John burst into the flat an hour later, breathless and drenched from the rain. He stood stock still in the doorway, breathing heavily as Sherlock stared at him in shock. He glanced around the room, then let his eyes lock with his friend's as he said "I broke up with Mary."

Sherlock said nothing, just continued to gape at the dripping John, who was gasping as though he had run all the way home. His wet hair was plastered to his forehead as he shivered. "I'm going to get a shower," he announced, and walked into the bathroom.

Sherlock waited until he heard the shower turn on and the water to start flowing, then he leapt out of his seat and snuck into the bathroom. Silently, he opened the door, careful to make sure that John hadn't heard its movements before sliding around the door. John's clothes lay in a pile on the floor by the bath, waiting for John to put them back on. They weren't as wet as Sherlock had expected when he picked them up. Only the coat and the jeans seemed to have suffered, whilst his shirt and underwear were bone dry.

Not waiting for John to catch him, Sherlock hurried from the bathroom and threw John's clothes into his junk-filled, dirty bedroom before scurrying over to the sofa, where he waited, watching the door.

John emerged not ten minutes later wearing only a towel that was tied loosely around his midriff. His purple scar stood out prominently on his left shoulder as he glared accusingly at Sherlock, who sat with an expression of passive confidence on his face. "Sherlock," John said severely. "Where are my clothes?"

"I thought you hadn't taken any in with you," replied Sherlock innocently.

"I was wearing clothes when I went into the bathroom! Sherlock, what have you done with my clothes?" yelled John angrily.

"You don't need them."

John spluttered and suffocated as he shook his head with utter perplexity. "I… I need… I need my clothes… Sherlock!"

"No you don't."

"Give me my clothes back, Sherlock. Now."

"No."

John tilted his head back to look at the ceiling as he let out an enormous shaky breath, then dropped his gaze back to his flat-mate, whose eyes were obstinately staring back, undaunted. "Fine," John said finally. "I'll get some clothes from upstairs."

He left the flat, holding the knot of his towel tightly in his left hand as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock waited for the loud clomping footsteps to fade, then he pushed himself off the sofa, and followed John upstairs.

He surveyed John through the crack in the almost-closed door, absorbing the planes of his muscles as he pulled on a pair of cotton pants, having dropped his towel halfway across the room. Trousers quickly followed, but before he'd fastened the buckle of his belt, Sherlock's mouth was at his ear, whispering "I said you didn't need clothes."

John could feel the heat emanating from Sherlock's limbs as his body curved around his own, not touching, but very, very close. His voice got caught in the lump in his throat as he turned slowly, to find those bright eyes just inches from his own. "Sherlock, wh –"

"Did I ever tell you," Sherlock interrupted. "That I don't like to share."

John searched Sherlock's gaze frantically, his eyes flickering from each of Sherlock's, but his friend's remained fixed and steady. Fathomless, John's mind spoke as seconds passed.

Sherlock, after a slight, unnoticeable hesitation, leant down, placing his right hand on John's cheek as he pressed his lips to his companion's, feeling the softness of them for an instant before pulling back again, breathless, to see John's inevitable reaction.

His face was incredibly shocked. In fact, it surpassed any shock that had previously graced the world as John began to stammer as he attempted to force some legible words out of his tingling mouth. But Sherlock cut him off. "Now do you need clothes, John?"

His voice was so tempting, and John could only gape like a fish for a moment before replying. "Erm… Err… No. No, I don't."

"Then why are you still wearing them?"

There was a short burst of silence.

"Why are you?"

Sherlock's smile crept onto his face. "I have simply no idea." And then his long fingers began to move down the buttons of his shirt without taking his eyes off John.

As soon as the buttons were all unfastened, John stepped over in one swift movement, and slid the purple silk from the shoulders of the man who stood before him, reaching up, touching the white of his skin, sweeping his palms purposefully down his arms, forcing the shirt to fall to the ground, where it lay, abandoned.

Their mouths pressed together as John's hands attacked Sherlock's belt, drawing his hips towards him, closing the gap between their bodies. Sherlock gasped between breaths and kisses, wrapping his arms around John's back, pressing his fingers hard into him, pulling him closer, deepening their embrace as they tasted each other's lips with passion, and an unrelenting vigour. John's legs wrapped around Sherlock, causing them to crash down on the bed in a tangle of dark curls, scarred wrists and heartstrings. Sherlock pulled John's trousers down to his knees with his feet, and John kicked them off so that they lay crumpled at the end of the bed before causing the same fate for Sherlock's.

"John," Sherlock panted as John moved his mouth away from Sherlock's to clamp down upon his neck.

Forgetting everything, forgetting that three years had passed, forgetting all responsibilities, Sherlock's fingers slid into the waistband of John's cotton underwear, circling around to the back. John responded by arching his hips into Sherlock's, begging him to go on, begging for all this separation between them to end –

"Sherlock! John!" Mrs Hudson shouted up the stairs. "Your brother's here, Sherlock!"

John's arms were empty in an instant as Sherlock leapt out of them and back into his trousers, slinging his shirt on in great haste as he swept out of the room without a pause or a backwards glance. John was left in the bed, very nearly naked and with a dumbfounded expression carved as wrinkles into his forehead. The brief departure had stunned him, but then with a grunt he hauled himself up and dragged his trousers on, pulling his striped jumper over his head as he followed Sherlock down to 221B.

Mrs Hudson frowned strangely as John came into view, bemused at first, then in a way that insinuated that maybe she had obtained some odd ideas about what they'd both been doing upstairs. Mycroft's face was twisted into a knowing sneer as he observed the way that John's shirt buttons weren't done up properly and the ruffled appearance of his hair.

Sherlock's appearance was flawless, as always. There was no evidence of his previous activities in his physical form. It didn't stop Mrs Hudson saying "What were you both doing up there?"

"John and I had an argument," Sherlock answered smoothly. "I went up to apologise."

Mycroft scoffed, clearly unconvinced. "Since when do you apologise?"

John glowered at him, but Sherlock ignored the comment, and instead diverted the topic as he went over to the armchairs to sit down, with Mycroft on his heels. "What are you here for, Mycroft?"

Mrs Hudson departed as John wandered over to the chairs, sitting himself upon the arm of Sherlock's, as Mycroft had stolen his usual sitting spot. "Well, the initial plan was to pass on some new information on Sebastian Moran, but it seems now that I must congratulate a happy couple," Mycroft smirked, looking between the flat-mates suggestively.

There was an intake of breath from John before he said "How did you even know about that? It only just happened."

"Oh, John," Mycroft laughed as he sighed. "One look at your hair told me everything. Still wet from the shower, and sticking up at all angles from…?"

"Alright, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "You've made your point, now I advise that you drop the subject. It's not going any further for now, in any case."

John looked at Sherlock quizzically. Mycroft looked mildly amused as Sherlock shuffled in his seat a little.

"I'm not saying that our relationship should end, John," said Sherlock quickly. "I just need to inform you that I am not comfortable in the idea that our… Ah… Physical relationship should progress too quickly, so to speak."

John made an O-shape with his mouth. "Right. Of course. Whatever you're comfortable with."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock breathed. "It's just that I have no experience of sex and I don't think I am comfortable with the idea of it yet."

John nodded, then cocked his head to the side as he inspected Sherlock from underneath his brows. "Wait… So you've had experience kissing before, then?"

He may have been mistaken, but he thought he saw a slight pink tone erupt across Sherlock's proud cheekbones. "Yes. A little."

"With who?"

"We'd rather not think about it," Mycroft said dryly, and then shut his mouth swiftly as Sherlock flashed daggers at him viciously.

John started in horror. "We?" he said in disbelief.

Sherlock and Mycroft wore matching faces of embarrassment and dismay as their gazes met, realising that there was no way out. Mycroft's expression said "You tell him; I'm not going to." His brother grudgingly complied.

"When we were teenagers, it got to that stage where I was getting curious," Sherlock began. "I wondered about my sexuality, because I didn't seem to be attracted to girls as were the other boys in my class, so I thought about the prospect of me being gay.

"I couldn't really test my theory, because of my social standing in school and the amount of bullying that I endured on a daily basis, approaching a male was not an option. I was getting desperate, and the only person that I could think of who I could possibly use as an experimental tool was Mycroft."

John's voice had raised an octave with amusement and alarm. "So you went and kissed him?"

"Erm… Yes," he confessed, hanging his head in shame. "I went into his bedroom one day after school, and I just… Did. And then he kissed me back."

"I did not kiss you back!" exclaimed Mycroft in disgust. "It was a reflex! It was hardly a conscious decision."

John burst out laughing, and the two Holmes's glared at him, but he continued to laugh, doubling over as tears streaked down his cheeks. Mycroft's mouth was an ugly crack across his face, whilst Sherlock's supressed delight at the sound of John's mirth, as well as wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant memory of kissing Mycroft. "You…" John wheezed. "Kissed… Your brother!"

"That's not the worst part," Sherlock winced, and Mycroft shivered with revulsion, his knuckles gripping the handle of his umbrella until they turned bone-white.

John straightened his smile out into composure. "What happened?"

"You don't have to tell him this," Mycroft reminded Sherlock.

Sherlock only grinned. "He's my boyfriend, and he deserves to know everything about my past. It strengthens a relationship, apparently." John made no comment to the use of the word 'boyfriend', however Mycroft looked rather startled. "What happened, John," Sherlock said diffidently. "Was that our mother walked in on us."

John sucked in a breath. "That must've been awkward," he said, trying to remain collected.

"You have absolutely no idea," Mycroft shuddered.

"Well," John concluded. "At least I know why you two hate each other so much." He paused before giggling "Built-up sexual tension." And he snorted.

Their faces, John would have loved to take photographs of and store the images in a box, so that he could take them out whenever he felt down and laugh at them for hours at a time. It was gold. Pure, sterling gold. The effort it took for him not to roll around on the floor clutching his stomach was amazing, but he managed to remain on his feet whilst the sociopathic brothers looked on, both flushing furiously.

"Stop it now, John," Sherlock snarled. "It's not funny."

The laughter did not even fade.

"Fine, then," Sherlock snapped. "What was this about Sebastian Moran, Mycroft?"

John was instantly silent and listening intently. Mycroft's eyes rolled. "We've managed to get a trace back to him. He's in Russia somewhere, but that's all we know."

"What was the link?"

"Someone was spying on your flat. We brought him in, and found a mobile device on him. From there we could trace back through his contacts to get to Moran," replied Mycroft confidently.

"The information's too vague," Sherlock complained. "He could be anywhere in the whole of Russia. I can't work off that."

Mycroft turned his nose up. "It's the best I could do in the time I was given. I'll keep looking, but I can't promise you anything. What we need is a direct link to the man himself, if one of those even exists." He then stood, digging the point of his umbrella into the floor as he pressed his weight onto it. "I'll go now. Have fun," he smirked in self-satisfaction.

John blocked his path. "You knew he was alive, didn't you? You helped him fake his death," he accused sharply.

Mycroft's smirk became more pronounced. "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?" John inquired brusquely. "You bothered to send me a letter. You could have put something in there."

"That wasn't my letter. I didn't write it."

"Then who –"

"I did," Sherlock said simply. "Mycroft wouldn't let me, initially. I had to beg. I wanted to reply to your letters, and the opportunity arose when my mother died, and even though I had to use someone else's voice, writing to you was worth every considered word."

John's lips fell open just a fraction, and his heart burst at Sherlock's honest and gorgeous answer. He'd wanted to write to him, so he'd written him the letter from Mycroft? It was too unreal for John to comprehend. He'd written him a letter back. He'd even begged his brother for the privilege. He didn't take his eyes off Sherlock as Mycroft bade them a smug farewell, and left the flat.

They did not speak for the next twenty seconds, and then John broke in. "Want to go to bed?"

"Love to."