wondering what the appropriate response would be. Sherlock had sounded so desperate, so needy. He said he needed John. But feeling quickly flooded back into John's limbs, replacing the confusion and fear. There were things he needed to arrange. He could sort everything else out later. He could sort out his feelings for Sherlock later. If he had any, that is. He wasn't some quivering teenager; he could handle this. Getting to his feet, he poured the cold tea down the sink and pulled out his address book, fingers already flying over the dial pad. It was time to get to business.