His bed seems colder than before.

There's a stain, a silhouette where Sherlock's body had lain, and John finds it being so empty. It's a conundrum he can't fit his mind around, a medical anomaly that he doesn't dare confront with his tiny, normal human brain. How can a bed feel emptier than before? How can the bed sheets feel so flimsy, feel so worthless?

John wants to rip up all the paper in the house, if it stops him from calling that number just to hear that beautiful fucking voice. It's a melody. It's a song. It's every record in his dad's house played at top volume; a voice that makes him want to dance and cry and laugh and love. He can't process it. It's too beautiful, and too lonesome, and John wants to hold it to his chest and breathe it in.

Why does he always come back?

***

He purchases a flower in the morning. It's pink, and rosy, and he doesn't know why he got it in the first place - but then he buys another. And another. And then he asks for a bouquet, and then two, and he hides it behind his back so when the time comes, no one but John will see.

***

The note is short, and it makes John smile.

I miss you.

- SH

But when he opens the door to call out his name, nothing is there except for a delicate rose.

John picks it up between two of his fingers, and when he holds it to his chest, thorns catch on his clothing. He doesn't care.

***

He wants Sherlock to appear in the middle of the night, every day, for forever. He wants him in the bed, to take up the empty, cold space; he wants his lips pressed to John's neck, the shell of his ear to caress soft skin and even softer breaths. Whatever lusting he had is now gone, replaced with this ravenous, filthy need. John needs so much of Sherlock, but he can only take what his mind allows.

He wants the curl of his lip and the drawl of his letters and the touch of his skin and his hair and his eyes and he's just so beautiful.

How does John even manage?

***

The knock is completely unwarranted. It comes in the middle of the night, when John is just about to pop open a beer and sink shamelessly into bed, then watch TV, then fall asleep drunk and lonely, and hope that he doesn't have nightmares that cling to him endlessly. He lets out a soft, sighing huff, and then sways his way up from the leather, eroding couch to receive the knocks. "Coming," he mumbles hoarsely.

He opens the door.

He sighs.

He adjusts.

Sherlock stands in front of him, a dumb grin plastered sillily across his cheeks. One hand is behind his back, and the one that isn't is displaying a folded up note which Sherlock promptly shoves into John's chest. There's a coy smile in his eyes, a shy blush spreading softly across porcelain cheeks. John looks down at the note, and then a sheltered grin appears as he looks back up at Sherlock.

"What does it say," John murmurs.

"Read it." Sherlock gestures to the note, and John opens it, bracing himself from the inevitable gust of words.

Dear John,

This is the cliché of all clichés, and usually I'd try harder to inspire originality and whatnot - but I simply cannot think of any other way to say this.

Dear John,

I need you.

Dear John,

I have tickets to see a movie.

Dear John,

Two, to be exact.

Dear John,

That is no coincidence.

Dear John,

Dear, dear John, will you go to the movies with me?

The grin doesn't even bother to ask permission before ripping its way through the barrier, with all its teeth showing, and it induces his heart beating much too loudly in his chest. If Sherlock were to sneak a glance from under those dark curls, if he were to see John's face, he would have been able to read his expression like an open book.

Yes, it would scream, Yes, yes, yes.

"So?" Sherlock asks after a thick, tense moment, a smirk forming on his lips.

"I hate you," John whispers. "Yeah. Yeah, of course, I-"

The next words are muffled by Sherlock sacrificing his footing to plant a hazy, ungracious kiss onto John's lips, and he hardly even notices when the roses that he was hiding behind his back float to the floor like feathers.

This kiss feels endless.

***

He's really fucking nervous. More nervous than years of dating has allowed him to be, more nervous than that one time he was at a frat party and the one girl said that his penis was small and then-

Anyway, John's pretty nervous. He keeps on licking his fingers and smoothing back his hair, adjusting his leather jacket and trying to keep the voice telling him that he's being stupid at bay. He surveys himself, turning in all angles to view his backside - Oh god, you didn't even tuck in your shirt.

He shoves his plaid into his khakis nervously, then smooths out his jacket nervously, and sends a quick text to the number Sherlock gave him (nervously).

You ready?

The reply is literally instantaneous.

I'm outside your door.

-SH

"Fucking... hell," John grumbles, walking over to the door to open it.

And Sherlock is there, a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, his hands pliant against his sides.

Sherlock looks horrendously beautiful, despite the fact that it's snowing and his hair is wet and he's making fucking puddles on the floor - John lets a gasp escape his parched lips before Sherlock pulls him by the hand and begins to talk. So blissfully unaware that John is simply intoxicated by his presence.

The cab ride is warm and lovely, kisses dot Sherlock's neck when the cabby isn't looking, and an insistent mumble turns into the soft sound of lips touching lips.

John's wasted so much time.

***

Movies are beautiful. Sherlock's voice is a calm whisper in his ear, a narrative of gorgeous, liquid commentating.

He grips gently to Sherlock's thigh to ensure that he is still there, still alive. He should really be gripping on to himself; it's almost certain that he has died over a thousand times by now.

***

"It was the brother."

"No," John mumbles into Sherlock's shoulder. "That cliffhanger literally killed me, and then you go and bloody spoil it all with your intelligence."

"I didn't 'spoil' it. I'm just stating that, given the facts, it was most likely the brother."

John stops.

"What?"

After a moment, "You should be a detective."

Sherlock blinks a couple of times, then smirks. "Don't be daft."

"Yeah," John says. He turns to the street, and then throws up a thumb to hail for a taxicab.

***

John falls silent when Sherlock's eyes sag closed, and his head slumps against John's shoulder. He watches, quiet, he waits, and when the cab driver sees the two boys pressed all soft and warm against each other, he makes a decision and rides on past John's flat to the outskirts of London.

The lights are so pretty and warm, so gentle across the angles of Sherlock's body. His scarf has become undone in John's hands, and John whispers into it so Sherlock won't hear, won't wake up. He gags down his words and tries very very hard not to devastate himself.

What can he do, though, when Sherlock mumbles his name? What can he do?

***

Sherlock's never slept so soundly in his life.

John smells like cookies, and his mother - he smells like snow, and rain, and his body is more soft than satin and more beautiful than sunrise, the sunrise that Sherlock waits up to see.

He is the 4:30 mornings, and the sounds of children, and the touch of rose petals. John is good, and pure, and Sherlock loves the way he exists.

He's never slept so soundly in his life.

***

"See me again."

"Always."

"Tomorrow, and the day after."

"I will."

"Do you swear, Sherlock?"

"I do."

A fond nod is reciprocated between the two, and John closes the door to walk away so he doesn't melt before Sherlock's eyes. He hears murmuring on the other side, and the low, dull thud of a forehead pressed against the wood separating them.

"I miss you," the muffled voice repeats. "I miss you so much."

John puts his hand on the knob and reopens the door.

A/N: Y'ALL PROLLY THOUGHT I WASN'T GONNA UPDATE

I DUN DID

also idk

if you'll like this v_v

but you might?????

and thanks to @theboredpanda for showing me Master & A Hound

she is the only reason you have this chapter rn

cote, vomment... you know the drill, lovelies. ;D

ily guys heehee