~~This is another song!fic *explodes into cheering* Sooo go look up Misguided Ghosts by Paramore and listen to it while you're reading this. It'll set the mood~~

        I'm going away for a while

        But I'll be back

        Don't try to follow me

       'Cause I'll return as soon as possible

        See, I'm trying to find my place        

        But it might not be here where I feel safe.

       With convincing blue eyes that vaguely resembled the ocean and an attractive body apperance, it wasn't hard for Sherlock Holmes to convince an elderly landlady that he was in need of a flat.

        221B Baker Street was where he eventually settled.

        He had inherited quite a sum of money from his deceased parents, and the monthly rent was fairly easy to pay. You see, Sherlock was the kind of person who never liked to associate himself with...people. He preferred severed fingers (sometimes heads!) or beakers and test tubes. Or his old friend, George the Skull. So it was definitely a surprise to his elder brother, Mycroft, when Sherlock suggested the idea of a flatmate.

        Sherlock's pondering behind this was that he at least wanted to acquire one friend in his lifetime...not just George. His other thinking was that he never felt settled somewhere. He had never felt at home, never felt safe in certain place.  Maybe some human interaction would aid that.

         We all learn to make mistakes

        And run from them, from them

        With no direction

        We'll run from them, from them

        With no conviction.

        "Goodbye, John." Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Sherlock felt that he had been repeating that word all of his life. He had said it to so many people, but this was the only time he actually didn't mean it.

        But of course, the blonde man screaming his friend's name didn't realize that.

        They really had become quite the pair in the last two years they had been living together. They were acclaimed in the papers for solving multiple cases; they were gay to various people that didn't realize they were "just friends"; and they were, of course, the two best companions London had known in years. Almost an unseperable bond was unspoken between both of them. John had been the only person who actually got Sherlock to listen; Sherlock was practically John's savior. Both of them were greatly influenced by the other.

        And there was that poor soul, John, who was watching his detective--his friend--fall to his most permanent destination.

        And after the homeless network comforted John profusely and gave him to Sarah's safe hands, Sherlock only watched from the window before turning and striding away.

        'Cause I'm just one of those ghosts

        Travelin' endlessly

        Don't need no roads

        In fact, they follow me

        And we just go in circles.

       Two years passed. They passed as slow as watching paint dry, or that's how John put it his so-called final submission to the famous blog. He had so much hope that Sherlock was not dead, that he was going to come strutting through 221B's door, smirking like the smart arse he was.

        But his hope withered away after the year and a half mark. He would be back by now, John kept telling himself. But there was still no sign of his frankly beautiful best friend. And by now, his hope was lost. Just like a balloon you released into the spacious blue ocean above you.

        Before John had seen Sherlock in that lab the first day, he hadn't known beauty. Of course, everyone thought of the magenta tulips that would pop out of the ground in early spring beautiful. Parents thought there own children beautiful. And army doctors? Well, John...John considered his most beautiful thing to be Sherlock. That untamed ebony hair had framed his heart-shaped face perfectly; that alabaster skin was just pure delicacy; those galaxy-like eyes that sparkled almost silver in the light were just a force to be reckoned with.

        And Sherlock was John's. John was Sherlock's. And there was absoutely no way to explain it.

        But John never gathered those thoughts until much later. After Sherlock was six feet under for one year, eleven months, twenty days, thirteen hours, and seven minutes...after Mary had come along.

        And now I'm just told that this is life

        That pain is just a simple compromise

        So we can get what we want out of it.

        When John kissed Mary, he felt nothing. There was no spark that felt like it would ignite at any second. There was no sweet love making that ended in bliss and passion. There was nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

        But Mary...she was just a trade. A simple trade for Sherlock. John would say later that Mary was his replacement. Just as kind and unique, but not nearly as brilliant and beautiful as his Sherlock.

        So John just imagined kissing Sherlock. And suddenly everything was better. Just because John pictured those curls and those eyes and that skin and that scarf and those mysterious cheekbones.

         Would someone care to classify?

         Our broken hearts and twisted minds

        So I can find someone to rely on

        And run to them, to them

        Full speed ahead

        Oh, you are not useless

        We are just...

     Life went on for John Watson and Mary Morstan, and then suddenly John was proposing. He had hoped maybe that establishing an everlasting relationship, his shattered heart would somehow glue itself back together. He had hoped maybe that after they married, he could think of Mary as Mary...not his Sherlock anymore. Because now there was no chance he was ever going to return.

        And John was proposing with trembling hands and a shaky voice. And he was reaching inside his jacket to retrieve the black velvet box that held the stunning ring he had chosen.

        And then Sherlock showed up. He messed up everything, and that was the only side John was showing. His furious, menancing, grieveing side. There was no hope or love or joy in his eyes. But deep down, his heart was finally igniting with happiness.

        A few weeks passed. Mary and John had begun to plan their wedding with some help from Sherlock, of course, the Best Man. John's Best Man. John's best friend. Ever since that fateful night in the restaurant, John was slowly, slowly falling in even deeper love with his best friend. He had tried to stop it. He really had. But his feelings continued to grow.

        And finally, one late night in 221B (a day Mary had not been present for wedding planning), John and Sherlock were both lounging on the couch, sitting at opposite ends of course. The Graham Norton Show was playing on the telly with three different special guest celeberities. Sherlock had been gazing at the screen for over an hour now, not really listening or seeing.

        "John?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

        "Hm."

        "How can you call me your best friend?"

        John reached forward and turned down the volume of the telly before turning to his ex-flatmate. "What do you mean?"

        "I left you to mourn for two whole years, John. A best friend doesn't do that."

        "But a best friend does eventually return. And you did. And I forgive you. Besides, we lived together for almost two years, and we solved crimes--"

        "Yes, I can deduce the obvious reasons. But there's something else you aren't telling me. I can see it in your eyes, John."

        The blonde man sighs, but internally he was cursing himself for being so stupid. Of course Sherlock would deduce that something was going on inside his body, specifically his heart.

        "Well. I love you."

        Sherlock stares blankly at his friend. "What?"

        "I love you," John repeated.

        "No one could ever love me."

        "I could. And I do."

        "I'm just some insane detective, John."

        "No." John reaches his hand out, and Sherlock scoots closer to him so that their knees are almost grazing.

        "No one enjoys my company. No one appreciates my deductions. No one loves me. Not even my brother."

        "You're daft sometimes, you are," John laughs before taking Sherlock's chin in his right hand. He tilts the detective's head up so that their eyes meet. "Dilated eyes, erratic pulse, flushed cheeks. Sherlock, they're all signs of affection."

        "Yes, but---" Sherlock pauses, staring at John. His blue-green-grey eyes take in the blogger's features. His dilated eyes. His erratic pulse. His flushed cheeks. His friend--no, best friend--was definitely attracted to him.

        John blinks a few times before leaning forward a few more centimeters. "Can I...kiss you?" He whispers, almost silently. Sherlock freezes, tensing his shoulders in fear and rejection. He had never kissed anyone before...the ultimate virgin.

        But he said, "Yes."

        John closed the gap between them. And Sherlock was filled with a sense of adrenanline he had never felt before. Even though the blogger was gentle and cautious, he had an air of ferocity and heat radiating from his body. Sherlock picked up the aura almost instantly before he was practially eating John's lips. Small, breathy moans were shared between the two men as their hands crawled over each other's body, seeking the comfort of hot skin. It felt like an eternity before Sherlock pulled away, breathing laboured, but still rapid.

        "We're misguised ghosts who are just traveling endlessly. And you trusted me the most, but I kept pushing you away," Sherlock starts. "We're not the same. We aren't. Because I'm the real ghost, and you, my loyal blogger, just keeps echoing me. But you chose me. You chose me over her, and for that, I am most grateful."

        John brushes his thumb across Sherlock's alabaster cheekbone. "I love you too, mister soliloquy."

        Sherlock chuckles deeply before enveloping John in a second kiss.