Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

"Quick! This way!"

"Right!"

Sherlock turns and leads John into a dark alleyway, where they find a smaller gap between two buildings to hide in to stop and catch their breaths. There's not much space between them – they're touching chest to chest – and John's warmth feels quite nice, but Sherlock decides it best to not mention that bit.

They're currently on a case, but it turns out that there was a great deal more to it than there originally seemed to be and now they're being chased down by someone who wants to kill them. Isn't that just lovely? Sherlock doesn't know how long he can keep running around – the cold air is making his lungs sting and every breath he takes slightly hurts. His legs are sore, his face is cold, his heart is racing, he's hungry, and overall he's just ready to get home. (Where the hell is Lestrade, and why hasn't he texted back yet?)

"God, I'm so tired," John murmurs – which happens to be exactly what Sherlock had been thinking – between each pant, his breath hot on Sherlock's throat. The latter suppresses a shiver. "I'm getting too old for this."

"Nonsense," Sherlock replies, slightly distracted. He's looking out into the alleyway now – so far, nobody has come down this way, and he doubts that anyone will. Still, it's best if they remain here until they know the coast is clear or until they hear back from Lestrade.

"Yeah, well I certainly feel like it," John mumbles tiredly, sighing. "I really just can't wait until I can lie down and get some sl–"

Sherlock quickly shushes him, pressing a gloved finger lightly against John's lips, which gets the latter to stop talking immediately. Sherlock is unsure if he's heard someone approaching or not, but he still doesn't see anyone. He listens closely and doesn't hear a single footstep. (Where could he have gone? Is he here now?)

After a moment or two passes and there's been no more sounds, he removes his finger and glances back at John to speak, but when he does he finds that he's being stared at and his breath catches in his throat, whatever he was going to say dying on his tongue. He can't help himself but to stare back, unsure what to say now. He swallows, unable to look away. And then, without actually realising that he's doing it, he begins leaning in ever so slightly, tilting his head just a bit.

But then he abruptly stops when the sound of his mobile pinging in his coat pocket alerts him. He exhales and quickly reaches for it as he backs off, partially annoyed until he sees that Lestrade has finally texted him back to find out their exact location. Apparently, he's close by and is ready to catch the one that's been chasing them for the last ten minutes. Well, that's a relief, but… now Sherlock has lost his chance. The moment is over.

"We, er… we should go meet up with Lestrade," he utters, feeling slightly disappointed to no longer get to be this close to John. He's both trying to forget that he nearly just kissed him and trying to remind himself that it's for the best that he didn't. Relationships are not something Sherlock has any sort of experience with and he's really not that interested in trying to figure out how they work because he's curious to know what John's lips feel like on his own. "We should try to get Marco's attention again and lead him right to Lestrade if possible, otherwise he might get away."

John is quiet, but when Sherlock looks at him to see why, John averts his eyes and wets his lips as though slightly distracted or panicked. (Oh no, everything is ruined now.)

"Right," he murmurs, clearing his throat, but he doesn't mention what just nearly occurred.

Sherlock stares at him, wondering if he's also feeling disappointed, or perhaps relieved, or maybe he was just unaware that anything was happening at all. Sherlock hopes that it's the latter, but knows that it isn't. He decides it best to just delete it all, to forget that this incident ever happened, so that's what he does. (…Almost.)

"Uh, let's still try to be careful though," John adds after a moment or two. "Wouldn't want to have to stitch you up again." He tries for a smile, likely trying to get rid of some of the tension that lingers. Sherlock is thankful for it.

"Of course," the latter says, and finally tears his eyes away from John again so that they can both slip out of the gap and back into the alleyway. "Let's get going."

–

2.

"No, no. Like this."

Sherlock demonstrates the steps to the dance again and then steps back into John's space and takes his hand. John's other hand quickly moves to Sherlock's waist once more and the aforementioned nods approvingly, his other hand resting on John's shoulder.

"There," Sherlock murmurs gently. "Now try it again."

John sighs softly but complies without complaint, attempting to repeat the steps. He accidentally stomps on Sherlock's foot and quickly apologises for it, but overall he doesn't do too badly, unlike the last couple of times he's tried doing it.

"Like that?" he asks, glancing up, and then quickly adds on, "Obviously, I mean… without me stepping on your toes. But the rest is fine?"

Sherlock nods again. "Better," he responds, and John smiles, clearly feeling a bit pleased with himself. Sherlock can't help but to smile back, but it fades quickly when he remembers the reason that they're doing this in the first place – John doesn't know how to dance, something he needs to know for his wedding. Because he's getting married soon. To Mary. (And perhaps Sherlock's just a little bit in love with him.)

(All right, maybe he's a lot in love with him.)

They repeat the steps together until John's somewhat got the hang of it, and then they take a break for a bit to eat. After that, it's back to dancing. One, two, three… One, two, three…

"Aren't I supposed to dip her or something?" John eventually questions, which takes Sherlock slightly by surprise. He blinks and considers John's words, and they stop moving.

"I suppose you could, if you wanted to," he then replies, shrugging. "I don't think it's a requirement though. Were you… hoping to practise that?" John doesn't answer right away, so Sherlock is quick to add, "It's fine if that's what you want to do. Just… please don't drop me." He winces at the thought.

John huffs out a laugh, looking slightly relieved, possibly? Though Sherlock can't fathom why. He feels John's hand move around to his lower back and press a bit harder into him, as though John's trying to make sure he has a good hold on him so as to not drop him. Sherlock appreciates it, but the touch makes his heart beat faster and he hopes John won't somehow notice it.

They go through the proper steps again for the dance, John accidentally stepping on Sherlock's toes again and wincing as he apologises once more.

"I'm going to dip you now," he says as a warning, and then Sherlock finds himself quite literally swept off of his feet. His hand grips John's just a bit tighter, but otherwise he trusts John not to drop him and lets his head fall back, exposing his throat. He's breathing a bit heavily now, feeling lightheaded.

When he's gently pulled back up onto his feet, John's holding him closer – likely without realising – and he's grinning delightedly. He goes on about how he's glad that he didn't drop Sherlock but thankfully he's not that heavy, or something – Sherlock isn't sure, he can't quite pay attention because he can't stop thinking about how he would just love to kiss that smile of John's. He leans forward unnoticeably, the movement so miniscule that it's almost as though he hasn't moved at all, but then he just… stops, thinking about it.

This isn't right. He's not supposed to do this. He's not supposed to want to kiss John. It's absolutely not permitted for him to do such a thing, and it never will be – John is marrying someone else and Sherlock is just a friend. He's nothing more. He can't kiss John. That would ruin everything all over again, and they've barely just got back to how they were before. And even then, they're still not quite the same. He can't jeopardise their friendship again. He can't do this.

He takes a step back and clears his throat, hoping that John doesn't notice that he's feeling disappointed and slightly embarrassed. But this – ignoring it – is the right thing to do, and ever since he hurt John by faking his death, he swore to himself that he'd be a better man. He swore he would do the right thing. So. Denying himself the feeling of kissing John at least once in his life it is. This is how it has to be, how it should be.

He gives a gentle (but not quite real) smile and nods, shoving everything he feels to a dark corner of his mind, where it should be. Forgotten. (Almost.) "You're doing well, and you're definitely a quick learner, but we're not going to stop until you don't make a single mistake."

John rolls his eyes but his fond smile is still there, and Sherlock loves it in a way that he shouldn't – more than he should.

–

3.

"John, relax."

"Damn it, Sherlock, I'm trying. I'm just… I'm nervous, all right?"

Sherlock tilts his head curiously. "Why would you be nervous?" he asks, not quite understanding. "It's just Mary."

John shakes his head, pacing around the small room. "It's not really about Mary," he says with a sigh. "I just don't want to screw up my vows. I want it to be perfect. I've never been married before and neither has she. And yeah, obviously I'm excited about getting to marry her, but…"

He trails off and doesn't finish the sentence, huffing.

Sherlock sighs now, trying to think of something to say. "John," he begins softly, slowly, "Mary loves you. She's still going to love you even if the wedding is a disaster."

"But I don't want the wedding to be a disaster!" John exclaims, sounding defeated and miserable.

(Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.) Sherlock shakes his head and stands up, walking over to John. He begins to tie his bowtie for him, and speaks as he does so.

"I'll be right there to help you," he says, ignoring the aching in his chest. (Almost. He's been trying to keep himself emotionally detached from it all, trying to get over his ridiculous feelings, but so far it's not really working.) With a sigh, he quickly tries to come up with something to say that John might want or need to hear. When he's got it, he carries on, "If you forget something, I'll remind you. As… as much as you might want it to be, it's not going to be perfect – nothing is. But… it'll still be all right. You both will end the day happy and still in love and I know that that's what actually matters to the both of you. It will all be fine."

John knits his eyebrows together. "It feels really strange for you to be trying to comfort me," he utters, and Sherlock notes that he's definitely more calm now. "But thank you. I needed that."

Sherlock gives a brief smile in response and straightens the bowtie before fixing John's suit coat, smoothing out the wrinkles. There's a moment where neither of them speaks, Sherlock gently readjusting a few things on John's clothes while John seems lost in thought, still clearly fretting about the wedding, but less so than he was before. Sherlock just wants to kiss his frown away and make him happy.

Just as the thought crosses his mind, their eyes lock, and it's like everything else melts away – there's nothing but the two of them, here, in this little room. For a moment, the rest of the world ceases to exist.

Sherlock imperceptibly leans in, unable to breathe. Perhaps he really could just… kiss John. He could…

"John? Sherlock? We need you both out here now– ah."

Sherlock freezes and steps back just a bit, swallowing as he looks towards the door neutrally, where he finds a woman just glancing between them. He can see it in her eyes that she knows that something was just happening between him and John, but she's obviously just going to pretend she hadn't seen anything, trying too hard to force a reassuring smile. Sherlock recognises her as a friend of Mary's and briefly wonders what this woman might tell her. Or perhaps she won't even mention it to Mary.

John clears his throat. "Thanks, Janine, we're coming," he says quickly and she goes just as fast, closing the door and leaving John and Sherlock alone again. Sherlock feels awkward – he wants to leave the room immediately, wants to disappear into the cracks of the floorboards and never show his face again. Instead, he carefully hides behind the emotionless mask he's been slowly creating, because it's all that he can do to feel protected.

Neither of them will acknowledge the elephant in the room, because if they just pretend it isn't there, then everything is fine. (Almost.) Sherlock plasters on a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes and tilts his head towards the door that Janine left from. He watches John awkwardly smile back at him and then John sighs as though he's tired, looking at the door, and Sherlock wonders what exactly might be going though his head but doesn't dare ask. (He knows better than that.)

"Well, here we go, then," John murmurs after a moment and begins to head for the exit, but then stops. "I, um…" he begins, but he then trails off and shakes his head, changing his mind. "I just… I hope that I get the vows right and everything. Er… wish me luck. I'll see you out there."

Sherlock doesn't respond and simply watches him go, and when John's out of sight, his forced smile fades. He once again attempts to detach and distance himself from everything, to harden his exterior, to set the mask in place permanently. He just has to survive this wedding, because it's happening now no matter how much he wishes it weren't. (No matter how much it makes him hurt.) Once it's over, Sherlock can completely distance himself and things can get easier for him. But for now, he must suffer through it and play his part.

He knows that after this, to protect himself, he has to delete his feelings for John. Or at the very least, hide them away forever and tell himself he never felt a thing in the first place. Of course, both are easier said than done, but something must be done, because otherwise Sherlock just might not be able to cope with the emotional affliction. He has to shut it all out, pretend he doesn't care, pretend he feels nothing at all.

Otherwise he will break.

So when he's prepared himself accordingly, he stands up straighter and stares at the door. On the other side, there will be a wedding. On the other side, the only one that he has ever loved will get married to someone else. On the other side, he's going to lose John to Mary. But he has no choice.

He heads for the door.

(Into battle.)

–

4.

"How much pain are you in?"

Sherlock swallows, feeling weak and exhausted. If he's being honest, he's in a lot of pain, but he doesn't want to be drugged up – it's hard for him to think or properly control himself. He briefly closes his eyes and then reopens them, staring up at John.

"I can handle it," he replies, but his voice is shaking and his hands are trembling and he knows from the expression on John's face that he doesn't believe a word. The aforementioned nods, lips pursed.

"I'll get the morphine," he says and slips out of the bedroom. Sherlock sighs, but he knows that he really should take some morphine, since it hurts as much as it does. He feels like he might pass out from the intensity of the pain, in fact. Yes, morphine is a good idea.

John returns a moment later with a glass of water and the morphine tablets. He gives Sherlock the correct dose, which Sherlock puts into his mouth, and then John gently lifts his head to help him drink the water. It makes Sherlock feel like a helpless child, but he knows that he needs the assistance.

"Are you feeling hungry at all?" John asks, taking a seat in the chair he'd brought over from beside Sherlock's wardrobe. Sherlock shakes his head. "Do you need anything at all? Toilet?"

Sherlock shakes his head again and finds himself wondering if John's only here because he's just feeling guilty that his wife is the cause of all of this. Well, Sherlock knows better – John is here because he cares, but he also likely feels responsible. Plus, he doesn't want to be anywhere near Mary for the time being, he's so angry with her. Sherlock wishes he could reassure him somehow, tell him that it's not his fault that Mary pulled the trigger. So that, at the very least, he stops feeling the guilt. And perhaps he'll learn to forgive Mary as well, even if she doesn't deserve it.

But Sherlock knows that his reassurances wouldn't change anything. John would still partially blame himself for it and he would still be angry with Mary for nearly taking Sherlock's life. And Sherlock understands that. Of course he does. He understands that in the end, there's really nothing that he can do about it. And it's not exactly like he wants John to go back to Mary after this, but… he's trying to be selfless, trying to help John be happy.

Well, Sherlock supposes that it's all up to John anyway. Whether he goes back to Mary or leaves her over this, it's all John's decision. (Though going back would be safer for the both of them, even if it's the more unfavourable option, in Sherlock's opinion. There's also the problem of the unborn child to consider…)

"Are you cold?" Sherlock hears John ask him next, and then he realises he's been shivering. He nods, so John gets up to retrieve a button-up pyjama top from one of Sherlock's drawers – something that doesn't have to be closed – and helps Sherlock sit up to slip it on. Moving hurts a lot, but he knows that the pain will fade shortly once the morphine kicks in.

John gently eases him back down and then stands up straight. "You should probably get some rest," he says, then gestures towards the door with his head, his hands in his pockets now. "I'll just be in the sitting room if you need me."

"I'm not tired," Sherlock claims as John turns to go, even though he feels like he could sleep for a week. He just doesn't want to be left alone again – he thinks too much when that happens. "I could come sit with you."

John just stops and stares at him tiredly, perhaps a little surprised. "You shouldn't be getting up and moving around just yet," he replies just as Sherlock tries to sit up on his own, and John gently but firmly pushes him back down, giving him a stern look. "Now rest. Unless of course you'd prefer to go back to the hospital."

"I need a break from my bed," Sherlock insists, once again attempting to get up but John's hand keeps him down. He sighs. "John, it's so dull in here."

"Sherlock–"

"Please," Sherlock interrupts, his voice coming out quite soft. John just frowns at him and Sherlock wishes that he could know exactly what John might be thinking right now.

A moment passes. "Fine," John says eventually, though he keeps holding Sherlock down, "but you're not taking a single step right now. I don't want your recovery to be set back again."

Sherlock opens his mouth to ask how John expects him to get to the sitting room without walking there, but doesn't get the chance to speak because suddenly the blankets are pushed off of him and John is carefully lifting him up into a bridal carry as though he weighs absolutely nothing. Sherlock quickly gets an arm curled securely around John's shoulders, the fingers of his left hand gripping the front of John's jumper before that hand moves to settle atop his wound as a way of protecting it.

"All right?" John asks, slightly breathless. He hasn't yet left the bedroom. "Any pain?"

"It's not that bad," Sherlock answers honestly, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'm okay for now." He swallows and makes the mistake of catching John's eyes when their faces are this close, his heart already racing. His eyes flicker down to John's lips momentarily as he considers perhaps kissing them – he thinks that it wouldn't take much at all to lean forward and just do it, to press their mouths together for the first time and just… kiss him. It's something Sherlock has wanted to do for so long, and it could be so easy. All he has to do is make the move.

But he can't, because he knows that he shouldn't.

So he doesn't.

He quickly glances away, feeling uncomfortable and exposed all of a sudden, but perhaps Sherlock is lucky and John hasn't even noticed a thing. Still, he feels awkward. He clears his throat and puts the thought of kissing John completely out of his mind. (Almost.)

John shifts and holds him a little bit tighter (or perhaps Sherlock is just imagining that) and then finally starts moving, carrying him into the sitting room. John seems like he's going to ask where he wants to sit, but then decides for him and goes over to the sofa, where Sherlock finds himself gently being placed down on the cushions like a child.

"Still all right?" John asks as he stands upright once again to grab the blanket off of the back of the sofa, which he then drapes over Sherlock's frame.

(No.) "Yes," Sherlock answers. Looking satisfied, John moves away from him towards the opposite side of the room to unplug the flatscreen, picking it up off of the bookshelf. Sherlock watches him for a moment, then asks, "What are you doing?"

"I thought we could watch a film," John explains with a small smile and gently deposits the television on the table in front of the sofa. "Are you up for it?"

"I suppose," Sherlock replies as John begins setting everything up. When it's all ready to go, he gently lifts Sherlock's legs and sits on the cushion before lowering them to rest on his lap.

"Okay?" John asks, though Sherlock doesn't actually know what he means.

"Fine," he says anyway, so John nods and begins to watch the film, but Sherlock can only find himself watching John, his heart wishing for something he knows he can't ever have as the morphine kicks in.

–

5.

"So what about you then? Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe," Sherlock replies as though he's bored. In reality, he's afraid and he's devastated because there's a good possibility that he may never return home, in which case, he will never see John again. Not with the short, six months of expected life he's got left. If he manages to survive somehow, then… perhaps. But even then, the likelihood of returning is slim to none. This is very likely the end.

"For how long?" John asks, and Sherlock swallows as he glances into John's eyes momentarily, not wanting to answer, not wanting to have to tell John that it's permanent, that he's never coming back because he's going to die. John absolutely would not let him go, and staying isn't an option. Nor is going a choice; it's just a consequence.

It's something that has to happen now, all because Sherlock loved John too much and wanted to give him everything that would make him happy. So he convinced John to make up with Mary, to forgive her. And John did – he went back to her, to have a happy life with her and their unborn daughter. And Mary needed to be kept safe for them to have that life, but with Magnussen still living that was never going to happen. So Sherlock made a choice and now he's going to pay for it with his own life.

(Maybe he doesn't really mind all that much. Maybe he feels like it just doesn't matter anymore.)

He doesn't meet John's eyes. He can't. "Six months, my brother estimates," he answers truthfully, trying to keep his expression neutral. It works. (Almost.) "He's never wrong."

John watches him carefully. "And then what?" he questions, and the words make Sherlock hurt. He can't tell the truth, but he can't bear to tell John a lie. He shrugs and settles for something in between.

"Who knows?" he murmurs. He just has to hope that maybe someday Mycroft will tell John the truth and he's not left wondering what happened to Sherlock forever. It might hurt less if he finds out later. Perhaps not. Sherlock doesn't know. He doesn't know anything anymore.

John nods, glancing around the area. He isn't sure what to say, Sherlock can tell, and that's all right. He watches John until he turns and looks at him again and then Sherlock averts his gaze, directing it elsewhere.

"John," he begins, wondering if perhaps it's best to tell the truth now. Not about where he's going, but… about how he feels. He's leaving forever and will die soon. He's got nothing to lose – so then why shouldn't he? He tries to find the right words. "There's something… I should say; I– I've meant to say it always and then never have. Since it's unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."

Sherlock looks at John. He wishes that he could kiss him right now, wishes he could just kiss him and hold him and never let him go, and then perhaps they could just let the rest of the world fade away.

Perhaps he could – perhaps he could finally allow himself to do it, or to at least try. Just this once. Perhaps he could just tell John how he feels and then kiss him, perhaps he could have this last little moment of happiness, and perhaps he won't have to die without ever knowing what it feels like to have John Watson's lips on his own.

He leans in ever so slightly and opens his mouth to say the one thing he's felt for so long but has never been able to tell John. Something he's never said to anyone, because he never had someone to say it to before John.

(I love you.)

But when Sherlock sees John's expression, he hesitates.

John is afraid.

He knows.

He knows exactly what Sherlock plans to say to him and he's afraid to hear it. He doesn't want it to be said, he doesn't want to acknowledge it. Even though they'll never see each other again, John doesn't want the truth out in the open, and his eyes beg Sherlock not to say it.

Perhaps it's because it changes things, or because Sherlock has to go and because John is married to the pregnant woman standing not too far away from them and because they'll never see each other again. Perhaps it's just too much for him to hear because he doesn't feel the same. Perhaps it'll hurt too much and it's easier if they pretend that it isn't true. Or perhaps Sherlock will just never know why he doesn't want to hear it. But the point is that John knows what it is and doesn't want it to be said.

So Sherlock won't say it.

He draws in a deep breath instead, glancing at John's face again. The other words he thought of saying get locked away somewhere where they will remain unspoken, never to be said to John nor anyone else. Instead of them, he says,

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

John turns his head and chuckles so quietly that it's basically inaudible and Sherlock tries his best to hide his heartache behind a small smile. (This is just how things are, how they have to be, how they'll always be.)

"It's not," John insists, but he's smiling. He looks relieved.

Sherlock shrugs again. "It was worth a try."

"We're not naming our daughter after you," John tells him firmly, but he's not angry or anything like that. Sherlock exhales softly, the corner of his lip quirking up.

"I think it could work," he murmurs, and John chuckles again. With that, Sherlock lowers his eyes and removes his glove to hold out his hand for John to shake. "To the very best of times, John."

John hesitates before shaking Sherlock's hand. No more words are spoken. Neither one of them says the words "goodbye" or "farewell". Sherlock just turns around and walks towards the plane that is supposed to take him away from John, knowing that once he boards it, there's no turning back. Well, there's no turning back anyway. He has no choice but to go. So go he shall.

He takes one last look at John through the window once he's on the plane, trying to make sure he memorises every single part of him. Because this is it. He'll never see him again.

The plane takes off, and Sherlock with it. For good.

(Well… almost.)

–

1.

"Mrs. Hudson insisted that she'll keep Rosie until tomorrow afternoon. She said that I looked like I needed a bit of a break."

Sherlock glances at John momentarily and then quickly turns his eyes back towards his laptop, not wanting to stare. "She isn't wrong."

John closes the door to the flat with a soft sigh. "Yeah, but she already watches Rosie a lot for me," he says, running a hand through his hair and crossing his arms, then he shrugs and corrects himself, "For us. I suppose I just feel like I'm having her do too much lately."

"She enjoys it," Sherlock replies simply, eyes on the laptop still but not paying attention to anything on the screen. "Taking care of Rosie, I mean. She doesn't mind. Besides, it's only until tomorrow."

John doesn't respond and Sherlock closes the laptop, glancing over at him. John nods then, sighing once again.

"I suppose you're right," he murmurs with a slight frown. It's quiet for a while, and then John speaks again. "Er, are you hungry? Perhaps we could take a walk and get something to eat."

Sherlock blinks thoughtfully, but he's already made up his mind. "Yes, all right," he says and then stands, moving towards John to grab his coat and scarf. "Where were you thinking?"

"Angelo's?" John suggests, opening the door and letting Sherlock go first. When they reach the bottom of the stairs they head outside and step onto the pavement, the cold January air nipping at their skin already.

Thankfully, Angelo's isn't a very far walk from the flat. When they arrive, they go inside where it's warm and not too crowded, sitting down at their usual table by the window. Angelo himself comes by to take their order and brings a candle to set down on the table's center. Neither Sherlock nor John acknowledge it directly, but Sherlock's lips quirk at the memory of their first night here together when he looks at it. That feels like an eternity ago now, but he remembers it as though it had just taken place yesterday.

They order and eat and make small talk, though that mostly consists of Sherlock listening to John talk about work and about Rosie, which he doesn't mind that much. He likes to hear John talk about anything these days, because John's talking to him again and Sherlock doesn't think he will ever feel like he deserves it. He still blames himself for what happened to Mary, even if it isn't technically his fault.

He and John have already talked things out quite a lot and have both made all of the necessary apologies and such, but Sherlock still feels like if he makes a wrong move John will leave his life again – indefinitely this time. He doesn't know if he could handle that, considering he very nearly killed himself the last time. He tries not to think about any of it, but he still can't help being so cautious around John now.

John, who's watching him. "Is everything all right?" he asks, and Sherlock automatically responds with a nod.

"Just reminiscing, I suppose," he says thoughtfully, but doesn't elaborate – he knows that John knows what he's on about. Still, John keeps watching him. Perhaps it's because Sherlock is never normally so sentimental. Sherlock tries not to pay attention to it and finishes his food.

When they both are through with eating, it's already dark. They head outside into the cold and Sherlock shivers as they walk down the street. He reaches for his mobile to check the time, and he stops walking when he realises what day it is – the 29th of January.

Does John know what day it is? Surely he remembers that they met on this day. Surely he's aware of today's date. And if he is, why would he want to go out and celebrate it like it's some kind of romantic anniversary but not mention today even once? Maybe Sherlock is just putting too much thought into it.

John stops a little bit ahead of him, glancing back. "Sherlock?" he asks worriedly, and that's when Sherlock snaps out of it, hastily shoving the phone back into his pocket and walking towards John. "Are you all right?"

"Sorry," Sherlock replies, stopping beside John, "I got distracted. I'm fine."

John watches him for a moment longer before nodding, and then they both keep walking together back to Baker Street. Neither speak again on the way.

John heads into the building first, starting up the stairs. Sherlock slowly follows, feeling a little… despondent. Perhaps disappointed. But he doesn't quite know why – today was nice so far. Dinner was nice, and there's still the rest of the evening to come, even if nothing happens. (And nothing will happen.)

But Sherlock kind of wishes that there were more to it, wishes that today were more than just nice. He supposes that nice is fine enough though. He can live with it. He's grateful for it, even. Today was probably the best day he's had in quite a little while (minus the day that John moved back in and brought Rosie with him). He shouldn't be upset, shouldn't complain.

He reaches the top of the stairs and steps into 221B, finding John standing there with his back to him. Worried that John's upset and not understanding why, Sherlock turns slightly to close the door. When he faces John again, he finds himself being kissed.

And it's like time stops. Sherlock can't breathe or think or react, but John is kissing him and he has to do something. Before he can, John pulls away, his eyes full of panic as he takes a few steps back.

"Fuck," he swears, covering his mouth with both hands before running them through his hair. "I… God, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have–"

Sherlock quickly steps over to him, leaning slightly down and closing the gap between their lips once again. The tension fades from John's body, no longer panicked – he sighs with evident relief, his hands quickly pushing Sherlock's coat off and onto the floor so that he can easily wrap his arms around him and hold him closer. Sherlock allows it and focuses only on kissing John, trying to pour out everything he's been feeling the past couple of years into it.

"Sherlock," John whispers when they break apart. He clears his throat. "Sherlock, I…"

But then he stops, shaking his head and wetting his lips, seemingly at a loss for words – though hopefully in a good way. Sherlock breathes, his thumb brushing over John's cheek.

"I love you," he admits slowly, finally allowing the words to be said. It feels amazing to finally be able to speak them. It's… freeing, in a way. It's like a weight has been lifted.

John doesn't say anything, he just looks at him with an expression that Sherlock couldn't possibly describe. Sherlock swallows, deciding to continue on speaking.

"John, I'm… in love with you, to be precise," he says, and the shrugs and smiles a little. "And I have been for… such a long time. I've wanted to tell you that for ages. I suppose that I just thought that I should – that I could say it now."

John kisses Sherlock again. "Of course you can," he says softly when it breaks off, nodding. "Of course. Because I love you too. I have for… for so long, and I just never thought I'd be able to say it to you. It was something that I only fully realised when it was too late to do anything about it."

"When?" Sherlock asks, curious to know. "When did you fully realise?"

John smiles a little bit sadly. "The day of the bloody wedding," he states, huffing out a slight humourless laugh. "I had a feeling that I loved you before you… went away. But then I hid it away and attempted to forget about it, and when you returned I felt mostly angry at first. But then the day of the wedding came and then we were alone, and I just… knew. And I tried to ignore it: I went ahead and got married. I told myself you could never actually feel the same. I told myself that I was just being ridiculous. I kept it repressed. And then… you killed Magnussen and you were supposed to leave."

"You knew what I wanted to say then," Sherlock replies, remembering that day. He could tell that John didn't want to hear what he wanted to tell him. "You knew that I loved you. You knew that that's what I wanted to tell you. You looked so terrified."

John shrugs. "I had a feeling, yeah," he confesses with a sad look. "I didn't know for sure but I suspected. And I didn't want you to say it, because then I'd have no choice but to finally admit to myself how I felt for you. And I had just gone back to Mary, and you were supposed to be leaving… I knew that it could never happen between us, and I hated myself for being so conflicted over what I wanted, but decided that it was just easier to leave it unsaid. And you didn't say it in the end, so I kept doubting what I thought. I eventually convinced myself that I was wrong, that you didn't feel anything like that for me after all."

Sherlock nods, kind of understanding. "I did, though," he utters. "Feel something. I just didn't say so because I could tell you didn't want me to."

John nods as well and then gestures to the sofa, so they move to it to sit down and finish the conversation. "I get it now. Part of me had wanted to hear it from you, but I knew that all it would do is complicate things. So then I was with Mary again and I tried to move on, to pretend that I didn't have feelings for you."

"So then… what changed?" Sherlock then asks, watching him carefully. "What brought on the kiss?"

John smiles. "I failed at moving on," he says, looking a bit embarrassed. "And well… for starters, Mary died. And after the initial grief of losing her, I couldn't help but to look on the bright side – there was now nothing preventing me from being with you. And once again I hated myself, for thinking that way, for being relieved to not be with Mary anymore, for how much I hurt you because I was angry with myself. I knew before she died that Mary and I didn't have much time left. I knew we were going to split up soon – it was inevitable. After all, I could never really forgive her for shooting you, and I… I always loved you more. I'm just sorry it took me so long to finally do something about it."

Sherlock smiles a little, but then it fades. "And the kiss?" he presses, wanting to know why John hadn't done it sooner. "Why did you wait so long to kiss me?"

"I was trying to figure you out," John answers. "I didn't know if you wanted things to be different – to be more – between us or not. Then I saw the way that you've been casting glances at me recently when you think I'm not paying attention, the way you've been looking so sad, so worried, but then you try to hide it whenever I plan to ask what's going on. Then I saw what day it was today, and figured why not try? So I told Mrs. Hudson my plan and she offered to keep Rosie, and I came up and quickly tried to figure out how to ask you to dinner, because I couldn't wait any longer to find out if you felt the same as I did. So I took you out, tried to see how you were feeling. And I just… went for it."

"I didn't realise I was so obvious," Sherlock murmurs with a wince. "But I'm… glad that you made the first move. There were so many times where I wanted to, where I tried, but it always went wrong or I talked myself out of it, out of respect for you and your relationship, and it just never happened. I was just… trying not to be selfish."

John nods again. "You wanted to… you were going to kiss me at the wedding." It's not a question, but a deduction. Sherlock nods again as well. "And you wanted to when we were saying goodbye on the tarmac."

"Yes," Sherlock says softly. "There were quite a few times where I nearly did it. That one case years ago, in the alleyway. The night when I returned. When I taught you how to dance. The night of your stag do. When you took care of me after Mary shot me. I'm sure I'm forgetting some."

"I wanted you to kiss me," John admits. "There were so many times when I thought it might happen, when I wanted it to happen but didn't have the bollocks to kiss you myself. But today I told myself that enough was enough – if I wanted to kiss you, then I had to stop being a coward and do it. So I did. And here we are."

"Here we are," Sherlock repeats, feeling kind of happy. "I… I love you, John. I know that I should've told you years ago. It would've saved us so much time and trouble. I'm sorry."

John shakes his head and gently kisses Sherlock on the lips. "I should've told you years ago. But we're here now, and you can tell me as many times as you'd like. You can tell me every single day from now if you want, and I'll do the same. For as long as you want me, you can tell me."

"I'll always want you," Sherlock says, and allows himself to be kissed again. When they break apart, Sherlock smiles shyly. "I don't think I'll ever tire of being kissed by you."

"Good," John responds, "because I plan on doing it many times in the foreseeable future."

Sherlock breathes out a laugh, leaning his forehead against John's. "I think that I'd be all right with that."

—