"Surprised you came."

He heard him before he saw him - just like the first time they met. He looked so loud and strong; John felt quiet next to him, like the breeze before a thunderstorm.

"Really?" John replied cynically, looking right to see Sherlock standing against molding brick. He had a used cigarette between his teeth and he spat it out, smushing it under his boot toe.

"No," Sherlock said. "I knew you'd come."

John tilted his head a bit, walking towards Sherlock and leaning next to him on the building. "How's that?"

Sherlock sounded tired. "We've gone over this," he said.

John nodded once, although Sherlock couldn't see him in the darkness. All of Bristol had gone out when night fell, wary of Nazi bomber pilots. John didn't miss the harsh city lights that he would've seen from here, had the war not been happening.

Sherlock seemed to know what he was thinking as he spoke again, sounding satisfied. "One of the better things about the war," he said. "No city lights to keep you up, no noise at night. You can see the stars, if you look really closely."

John looked over at the blackened sky, a sprinkle of white lights of varying sizes dotted the expanse. Then his eyes flickered Sherlock's silhouette, tall and blackened, a shadow.

"You were amazing, tonight."

Then Sherlock looked over at his, so they were both staring at the outlines of each other's faces. "You're saying that so you can have sex with me," he stated, but there was a kind of disappointment inflected in the words.

John was silent for half a beat, and then he said, "No," because, well - no, that wasn't the case - but then found he didn't have anywhere to go from there.

They were still staring at each other's outlines in the dark.

Sherlock scoffed, his breath exploding into the icy air. "I'm the only one who can handle the solo without choking."

"You're welcome, Sherlock," John replied easily. There was another, longer pause, where Sherlock just stared back up at the cloudless sky, his skin illuminated by the sharp sliver of a waning crescent moon. Quiet, trying not to tear open the subtlety of the moment, John prompted, "Ever feel stage fright?"

Sherlock made a small noise, a contemplative noise. Then: "I used to."

"What stopped it?"

He barked out a humorless laugh. "Drugs."

John would be lying if he said he didn't feel the tiniest twinge of discomfort. "Drugs, huh?"

Sherlock exhaled, seemingly over this conversation. "I don't enjoy repeating myself."

"Ah." He responded by giving Sherlock a curt nod, his fists clenching and unclenching, something awkward and clunky and forced falling out of his mouth. "Well, you did really well tonight, and I'm glad I came. I'll see you on Monday."

John was just about to step out the way he came, only to hear a small, but slightly urgent voice say, "Wait."

When John spun on his heel, his eyes locked with Sherlock's, uncertainty saturating the dry autumn air. "What?" he said, and as soon as he said it, he mentally hit himself for sounding like an overeager primary school student. His voice sounded so damned hopeful - it hurt to hear himself speak.

"You can stay," Sherlock said, talking slower than John was used to. Like he was straining his words through a filter. "If you want."

The only thing John could force out that didn't sound remotely confused was "okay," and he pulled himself back to the brick wall, expecting nothing but silence.

But in a few simple, smooth movements, Sherlock had taken a pack of cigarettes out from his coat pocket and had brought one to his lips. He consequentially flicked open a lighter and lifted it to the butt of the cigarette, wiggling it between his teeth as he spoke.

"Do you smoke, Doctor?"

"I don't, anymore. Apparently bad for breathing."

"Breathing?" Sherlock questioned playfully, removing the cigarette from his teeth. A mischievous smile twisted his lips as he handed off his cigarette to John. "Breathing's boring."

John glanced at Sherlock, trying to read his expression. His eyes were darker than ever, clouded by the residue of smoke and mist and night, but behind them was an easy openness that John had never seen before. There was something forbidden and beautiful in the way he was looking at John, in a way that wasn't quite as indelicate as how Sherlock usually looked at him.

Much later, after John had closed his eyes and filled up his lungs with nicotine and tar, Sherlock gently touched two cold fingers to the inside of his palm.

And John finally felt... quiet.

Oh jesus