When John opened the door to his flat, he was greeted with the surprising, yet pleasant aroma of apples and the sound of a violin playing. The tune was light and airy, and somehow managed to put John's already relaxed mind even more at ease. He stepped further into the living room and found Sherlock perched on the sofa, swaying  from side to side as he coaxed the beautiful melody from his instrument. He lifted his eyes to meet John's and smiled, standing from his seat to saunter over to where John was standing. John noticed the intricate way his feet moved, almost as if he were dancing his way over to him, and he marveled at the fact that Sherlock didn't miss a beat of the song he was playing. John placed his bags on the floor and took off his coat, then turned to close the door just as Sherlock finished playing his piece. He lowered the violin and gave a small bow, and John presented him with as much applause as one person could produce. The corner of Sherlock's lips quirked upwards and he laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he did so. John smiled back, then walked past him and collapsed onto the sofa where Sherlock had been sitting.

"I quite like that one," he said, "What's it called?"

"Erm, Welcome Home John." John turned to raise a confused eyebrow at Sherlock and grinned.

"Yeah, thanks. But what's that piece called?" Sherlock walked over and set the violin down on the coffee table, avoiding eye contact.

"That's the title. 'Welcome Home John'. I composed it specifically for this occasion."

"What occasion?"

"Your coming home." John sat up a little bit straighter and stared at Sherlock, feeling a warm flush spread across his cheeks. He saw that Sherlock's face was equally as red, but he didn't seem bothered by it as he smiled over at John. "Do you like it?" His face looked hopeful, almost as if he were a young boy asking his mother to put his latest masterpiece on the fridge, and John couldn't help but laugh while he nodded his head.

"Of course. It's my new favourite song." Sherlock nodded his head, then bit his lip and looked down. If John hadn't been living with Sherlock for the past month and a half he wouldn't have picked up on the minute change in Sherlock's disposition, but he managed to see the shifting of his eyes and the way his fingers tapped nervously on his legs when he sat down beside John. "Is everything alright, Sherlock? You seem a bit-"

"Hold that thought John. I think the apple crumble is ready." John was just opening his mouth to ask Sherlock what he was talking about, but was cut off by the sound of a timer beeping. Sherlock gave him a cheeky smile before practically leaping off of the sofa and shuffling into the kitchen. John watched him from where he was sat, wondering what on earth had happened to his flatmate while he was gone. Perhaps he had begun experimenting with some mind-altering chemicals other than the ones he'd already become accustomed to. He stood up slowly and went into the kitchen to see Sherlock bent over in front of the oven, and just happened to notice that his exceptionally tight trousers left very little to the imagination.

John caught himself staring and managed to look away before Sherlock stood up straight and turned to face him. He held up the dessert with an overexcited smile, then placed it on the counter and turned off the oven. The delicious, warm aroma of freshly baked apples overtook John's senses, and he found himself licking his lips as he started down at the dessert.

"You made that?" he asked Sherlock, pointing at the dish and raising a single eyebrow at the man. Sherlock huffed indignantly and nodded.

"Of course I did, John. I don't-"

"Relax, Sherlock. No need to get your feathers all ruffled." Sherlock sighed but smiled, and pulled out two plates and forks from the dishwasher. John saw Sherlock's eyes glance briefly at the clock on the stove before he set about preparing two plates. He handed one to John, then they made their way over to the table and sat down. John told Sherlock about his time in Venice, ignoring the way his eyes continually drifted towards the clock on the stove during their conversation. Sherlock told John about the cases he'd solved and the few experiments he'd actually conducted, and though John could barely follow along with what Sherlock was saying he still smiled and nodded at what he hoped were appropriate times. 

When they finished, Sherlock offered to wash their dishes while John put away what was left over. John placed the apple crumble in the fridge, and turned to watch Sherlock as he scrubbed furiously at the soapy china, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He let his eyes roam from Sherlock's face down to his rolled up shirt sleeves and large hands that were now covered in soap and water. He allowed himself one fleeting glance at Sherlock's dress pants before his eyes settled on his sock-covered feet. From the looks of it, Sherlock was wearing silk socks. John chuckled to himself. Of course Sherlock Holmes would wear silk socks. His underwear was probably silk as well.

Suddenly Sherlock shifted and John lifted his eyes to see that Sherlock was now staring at him with a quirked eyebrow and an amused smile on his face.

"See anything you like, John?" he asked, his voice practically dripping with what John could only label as heavy flirtation. He cleared his throat and avoided eye contact, gesturing down at Sherlock's feet.

"Yeah, um, I mean... nice socks." Sherlock smiled, and checked the time on the stove clock for what had to be the tenth time that afternoon. "Everything alright, Sherlock?" 

"Hm?" Sherlock continued to avoid eye contact as he washed their plates and pretended not to have heard John, though he could tell by the forced look of impassivity on his face that he had. He sighed and crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. "Sherlock..." Sherlock placed the dishes in the dish drainer with a resounding clang, and hurried out of the kitchen. John followed after him, and when he entered the living room Sherlock was straightening up the stacks of magazines on the coffee table. He sat down in the armchair across from the sofa, and gestured for John to sit on the sofa, which he did. Sherlock steepled his fingers together and rested them beneath his chin as he stared at John.

"I have an announcement." John placed his hands on the side of his own face and pretended to be shocked.

"Oh my god, are you pregnant?"

"How did you know?" Sherlock joked back, eyes crinkling slightly. John attempted to smile back, but the growing feeling of apprehension in his stomach prevented him from producing anything genuine. If Sherlock noticed this, which he most likely did, he didn't give any indication that he did, and John was grateful for this. After a brief moment Sherlock cleared his throat and leaned back in his seat, crossing one long leg over the other as he did so. John in turn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at Sherlock. 

"So, what's the announcement then?" Sherlock gave a long, quiet sigh and stared at something on the ceiling for several seconds before meeting John's curious gaze, and offered a small smile.

"I've found a place to live." John blinked several times, struggling to comprehend what Sherlock had just said.

"What?"

"While you were in Venice I went looking for a flat, and I've found one. On Baker Street. It's not very far from here so-"

"You're moving out?" John didn't even try to hide the disappointment in his voice. Sherlock seemed almost pleased at John's obvious distress, and an ambivalent smile touched his lips. He nodded his head slowly.

"I am." John let out a breath and sat back in his seat, trying to understand why this recent development was so upsetting to him. He tried to tell himself it was just because he had gotten so used to having Sherlock around, and he wasn't a fan of change. However, some other part of him, some part hidden deep down, told him it was more than that. He didn't dwell on this for long, and instead put on a brave face, even smiling as he looked to Sherlock.

"Well, that's great. When are you moving?" John tried not to focus on the momentary flash of hurt that appeared on Sherlock's face before he answered.

"I started packing two days ago, both here and at my brother's. I've already gotten some stuff moved in, but I should be done within the week." 

They sat in a slightly uncomfortable silence for several minutes, and John's own thoughts combined with Sherlock's penetrating stare soon became suffocating so he made an excuse to leave, claiming to be in need of tea when really he was in need of something completely different. However, tea was something simple and obtainable, so he decided to focus on that. He busied himself by concentrating too much on making his tea perfect, and when he heard Sherlock playing his violin in the next room he nearly lost it. It wasn't exactly a realization, because he'd known it for what felt like forever. It was more of an acceptance of what he'd been feeling for a while now. He didn't want Sherlock to leave.

Sherlock leaving meant he would never hear the sweet sound of that beautiful instrument as he fell asleep at night. It meant he would never wake up to the sight of Sherlock asleep on his couch or sitting in his kitchen, his fingers steepled together under his chin, somewhere deep inside his Mind Palace, as he called it. He would no longer need to make two cups of coffee in the morning, two cups of tea in the afternoon, and enough food for two people every evening: He would only be cooking for one. He would be alone again.

"Did you happen to make enough for two?" came the overfamiliar voice from what should have been way too close, but to John wasn't exactly close enough. John's personal space bubble was usually quite large, but Sherlock somehow managed to constantly pop it without John caring in the slightest, and so far had been the only person capable of such a feat. Perhaps it was a perk of them living together, John figured. He wondered if it would go away once Sherlock moved out.

He poured two cups, and handed one to Sherlock without looking at him. He went in the living room and sat on the sofa, turning on the television and fixating his eyes on the screen. He heard Sherlock enter and he'd felt the dip in the sofa cushion when he'd sat down, but John still kept his eyes on the TV screen.

"John?" John took a sip of his tea and angled his head towards Sherlock, but still didn't look at him. "John, are... Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be?" Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock shrug.

"I don't know. It just seems like, you're upset that I'm leaving."

"Why would I be upset? This is a good thing, you moving. It means you're back on your feet and trust yourself enough to live alone. It means you can support yourself. What is there for me to be upset about?" 

"Right." The tone of Sherlock's voice caused John to finally look at him, and when he did, he wished he hadn't. Sherlock looked downright cross, as well as hurt. It was almost as if he were upset that John was taking his news so well, or at least pretending to. John couldn't understand why- oh!

"I mean, I sure will miss you," he said, shrugging. Though he wasn't looking directly at his face John could see Sherlock smile. "This is for the best though, isn't it?" When he finally did look at Sherlock's face he wasn't smiling, and John felt as if by his trying so hard to say the right thing, he had somehow royally screwed up. Sherlock placed his tea cup down on the coffee table so hard some of the tea sloshed out, and stood up. John watched from the sofa as he hastily made his way to the door and grabbed his scarf. He placed his cup beside Sherlock's and stood up, taking several cautious steps towards Sherlock, who was now forcefully putting on his coat, a deep scowl on his face.

"Did... Did I say something wrong?" Sherlock's nose scrunched up and he shook his head.

"No, no. It's just... I'm late for a meeting with my new landlady." Sherlock practically spat out the final words of his sentence, as if he were spitting out poison, and John felt as if he had actually been spat at. With his brow furrowed he watched as Sherlock unlocked the front door and yanked it open, stomping out onto the street. John stood in the open doorway and watched him stalk away. When he'd gotten to the end of the block Sherlock turned around, and though John couldn't see his face clearly he was certain Sherlock was glaring at him.

"Don't bother waiting up!" he called out. "I might end up spending the night at my flat!" And with that Sherlock disappeared around the corner, his billowing out behind him as he went.