A/N:

Sorry for the Hiatus, I intended to finish and post this chapter much sooner, but I had some problems with it and didn't want to post it until I was satisfied.. No further ado, on with the chapter!

„I've missed you, John."

Somehow he had anticipated this. Somehow he'd known that Sherlock would play this card, but it didn't help to avoid the conflicts that appeared in his mind at hearing these words. So much relief at seeing that the silent, controlled vigilante that had so suddenly reappeared before him was still human underneath the strong façade, still insecure about elemental parts of human interaction, something John knew and recognized about Sherlock. But that relief was contrasting heavily with an instant feeling of suspicion. Wasn't this just another mask, donned to manipulate him? God knew it wouldn't be the first time.

John concentrated very hard to read Sherlock's face, but that sad smile had disappeared almost instantly and his expression was once again a fortress of aloof observation. Bloody typical, this sort of mind game. Feeding John a small glimpse of his vulnerable side, only to retreat the very next instant, leaving him confused and aching. Like now. He felt a surge of justified rage rushing through his mind as he replayed the many times Sherlock had done and said something similar, and just like that, John's infamous temper rose and the dazed hurt he had been feeling since waking up from his involuntary slumber transformed into anger.

"You've missed me." He spoke this quietly, but he could tell that his expression must've been thunderous for the subtle apprehension in Sherlock's eyes. Seemed the arrogant git hadn't expected John to be angry at his admission. Well, he was in for a fucking surprise.

"So you've missed me. That's a marvel. And why exactly are you telling me this, right now? And how exactly am I supposed to believe you?" He knew that he was starting to raise his voice, but damn it, Sherlock deserved any shouting he was going to get. Sherlock, who made the last two years a living hell for him, not to mention the fucking insecurity of never knowing for sure. Never knowing if he was really, truly gone. Never knowing if he had ever really been here at all, tangible and real, friend and flatmate, or just a persona, a mask on top of another mask.

"I've always trusted you, and you've always, always made me feel like a fool for it." John couldn't help but think of Molly at this, the sound of her voice, shaken, on a Christmas eve years past. Always, always.

"You've told me I was your only friend. I believed you. You've told me to believe in you. Against any odds, I did. And I thought that to some extent, you believed in me as well, because that's what friends do, not that you would know. Not that you would feel it. You've probably disabled that function in your own system, convincing yourself that you're so bloody exceptional you could just choose to erase everything and anything that interferes with your analytical side, deleting away with abandon, leaving all those who gave their time and devotion to you locked out. It's so fucking unfair and you are so bloody righteous about it that it makes me sick."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John just waltzed over him, by now too overwhelmed by everything – memory and present time alike – to give a damn about his input.

"And I always thought that even though you were able to willingly forget things like the solar system, even you couldn't truly delete emotion and affection; I thought I knew you better than most people. I thought I truly knew you, the person behind the genius, and I thought you were a good man and a troubled human being and that you were actually hurting when people would call you emotionless or freak or whatever the hell else their jealousy would make them say. And then you died, and I grieved and blamed myself and I couldn't do a damn thing. So many months I staid in denial, always thinking you'd come back with some thrilling explanation and a plan for us to stop Moriarty for good."

John took a deep breath and made sure to look Sherlock in the eyes for the next bit because it was somehow indispensable that Sherlock understood this part, understood what he had done to him.

"But you didn't. You let me grieve. And let me tell you, I grieved like a fucking champion. I've never grieved this hard in my life, and I've lost so many people before I met you. But you already know that, don't you? I'm actually sure", he could almost swear he saw a red tinge on the edge of his vision at this point, "that you've kept track of me, knew about my... about what I was going through and still you wouldn't do anything to let me know..."

John was grasping for words then, which was strange since just a moment ago they'd seemed never-ending, pouring out of his mouth like blood gushing from superficial head wounds, and Sherlock (the familiar face now definitely framed in red to John's eyes) seized the opportunity to speak up.

"I wanted to. But initiating contact would have left you vulnerable again, I couldn't be sure that you wouldn't start behaving differently, getting Moriarty's agents on your track again...", Sherlock looked startled for a moment, like he was going to say something completely different, and John could almost hear the slide of a mask slipped back on as Sherlock's mouth twisted in a dishonest, huge smile. "What with you wearing your emotions on your face like that, John, it's always been an impedi-"

The sentence was cut off rather abruptly when John's fist collided with Sherlock's jaw. Funny, John hadn't even noticed that he had crossed the short distance between them until that satisfying, hard crack of knuckles against bone. Unintended, John now wore a smile that was eerily rather similar to the one of the consulting detective just seconds ago, similar in the dishonesty, hiding pain in plain sight.

"Don't you try act like you don't know about emotion, Sherlock. Don't you dare lie to me again just now. You know damn well that you've hurt me, and you will admit it, even if I have to beat it out of you-" And his voice evaporated with the intensity of his anger at Sherlock's response, somewhat slurred as he pressed his right hand against the broken tissue of his lower lip.

"Do it, then, since you obviously can't help it. This is exactly why I continue to choose reason over sentiment, John... It's the end of all self-control."

John was loathe to prove him right. That didn't keep him from tackling the arrogant sod, resulting in Sherlock falling sideways from the leather chair. John was kneeling over him now, fist raised (when did that happen?) and ready to smack into Sherlock's face again, when he realized that Sherlock was neither struggling or even bracing himself against the hit. On the contrary, he was just looking up at John with a vacant expression, betraying the mocking smirk that had accompanied his last sentence just seconds ago.

A heartbeat passed with neither of them saying a word, Sherlock still staring at (or rather through) John like someone thrust into unknown waters, and then John suddenly understood what Sherlock was trying to do. Another beat of silence, then he let go of Sherlock and sat back on his heels. Their impact on the rug had sent the dust flying again, and the white particles were gleaming in the light of the street lamps, a startling contrast to the dark in Sherlock's eyes. A darkness John recognized, both from himself and the man who had been his best friend two years ago (and never really stopped being exactly that, John belatedly realized).

"And you'd let me, huh? I bet you think you're doing me a big favour right now, keeping your thoughts to yourself. Because that's how it's always been with us, hasn't it? You would claim that you have no emotions, and I would play along with it and let out twice as much as one person should need to. But you know what, Sherlock? It's always been rather pointless, you taking this route. Because I knew you then, and I sure as hell know you now, no matter how long it's been and how much I might like to rip your bloody head off just now."

A split-second expression of surprise at being caught appeared on Sherlock's face at this declaration, erased again very quickly, but John knew he hadn't imagined it at all.

"...so what route would you suggest to take, then?", Sherlock asked quietly and sat up as well, both of them seated on the rug now.

"The only one there is, actually", John answered. "The only one I've ever taken."

The last part of the sentence was left unspoken. Towards you. But their sound was obsolete as he reached out a hand toward those unsure liar's eyes.

**** TBC ****

A/N:

Still not kissing, damn! But we're getting there... eventually...