Two days had passed since John left the flat, and already Sherlock was in a state of extreme desolation. He hadn't eaten or slept in over 48 hours, and he was still wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing when John kissed him.

John kissed him.

Just the memory of those lips against his brought butterflies to Sherlock's stomach and caused his heart to beat in triple time. His skin tingled all over as he thought about the way John's hands felt cupping his face, those firm lips pressed against his own.

But it was all too fleeting a memory. The kiss had lasted mere seconds, though Sherlock blamed himself for that. He had constantly cursed himself for the way he reacted. Surely if he hadn't frozen in place John would have continued. Or perhaps if he had gotten his vocal chords to work properly he could've called John back, told him that it was all fine. But of course, Sherlock had royally screwed up, and now who knew what would happen with them?

He considered calling John, but each time his hand gripped his phone he thought about how horribly the phone call could go and the next thing he knew his phone was either on the floor or halfway across the room.

Sherlock spent a lot of time on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson came up ever so often to check on him, trying to get him to eat, or do something, and always failing.

After about a week Sherlock called Lestrade, pretending to be asking for a case when really he just wanted to know if the Detective Inspector had seen John. John obviously wasn't staying in Baker Street, but Sherlock knew he wasn't the type to sleep on the streets or go to a hotel. After cycling through several possibilities Sherlock decided on Lestrade. He and John were good enough friends so that John would feel comfortable spending a few nights on his couch. However, Lestrade hadn't seen John in days apparently, and there was no case he needed Sherlock's help for. He supposed it was for the best; Sherlock wasn't exactly in the best frame of mind at the moment, and going out on a case alone probably wouldn't go well.

Sherlock sat in melancholy silence for an immeasurable amount of time, staring at the door and wishing for John to open it and come inside, for John to come home.

He heard a click, and his heart skipped a beat. The disappointment Sherlock felt when Mrs. Hudson stuck her head inside the room was insurmountable.

"Just letting you know I'm back from the hospital." Sherlock made a dismissive noise and turned on his side so that he was facing the back of the couch. He heard Mrs. Hudson muttering disapprovingly, but unfortunately she didn't retreat like she usually did. Instead, she came inside the room and closed the door behind her. Sherlock continued to ignore her, but instead of leaving she sat down on the sofa where Sherlock's feet were. Sherlock curled up even further, but not because he was making room for her.

"I saw John today."

Sherlock instantly turned and sat up, bringing his knees up beneath his chin as he stared expectantly at Mrs. Hudson.

"Where? What was he doing? Did you speak to him? What did you say?"

"I saw him in St. Bart's- No, he wasn't a patient. I ran into him in the hallway." Mrs. Hudson added when she saw the stricken look on Sherlock's face. "He didn't look well though, Sherlock."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he looked alright, physically. He's got his cast off now. Still walks with a cane." Sherlock sighed dramatically, and silently prayed for Mrs. Hudson to just get it out already. He loved the woman but she had the terrible habit of going off on tangents that no one cared enough about to listen to. Mrs. Hudson seemed oblivious to Sherlock's agitation and continued with her story. "He was smiling and all that, but I could tell he wasn't alright. He even admitted he wasn't okay."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing really. Just that he could be doing better. He said he's staying with a friend." Sherlock immediately began cycling through all the possible people John could be staying with, now that he knew he was in fact crashing on someone's couch. Lestrade was out, perhaps Mike or... Or perhaps Oliver. It was a long shot, considering the fact that he and John had obviously drifted in recent years, but they seemed to be the type of friends that were able to pick back up where they left off, no matter how much time had passed. Almost immediately Sherlock picked himself up off the couch and went to his room, grabbing a shirt and trousers and hopping in the shower.

When he emerged, Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be found. Sherlock put on his coat and scarf and descended the stairs before sending a quick text to Mycroft, asking for Oliver Wood's address. The response came less than a minute later, and then Sherlock was off.

About a half hour later Sherlock found himself standing in front of a small, quaint house on the outskirts of London, hand raised and poised to knock, and shaking slightly. John very well may not be on the other side of that door, but there was also a chance that he was. Even if he was there was no guarantee he'd want to speak to Sherlock, but he had to at least try. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he let John go without a fight.

He knocked lightly, and held his breath until the door opened. His breath hitched in his throat, and he began cursing himself that he hadn't prepared what he was going to say to Oliver in order to get to John-

John opened the door, starting to speak some sort of apology, but he immediately stopped when he looked up and met Sherlock's eyes. The apology died on his lips, an apology that didn't seem to be aimed at Sherlock. Had he and Oliver had a row? Sherlock heard the clatter of some metallic object falling to the floor, but ignored it.

"John," he said, trying to tamp down on his surprise at John opening the door. Surely Sherlock could have seen this coming. How had he not foreseen the possibility of John being the one to open the door. Either way, he had John in front of him, and he was going to get him back in Baker Street if it was the last thing he did. He steeled himself and prepared to persuade.

"Come back to Baker Street." John's eyes turned towards the floor and he sighed.

"I... can't." Sherlock felt his stomach twist. "Not now, at least. Maybe not ever, I don't know."

"What?" Sherlock asked, unable to keep the emotion hidden from his voice. John glanced around the room, and Sherlock was glad for that. He didn't want John to see the hurt look that was undoubtedly on his face. Then again, maybe this could work to his advantage. John was a compassionate person. Perhaps if he saw how upset Sherlock would be if he left he would change his mind about coming back home. "John, look at me." John refused. This was not good. "John."

John's eyes very slowly lift to Sherlock's, and Sherlock could tell his plan was looking. John looked absolutely heartbroken. Sherlock was touched that this ferment was affecting John in such a way, as well as awful that he was the cause of the hurt look in John's eyes.

"Come back," he said, "please."

"Sh- I can't.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, his voice level rising. He tried to school his face into one of anger, hoping to somehow persuade John, but he couldn't keep the fear from rising in his chest. John's eyes looked down briefly and he sighed, shrugging.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"I can't come back because..." John drifted off, then took a deep breath, firmly meeting Sherlock's gaze. "I can't go back because you're there." What? What on Earth could John be talking about? Had their argument upset him so much that he could no longer stand to live with him? Had John finally realized he would be better off without Sherlock. Had he felt nothing during their kiss and was no longer interested in him. Sherlock couldn't really tell; John's eyes were a storm of emotions, confusion and frustration tossing and turning with trepidation and guilt, with traces of what Sherlock hoped to be love being tossed about as well. Sherlock was losing his will to fight, but he couldn't back down now. Not as long as he could find a flicker of endearment in those blue eyes.

"What's wrong with me?" He asked, trying not to sound as hurt as he was. John sighed and shrugged again. He seemed to be doing that a lot.

"Well, Sherlock, where do I begin? You're arrogant, stubborn, and childish..." So that was it; John had finally had enough. Sherlock was just about ready to admit defeat, and John kept talking. "You're impulsive and judgmental, but..." But? Was there some sort of upside John had convinced himself existed? Then John began to talk again, and Sherlock stood completely still, paralyzed standing up.

"But, you're brilliant, and gorgeous, and talented, and witty. And, you still have room somewhere in that magnificent brain of yours to remember my jumper size and my favourite brand of crisps is. You're bloody perfect!" Sherlock was thoroughly confused. Was John saying he no longer wanted to live with him because he was perfect? That made no sense. And why had he said all those awful things? Maybe John was being purposefully obtuse, to mess with him.

"You're not making sense." John's eyebrows raised and his mouth twisted.

"You asked me a question and I answered it."

"Not very well I must say." John rolled his eyes. Not good then.

"Nobody asked you." Sherlock had had enough of this mockery. If he couldn't get John to come back the very least he could do is get a proper explanation.

"John, why won't you come back?"

"I just told you!" Shouting now, definitely not good, but Sherlock wasn't giving up on this.

"You did not!"

"I did!"

"John, why-"

"Because I love you, Sherlock!"

"And? I've been in love with you for months and never left!"

"Yes, but-" John stopped speaking, his eyes widening, and Sherlock couldn't figure out why. Was it something he had said? Sherlock replayed the last minute of their conversation-slash-argument, and felt all the heat drain from his face. He was sure his face was a mirror of John's shocked expression.

"You... what?" Sherlock was unable to meet John's eyes. So, that's what all this had been about. John was in love with him. Sherlock's heart suddenly felt as if it was soaring. Yet, he couldn't stop the blush from creeping across his cheeks. He covered his face with his hands, suddenly feeling like a bashful teenager standing before his crush after just having admitted his feelings, which, minus the teenage part, he supposed he was. He begged John not to make him repeat his earlier words, but the doctor remained steadfast in his request, and even threatened not to return if Sherlock wouldn't say 'I love you' again. It was absurd, but Sherlock had come too far to leave empty handed. He looked up at John's smiling face, and found that the words didn't seem so hard to say anymore. In fact, they rolled off of his tongue with ease.

"I love you John Watson." He let out a breath, feeling a weight lifting off his shoulders and trying not to smile. "Happy now?"

John's response was to throw his arms around Sherlock and press his face against his chest. Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around him and rested his cheek atop John's head.

"All this time?" John asked, his voice sounding slightly bemused. Sherlock simply hummed in response, and held John tighter against himself. John began to pull away, and Sherlock frowned before he felt John's hands gripping his forearms, and smiled down at him.

"Months?" John asked. Sherlock looked down, embarrassed to have admitted such a thing. He felt John squeeze his arms and looked back up at him. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"The thought of finally gathering up the courage to say something, only to have you reject me was... a bit off-putting. You know just as well I as I do how much rejection can hurt." A flicker of something crossed over John's face as his eyes dipped down to Sherlock's lips, and then the floor.

"And yet you rejected me."

"I didn't reject you! You never gave me a chance to do anything." Sherlock knew that wasn't exactly true, but given the situation he was sure his argument had a somewhat sturdy foundation to rest upon. One look at John's face and Sherlock was certain that his inability to respond to John's kiss was not an inexcusable reaction.

"Well, where do we go from here?"

"Well I was hoping you'd come back to Baker Street." That had been the whole reason Sherlock had come out here.

"Of course, Sherlock, but-"

"Or if you're hungry we could stop by Angelo's," Sherlock added quickly, not really wanting to hear what came after the 'but' of John's sentence.

"I meant... I mean where do we go with, us?" Sherlock sighed, his entire body relaxing while he processed John's question and began formulating a response. After a brief moment of deliberation Sherlock decided that he would be the one to get the ball rolling, so to speak, and thus placed the hand that wasn't currently holding John's on his cheek and dipped down to kiss him.

This kiss was much different from the first one he'd had with John, and so much better. It was much longer, for starters, and by the time they'd separated Sherlock was feeling a bit lightheaded. At least, he decided to blame it on the lack of oxygen, and not the intoxicating presence of the man in front of him. It was a picture perfect moment, until John's friend Oliver showed up and ruined it with a poor attempt at humour.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was able to walk out of that house with an arm around John's shoulders, and he felt as if he'd been placed in some sort of dream. It was a dream from which he never wanted to wake. Sherlock had expected at the very most to convince John to come back under the agreement that they never talk about the kiss and continue on with life as normal, but things had gone much better than planned, and Sherlock's joy was indescribable.

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So yeah, this is finally finished. Yay! Thanks to everyone who read, voted, and/or commented. You guys are great and I hope you've liked this little insight into Sherlock's mind. :)