As Sherlock was roused, he hurriedly sat up, pulling his knees to his chest. He fidgeted with his dressing gown, trying to conceal the dream-induced erection.

As John came down the stairs, he wasn't surprised to see Sherlock was still up, it was as if the man never slept more than 3 hours a day anyway. John stood there a moment and glared at Sherlock who was simply looking forward, a bored expression on his face.

John entered the kitchen in a huff. Upstairs, after his tears had stopped flowing, anger had kicked in. Normally after dreams of Afghanistan John was mad at himself, but this time he had someone else to direct his anger at. He wanted to yell at Sherlock, but he wasn't exactly sure what he wanted to say. He was angry at Sherlock. Maybe he was being illogical, but he didn't give a damn. He felt his blood boiling, and the longer he stood there, the angrier he got.

"Bloody hell," he muttered and then stomped back into the living room where Sherlock still sat perched on the couch.

"You're a bloody idiot you know!" John yelled, causing Sherlock to jump slightly.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock blinked slowly at John, trying to comprehend the meaning of his statement and the source of his anger.

"I said, you're a bloody idiot," John repeated once more, this time a bit more calmly.

"That's odd. Your usual opinions of me are 'brilliant', 'fascinating,' and 'genius.' Why the sudden change?" Sherlock's face was expressionless, he was so practiced at reading people that he was able to make it so that no one could read him. This was one of Sherlock's habits that both impressed and infuriated John.

"Yes. But every single time you throw yourself in harm's way, I think less and less of you. I've often wondered if you're plain suicidal!"

"John, I always meet my goals. If suicide was among them, I would be dead already. Do you doubt that? Why are you still upset about this anyway?"

"Why wouldn't I be? I've been shot Sherlock. I know what it's like." John gestured to his shoulder, shuddering slightly as he did so. "It almost happened to you tonight. You could have been hurt, paralyzed, or killed!" He was pointing accusingly at Sherlock, whose eyebrows raised ever so slightly. "I don't care how many times I've seen a bullet wound before, I don't want to see one in you." John was breathing hard. He shoulder was aching, psychosomatic chimed in Sherlock's voice in his head.

"John, that man wasn't a very good shot. I would have been a difficult target to an experienced shooter, to him I was a nearly impossible shot. If he would have actually been able to hit me, it would more than likely have been in a non-fatal area of my body. Since there was a doctor present, you obviously, I could easily have been patched up. I calculated my odds of survival versus the necessity of capturing our man, and I liked my chances."

"You think that just because I was there, I could have kept you from dying?" The color drained from John's face. In his mind he could still see the war-torn Sherlock from his nightmare. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Yes John. I believe that you would have saved me." Silence. Both men were tense. John clenched and unclenched his fist while trying to think of how best to respond to this. Sherlock tried in vain to escape into his mind palace to find some sort of information that could help him identify these strange new... what was the thing I don't have? Ah yes feelings.

"And what if I couldn't Sherlock!" John finally bellowed, slamming the door of Sherlock's mind palace closed, and probably waking poor Mrs. Hudson downstairs. He'd never heard himself yell so loud before. His whole body shook with rage and fear and longing. He stared at Sherlock's pale blue eyes, but as he glared he noticed those eyes start to look anywhere but John's own gaze.

"You'd be able to," Sherlock voiced in a whisper, casting his eyes downward.

"You can't possibly know that?" John lowered his voice purposefully. "Do you know how many people I couldn't save in the war Sherlock? How many people have died on my table? In my care? I could go back to meatball surgery, I really could. But I can't go there with you." John ran his hand over his face and stayed quiet for a moment. "I refuse to watch you die." John saw Sherlock start to open his mouth, but before he had a chance John yelled, "I won't!" Sherlock peeked up at John through his soft curls that had fallen down over his face.

"Why is it that you only feel this way about me?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John stayed quiet for quite some time. Finally he sighed heavily and hung his head. "I don't know. You are brilliant, and funny, and a good person. I like you Sherlock. I like living with you, and working on cases with you. I like your mess and your crazy experiments, and I like the way you play violin. I don't want to lose those things." John felt a hard lump growing in his throat. The thought of Sherlock leaving his life caused pinpricks in the backs of his eyes, threatening to force more tears to flow down his cheeks.

Sherlock's mind was surveying at triple its normal speed. He could hear the clock ticking on the mantle, he could see the faint glow of impending sunrise out of the window behind John, he could smell his most recent experiment rotting away in the kitchen. He was also taking mental notes of his own body. Elevated heart rate. Heightened light sensitivity meaning dilated pupils. Warmth of cheeks, possibly leading to a reddened colour. Muscle fatigue in lower legs causing shaking of the knees. Shallowed breathing. What diagnoses fit this category? Several options seemed to pop up in Sherlock's line of sight, but each of them was a definition of a human emotional state, mostly along the lines of affection, attraction, passion, and love.

That can't be right, Sherlock thought. But as he opened the room in his mind palace devoted to John, he retrieved some of the thoughts he'd tried to bury but was unable to do so. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Sherlock unfolded himself from his seated position on the couch. His knees shook slightly under his weight, but he crossed quickly to where John was standing. When there was only a few inches between them, Sherlock stopped, hesitating for a fraction of a second. The he pushed forward, wrapped his arms around John and pressed his lips hard against John's. It was a closed mouth kiss, but John didn't resist, and Sherlock wasn't persistent.

Sherlock pulled back and stood away from John, waiting for a reaction. Finally, John looked up at Sherlock and smiled. He shook his head slowly and then said "Sherlock, if you die, I'll kill you," before pulling Sherlock back in for another kiss.

Author's note:

So I updated this chapter because I edited a bit and added some stuff. My boyfriend's comments have been really helpful, and I think I need to take his advice about expanding more on details, especially where Sherlock's thoughts are concerned. I might come back and re-edit this again, so please bear with me as I try to write to the best of my ability. Thanks again for reading.