So! Hello out there! I haven't posted a fanfic in literally years! WOW! Well, I got obssessed with Sherlock (the BBC version) recently and I just couldn't resist writing this fic! :) It's set after the Reichenbach Falls. I do not own the characters or the places or anything! I'm just a fan! :)

I hope you enjoy it! :)

Sherlock Returns

Chapter 1

John was sitting in his armchair, watching crap telly, when his cell binged, altering him of a new text message. He wiggled his hand into his pants pocket and slipped the phone out. He thumbed the touch screen into life and absentmindedly glanced down at the text message.

His heart stopped. He dropped the phone. It hit the carpet with a small thud. He didn't hear it. The rushing in his ears was overwhelming. The world started spinning. He was drowning. He couldn't get enough air to his brain. He swayed in his seat and slumped over the arm. Black and white dots swam in front of his eyes.

With a rasping gasp, John clutched his heart and took a shuddering breath. The world snapped back into place with the speed of a cracking whip.

In all his years John had never felt his heart beat so fast. Even during the war, while working in the battlefield, even when running around with Sherlock trying to discover a serial killer, even when tied to enough explosives to blow up a building, even when Sherlock had died. Never before had his heart felt like it was going to explode out of his chest the way it did at that moment.

It felt like a heart attack were imminent, as if a rhino were charging through his chest.

Hyperventilating, he pushed himself into a sitting position once more, and tried his best to breath deeply. But it was no use. Every time he tried to take a deep breath it felt as if he were being suffocated and he was forced to take rapid shallow breaths once more. His entire body shook. His teeth clattered. Without even meaning too, he leaned over and picked up the phone. He dropped it again, his hands shook so badly. He tried once more and brought the phone to his lap.

Numb with shock, unable to even string two coherent words together in his head, he stared at the phone.

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner—SH.

John wasn't aware of how long he stared at the text message. He just remembered Mrs. Hudson coming into the room with a cuppa.

"Oh John, I made some tea. Just the way you like it."

John's eyes snapped to her and she took a startled step backwards.

"John? Is there a problem dearie? You look awfully pale? What's happened?"

His lips moved of their own accord. "He's back."

Mrs. Hudson furrowed her eyebrows, confusion written all over her kind face. "Sorry dearie, who's back?"

"Sherlock." His voice was barely an audible whisper. It was hoarse, as if he'd been yelling all day.

Mrs. Hudson dropped the tea tray. The cups shattered. The milk spilled. She raised her hands to her mouth and breathed "Oh."

The breaking china woke John from his reverie. He staggered to his feet and quickly began cleaning up the mess. Mrs. Hudson trembled all over.

"Mrs. Hudson, please sit down. Here, let me clean this up. Sit down, please, I'll make some tea." Watson was surprised at the change in his tone. His voice was back. And for the first time in three years, there wasn't grief tinting it.

Mrs. Hudson wobbled over to the couch and sat down. Watson occupied himself with the tea and brought it over to her when it was done. She gratefully took a cup and together they sipped their tea, staring at nothing.

After a while she broke the silence. "Are you sure, John? Are you sure it's him?" Her voice cracked.

John looked into her eyes and nodded. "It's him."

A sob wracked her frame. He gently placed his cup down and scooted over to her. Wrapping an arm around her he pulled her into his chest and held her while she cried. They stayed that way for a while, until finally her sobs became sniffles and she sat back up and wiped her eyes with a hankie. She blew her nose loudly. John surreptitiously wiped his eyes.

Mrs. Hudson turned to him, "So, when's he coming around?" And John jumped, because he'd forgotten to text Sherlock back. His fingers typed a quick reply.

Where? When?—JW

The reply was instant.

Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester. 8 pm. Wear your best.

Watson wolf whistled. Alain Ducasse was one of the top restaurants in the world. With a three star rating from Michilen, it was not only usually impossible to get a table, but it was incredibly expensive. Watson glanced at his watch and nearly jumped out of his skin. It was five pm already. How had that happened? He could have sworn it had been ten in the morning only minutes ago!

He glanced at Mrs. Hudson. "Well, I'm going to meet him for dinner…and then, I guess we'll come back here? If we aren't too late I'll knock at your door."

She nodded. "Oh, my good boy, I cannot…oh, Sherlock." She sighed and for the first time in three years John noticed a hint of authentic joy in her eyes.

"Where is he taking you?" She asked.

Waston blushed. She made it sound as if he were going on a date. "Alain Ducasse…" he muttered. Her eyes widened and she grinned.

"Oh that naughty Sherlock! Well, it's only fair. I'd be angry at the boy if he didn't treat you to a nice dinner after all that he's put you through! Now, go! Go! You must prepare! Shower, now." She pushed him out of the couch and towards the bathroom. He chuckled slightly and scuttled into the shower.

The hot water seared down his back and he sighed. His stomach began to rebel against him and butterflies wracked his nerves. Suddenly he began to have doubts. What if it wasn't Sherlock? What if it was all a bad joke? What if…? John gulped and stopped the thoughts right there. No! It was Sherlock. He was sure of it. John was the only one who had known about the text message that Irene Adler had sent Sherlock after coming back from the "dead." So, it could only be Sherlock or Irene. And Irene was dead. That was for sure. So, Sherlock it was. Yes. Sherlock was back. His best friend was back. And as this thought hit Watson he suddenly felt a weight lift from his chest; a weight that had been there for over three years.

The first year after Sherlock's suici…no, death, had been horrible for John. He'd stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. If breathing had been something he did voluntarily, he'd have stopped breathing too. He'd lost so much weight. He slept so rarely and when he did he was tormented by nightmares. Then the hallucinations started. He'd wake up and see Sherlock in the kitchen, making breakfast. Except that the breakfast wasn't eggs or toast, but burning fingers and fried eyes. Or he'd be going out for milk, on the days he could drag himself out of bed, and there would be Sherlock, walking in the shadows next to him. But whenever he turned to look at him closely he'd be gone. He started hearing his voice in the back of his head. He'd be reading the paper, when he felt angry enough at himself to read anything at all, and Sherlock would whisper "Boring! Boring!" or he'd be watching telly and Sherlock's voice would pop up and mutter a correction to the telly. The first few times it happened Watson broke down and wept for hours. Eventually he got used to it.

The second year things got slightly better. The hallucinations started vanishing. He took to walking the streets of London in the dead of night and meeting with all of the people who still believed in Sherlock Holmes. To honor his dead friend's memory he took care of the large homeless population of London. It was the least he could do. He offered his medical services to them free of charge and assisted them whenever he could. He owed them that, because while he'd been hiding out in 221B Baker Street for the first months, the homeless population had continued the legacy of Sherlock Holmes. It had been an overnight phenomenon. One day to the next, and nearly every available space was graffiti with "I believe in Sherlock Holmes." The Internet soon buzzed with it. People started signing everything they did with "I believe in Sherlock Holmes." Watson cried when he saw this.

Greg started coming to him for assistance on certain cases. One day Watson walked into Scotland Yard's main lobby and stumbled upon the Superintendent chatting with Donavon and Anderson. Watson would have walked right on passed them, except that he overheard they muttering a word that caught his ear. Freak.

He paused. They had not noticed him yet.

"Well, well, I do believe there will be some raises and promotions for the two of you. It's been a year now since the fraud's death. No one shall suspect that your promotions are in part, due to your help in bringing his lies to life." The superintendent stated, a disgusting smile on his face. Watson's blood boiled.

Donavon smirked in a way that reminded Watson of Sherlock except that on Sherlock the smirk had been endearing. On Donavon it was the most hideous, appalling thing he'd ever seen. He wanted to smack the smile right off her face.
"He's a freak alright. And did you see Lestrade? All torn up about his death. The moron."

Anderson shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well…he did die…" It was a pathetic attempt to defend Sherlock's honor but Watson mentally thanked him for it.

The superintendent snorted derisively. " As if anyone could mourn that freak of nature."

John snapped. He didn't know how he travelled the fifteen meters to the superintendent in the blink of an eye, but by the time he was aware of what he was doing, his fist had smacked straight into the superintendent's face. The superintendent's head snapped back and his eyes widened in shock. Watson's other fist pounded the man's ribs and the superintendent went down on the floor. Fury like he'd rarely felt before burned through John's veins. He vaguely remembers being pulled off the man and being hauled into a holding cell. He does remember the look of surprise, pride, and satisfaction on Greg's face when he saw Watson pounding every inch of the superintendent he could find.

John never found out exactly how Mycroft heard of the incident, nor what he did, but John was positive he was the one behind getting John out of prison with no charges against him. When John heard that the superintendent had been sacked, and Sally demoted, he grinned. Anderson was given a warning but otherwise not affected. John had a feeling that Lestrade had intervened on his forensic experts behalf. He didn't particularly mind.

As the third year after Sherlock's death came around Watson finally accepted the truth of the matter. Sherlock was dead. He wasn't coming back. He would never give Watson the one thing Watson had ever asked of Sherlock. This realization had filled John with fury for a while but eventually that abated. He got a full time job. He started eating again, although he never regained all the weight he'd lost. He had plenty of money. Mycroft apparently had paid the rent on his and Sherlock's apartment for the next ten years. Watson rather felt like it was his way of saying sorry for the role he'd played in his brother's death. Eventually John forgave him.

John tried dating. But in this endeavor he failed miserably. After the eleventh disastrous date Watson realized why. He would never again give his heart to anyone else. Sherlock had stolen his heart, and taken it with him to his grave. And Watson couldn't take it back. Even after everything, even after the darn, god dammed, irritating, annoying, horribly frustrating, world's only consulting detective was dead, Watson still loved him. At first this had perturbed Watson because he knew he wasn't gay. But what he felt for his deceased friend wasn't lust, it was plain and simple love.

So, John accepted that he'd never marry. The thought didn't cause him grief the way it might have when Sherlock was still alive. He might adopt a kid in the future. John liked kids. He laughed at what Sherlock would have said about that.

The water ran cold. John stepped out of the shower and toweled himself dry. As he did, he realized he had to do one last thing before he could truly forgive Sherlock for the agony he'd put John through. And John grinned wickedly, because his best friend, his love, was NEVER going to anticipate what John had in mind.

Mrs. Hudson, god-bless her heart, had laid out Watson's best suit. He chuckled at that. Despite all she said about not being his, no…their, housekeeper, she still couldn't resist the urge to look after them. John did up his shirt, sipped up the fly on his slacks, and slipped on his dark blue jacket. He even put on a tie. Then he tied up his shoes and grabbed an overcoat. This was London after all. He walked into the kitchen, and opened a cupboard. He grabbed the gun and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room and clapped. "Oh, John, how dashing you look!" She gave him a hug as he blushed. She pulled back, patted his cheek and smiled. "Give him a slap for me." John raised his eyes brows amused. "Well! He can't just expect to appear now, after all this time, and have us just welcome him with open arms. Well…of course he can, because of course we will…but still…shouldn't tell him that otherwise it'll go to his head. And god only knows, that head of his is already too blown up!"

John let out a heartfelt laughed and kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek. "I'll make sure to do that then, Mrs. Hudson. See you tonight, or in the morning!"

And without further ado, he positively jumped down the steps and hailed a cab. It was only as he stepped out of the cab that he noticed he'd forgotten his cane. He blinked and grinned. His limp, which had plagued him for three years, was gone.

Sherlock waited impatiently at the door of the restaurant. People kept giving him strange looks, as if they recognized him but couldn't remember from where. He smirked. Typical, unobservant, normal people. He saw a cab stop at the opposite curb and a stocky man get out. Sherlock's stomach clenched and his breathing quickened. He was suddenly overwhelmed by nervousness and a sensation that he'd rarely felt before. Fear. What if John never wished to speak with him? What if John didn't want to be his friend any more? It was true that he'd accepted Sherlock's invitation to dinner, but still…what if it was just to tell him to piss off. Sherlock wouldn't blame John if he hated him. Still, he couldn't help the cold sweat that broke out across his brow. His heart clenched painfully. Until Sherlock had met Watson, he'd never understood saying such as "nauseous with fear" or "butterflies in your stomach." But now,…now, he thought he understood.

The past three years had not been easy on Sherlock. Anything but. He knew how much John had suffered. He'd seen his friend, his only friend, the person he cared most about in the entire world, break down sobbing at his grave. He'd watched his limp come back, watched him steadily loosing weight. His heart had screamed at him to go to his friend and comfort him, but he's always resisted. Of course, he hadn't just stayed by John's side and watched his every move. No, Sherlock had been very busy the past three years. He'd tracked down Moriarti's men. One by one. Slowly, tediously, he'd destroyed Moriarti's web. It had been immense. Sherlock had been forced to respect, even admire, the brilliance of his greatest enemy. But in the end, Sherlock had won. Moriarti had lost. Mycroft had helped Sherlock. Sherlock had let Mycroft think him dead for two weeks, just for the heck of it. It gave him a wicked pleasure to outwit his brother. He'd also been touched to see just how much Mycroft mourned. In those two weeks Sherlock had realized that his brother genuinely cared for him. So, together, the Holmes brothers had brought down the greatest criminal organization that had ever been, and might ever be.

The last of Moriarti's men had fallen yesterday. Sherlock hadn't even taken time to sleep. He'd booked the first possible flight home. Every second away from his John was another second of agony. When he was busy destroying Moriarti's web he hadn't allowed himself to feel the loneliness, the anguish that came with being away from his blogger. The flight back seemed to take forever. He ran through hundreds of possible scenarios each different than the other about how his meeting with John could go. Some had pleased him, others had terrified him.

Mycroft bought Sherlock a new suit and gave him his old coat that Sherlock had left for safe keeping in Mycroft's home. Mycroft had gotten them a private table at the restaurant, but it was not Mycroft who was paying for tonight's dinner. No, Sherlock was. It was his John, not Mycroft's.

So, when John stepped out of the cab and turned towards Sherlock, Sherlock's breath caught. He didn't breath as the man crossed the street and came to stand in front of him. Sherlock appraised him. John looked extraordinarily fit in his nicest suit. Sherlock found himself admiring the way the shirt highlighted John's muscular chest and the pants displayed his nice hips.

Sherlock locked gazes with John and they stared at each other, neither of them breathing. Sherlock could see a well of emotions in John's eyes, all of them fighting for dominance. There was anger, hurt, disbelief, relief, joy, tenderness, appreciation, acceptance, and amusement. This last one confused Sherlock. Finally, Sherlock gave in.

"John." His breath escaped him.

John blinked, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the gun. Sherlock watched, in horror, as he leveled the gun. Sherlock stumbled as he tried to retreat, but Watson was a soldier. He could never have missed a shot at this distance.

He pulled the trigger.

The water hit Sherlock full in the face and he stumbled and went down on the hard concrete. John burst into laughter at the look on Sherlock's face. Sherlock spluttered, and glared at him. John only laughed harder. He kneeled down and laughed until his ribs ached and tears filled his eyes.

Several minutes later he wiped his eyes, struggled to his feet, still chuckling and offered his hand to a very pouty Sherlock. Sherlock took the hand and pulled himself to his feet.

"That was very rude…" He didn't finish the sentence before Watson pulled him into a backbreaking hug. Speechless for the second time in several minutes, Sherlock did the one thing that seemed logical. He hugged back. They stayed that way for several minutes, reveling in the feel of being together once more. Sherlock breathed deeply, trying to fill himself with John's scent of tea, old spice deodorant, minty aftershave, and something else that was purely John. Sherlock love it. He loved the feel of John's strong arms around him and his face pressed into Sherlock's neck. The hot air from John's mouth against Sherlock's neck gave Sherlock goose bumps.

John for his part couldn't remember ever being so happy. He felt like he'd just float away, he was so light. Sherlock's heart beat at the same rate, and same tempo as his own. He could feel it, thumping wildly against his best friend's chest. John tried to drown himself in Sherlock's musty yet sharp scent. It was a scent that said "Sherlock". It was bold but at the same time there was a hint of something else behind the bold, sharp exterior. Something warm that made John's head reel and breath quicken.

Eventually a passerby yelled at them, "Hey! Get a room!" His friends snickered. John blushed and Sherlock looked away. They reluctantly stepped away from each other.

Then Sherlock chuckled and John glanced at him, "What is it?"

Sherlock shook his head, "It's just, of all the things I envisioned you'd do when I saw you again, shooting a water gun at me was not one of them."

John smirked, "Your not the only one who thinks out of the box Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled his John smile, a smile that was meant for John and only John, and replied, "It would appear so. Now, shall we?" And he waved his partner into the restaurant.

John had to admit he was impressed. The waitress led them straight to the private section of the restaurant and seated them next to the window at a table for two. There was a bouquet of flowers and a large candle. John raised his eyebrows at this.

Once they were seated and glancing at the menus, curiosity got the best of him and he opened his mouth to ask, but Sherlock beat him to it. "Mycroft. He called his morning and got us the spot."

John raised an eyebrow. "Wait, you mean…Mycroft knows you are alive?"

Sherlock gave him a don't be an idiot John look.

John breathed out. "Oh…for how long?"

"Since two weeks after my death. I needed his help." Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

Watson clenched his hands, anger boiling up inside him. Sherlock seemed to sense this because he put down his menu, reached across the table and gently took John's hand in his. John was so shocked by this action that his anger melted away.

"John, look at me." Sherlock whispered in a voice that melted John's insides. "Do you want to know why I left?" John nodded mutely. Sherlock grimaced and John was shocked to see a flash of anguish cross his face. "I left… I died, because…because" He was having trouble saying it. The memory still hurt. "Because, he was going to kill you." The last words were barely a whisper. John's breath caught.

"You mean, Moriarti? Moriarti was going to kill me….if you didn't jump?" His voice shook more than John would have liked.

Sherlock nodded. "You, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade."

And suddenly John understood. He wondered briefly, if in Sherlock's place, he'd have done the same. He didn't realize he was crying until Sherlock's gentle fingers brushed away the tears from his cheek.

Sherlock felt distraught. He didn't like his John to be so miserable. It broke his heart to see him this way. John saw the pain in Sherlock's eyes and smiled. The silly bloke was so bad at reading emotions.

He laughed weakly and clutched at Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock, I'm not crying because I'm sad, but because I've never felt so touched. And you are an idiot you know that? Since when has my normal little life ever been worth more than yours? There are hundreds of John's out there, but there is only one Sherlock. The world was lost without you."

Sherlock blinked, utterly befuddled and then he scowled. "You are wrong John. Without you, I would be nothing."

He hadn't meant to say it out loud, it had just slipped by. John's eyes widened and Sherlock felt panic building up inside his chest. Had he just destroyed any chance of regaining his life with Watson? He clenched his jaw and tried to pull his hand back from John's. John didn't let him.

"And without you, I was nothing. I missed you, Sherlock" John replied so softly Sherlock could barely make it out. Sherlock's heart jumped and he smiled a genuine, delighted smile. It warmed John's heart.

A soft cough alerted them to the presence of the waitress, who was standing by their table, looking highly amused. They both jumped, released each other's hand quickly, and shuffled in their seats, trying not to glance at each other.

"So, the couple's special then?" She smirked.

Neither of them would risk opening their mouths, for fear of what might come out, so they just nodded, and blushed. The waitress scuttled off, and Sherlock glanced at John. He raised his eyebrows.

"We will never live this down." Watson groaned. They both burst into laughter. It was just like old times.

They talked of little things as they ate. John asked what Sherlock had been up to the past three years and Sherlock told him. Watson couldn't help saying "Wow" every now and again. Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

Eventually Sherlock inquired after John's latest girlfriends and John shrugging slightly, told him the truth. He hadn't had any success and he didn't really feel like he wanted to. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this.

"Is this to mean, that John Watson, the eligible bachelor, is no longer eligible?" He smirked.

John smirked back, "I guess so, although, if you annoy me enough I might just decide to get married for the sake of driving you up the wall."

Sherlock huffed and under his breath muttered, "I won't allow it."

John gave him a look, "What was that?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," Sherlock replied sheepishly.

John laughed. "Sherlock Holmes, are you claiming me?" He teased.

Sherlock blushed. "Do you want to be claimed? Didn't you say you weren't gay?"

John winked at him, "I'm not gay. But I'm not opposed to being claimed."

Sherlock's eyes went wide at the suggestion, "Oh." Watson, feeling particularly devilish, slipped his foot out of his shoe and sneakily rubbed it against the inside of Sherlock's leg. Sherlock spluttered on his salad while John feigned innocence.

Sherlock smirked internally. Two people could play at this game.

While John was distracted, taking a sip of his delightful wine, Sherlock slipped his toes under the rim of John's pant leg and rubbed a circle in the exposed flesh. John spat the wine outwards and coughed. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"John!" he reprimanded, as he wiped the table of wine droplets. "Where are your table manners?" John glared at him. Oh it was on.

John couldn't believe he was playing footsies with Sherlock, THE Sherlock Holmes. He was also surprised by just how affected he was becoming. Sherlock seemed totally immune, that was until John pretended to drop his fork and as he leaned over in the pretense of picking it up, slipped his hand under the table and reached up to rub Sherlock's thigh as he did so.

There was a clattering of utensils and John emerged to see his friend bright red in the face and embarrassedly wiping down the table, where he'd spilled his soup.

"Sherlock!" John gave him his best scowl and then burst into laughter as the look of impending doom on Sherlock's face.

In the end they were forced to call it a truce, since if it went any further they were in danger of being kicked out of the restaurant.

They shared a rich chocolate cake that oozed chocolate fondue. Sherlock, it turned out, could not eat chocolate without getting it smeared all over his mouth. John didn't point out this fact.

Eventually Sherlock inquired, "John, you keep glancing at me and smirking. Did I do something to amuse you?" John just shook his head. "John, why is the waitress glancing at me and laughing?" John raised an eyebrow.

"You're the detective, you figure it out."

Sherlock scowled and as he went to lift his spoon to take the last bite of chocolate heaven, he saw his reflection. His affronted glare and outlandish pout at discovering that John had not informed him of his chocolate mustache were so childish that John took a mental picture of his face and stored it away to look back upon in the future and laugh himself silly.

Sherlock paid the bill before John even had a moment to look at it and then picked up the bouquet of flowers. He stood up, offered his arm to John who took it, probably because the last couple of glasses of wine had liberated him significantly. Sherlock passed him the flowers and John took them with a grin. They made for a very strange, yet adorable, couple as they strode out of the restaurant with as much dignity as they could. Their swaying might had detracted slightly from the image, but they didn't notice.

They hailed a cab and drunkenly stumbled into it. The cab driver took one look at them and shook his head. "221B Baker Street." John mumbled.

He turned and faced Sherlock, who was staring at him, and odd look on his face.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"You are beautiful." Sherlock declared with enough pompousness to make it seem like he'd just made one of the world's most amazing discoveries. For some reason, neither John nor him found this to be a strange statement at all.

"You are gorgeous too." John replied, and he meant it. Sherlock grinned.

"Staring contest?" He asked, as if this were the logical thing to do after telling someone you thought they were beautiful.

"Of course!" John replied. Neither spoke a word for the rest of the ride. The cabbie was the only one who noticed that their breathing sped up steadily throughout the ride. For lord's sake, these two need to just shag. Sheesh! He thought.

When they arrived they didn't get out until the cabbie opened the door and dragged them. They spluttered and Sherlock gave the cabbie a hateful glare. "We weren't done with the staring contest!"

"Yah well, I'm not waiting all goddamed year."

Sherlock scrunched up his nose at that and paid him, before grabbing John's arm and making his way unsteadily up to their flat. Mrs. Hudson heard them come up and dashed out of her flat. "Sherlock! Oh Sherlock!" She cried.

Sherlock glanced at her, "Not right now Mrs. Hudson, busy. I like your new dress by the way. I'd stay way from Dave though, he's got another mistress." Even sloshed, Sherlock could be annoying as hell.

Mrs. Hudson scowled and then noticed the way Sherlock was supporting John. Realization dawned and she smiled, "Well, about time! You two have fun!" With that she winked and went back into her own flat.

"What was all that about?" John asked Sherlock.

"Hm, no idea." Sherlock opened the door and pushed through it. John followed and Sherlock dragged him to his room. "Huh? Sherlock, what you doing?"

Sherlock didn't answer but tripped and fell onto his bed, bringing John with him. They landed with a soft thump and their breath caught. Sherlock stared into John's eyes.

"John, your breathing is elevated, your pupils are dilated, and something is poking me in the leg." Sherlock observed. "I must infer that you are aroused."

John raised his eyes, "Brilliantly deducted. Now shut it."

"Shut what exac…" He didn't finish his statement because John had pressed his lips against Sherlock's and Sherlock suddenly couldn't think at all. The feeling of Watson's surprisingly soft lips against his was amazing. He'd never imagined that kissing could be so, so, incredible. His mind quickly categorized every sensation he felt; the warmth from John's body on his, the tickle from John's tie against his neck, John's sturdy weight upon him, and hundreds others. But crowding them all out was the feeling that this was exactly what he wanted. That there was nothing in the world he'd ever give this up for.

It was a short kiss, only 4.5 seconds if Sherlock was correct, and he was, but it left them both breathless. John's eyes were wide and his breathing labored.

"Wow…" he muttered.

"I concur." Sherlock replied. John laughed. His breath against Sherlock's lips made Sherlock shudder.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body and nuzzled his neck. Sherlock tentatively did the same and they stayed that way for a while, neither of them wishing to break the contact.

Eventually Sherlock gently extricated himself. "John, our clothes. Mycroft will murder me if I destroy this suit." John sighed and rolled over.

"You are right."

"Of course."

Sherlock stripped quickly, down to his boxers, and hung up his suit. John stared at him, not even bothering to look away when Sherlock glanced at him. Sherlock smirked. He moved to the bed and pulled John's jacket off and then unbuttoned his shirt. John moved then, pushing his hands aside.

"Sherlock!" he sounded a bit indignant.

"Yes? Come now John, I've seen you in boxers before."

"Yes, but that was before…"

"Before we kissed?" Sherlock asked tentatively, hoping that John wasn't regretting the actions.

John nodded. Then he came to a spilt second decision. This is what he wanted, didn't he? So what if he wasn't gay? He loved Sherlock. And Sherlock clearly loved him. Blinking he stood up and stripped. Sherlock smiled and sat down on the bed while he waited from John to place his clothing on the chair. Sherlock was not surprised to notice that almost everything about his room was exactly as it had been when he left. John hadn't moved anything. It warmed his heart slightly and also sent a pang of guilt through his gut. He'd hurt his John so much. John broke his reverie by grabbing Sherlock around the shoulders and dragging him to the top of the bed.

Sherlock smirked at his John and snuggled under the covers. John followed suit. Neither of them seemed to think this strange at all. In fact, it felt completely natural. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and tucked his head under Sherlock's chin. Sherlock gently held him.

After a few minutes John ventured. "I guess this changes things…"

"I do not know John. I've never done this before."

John was shocked. "Really? Never?" Sherlock nodded. "Never even been kissed?" Sherlock nodded once more. "Wow. Well, I'll make sure to take it slow, okay?"

Sherlock smiled into John's hair. "I would appreciate that." Butterflies fluttered around his stomach.

"John?" He asked tentatively a while later.

"Hm?" Muttered the sleepy man.

"It is normal, to…feel all warm inside when in a relationship like this?" Sherlock's voice was very soft.

John's eyes snapped open and he leaned up to look into Sherlock's worried eyes. The man really had never experienced anything like this before. Irene had been right. Sherlock was a virgin in every sense of the word.

"Yes it's normal Sherlock. And I love you too." John leaned up and planted a soft kiss against the older man's lips. He didn't miss the way Sherlock's eyes lit up at his words. It warmed his heart.

Suddenly a hysterical thought entered John's brain and he burst into laughter. Sherlock pulled back, bemused. "John?"

John chuckled again and Sherlock became worried. Was he so bad at kissing that it made John burst into laughter? But no, that couldn't be because John was kissing him again.

"Oh Sherlock, what are the guys down at Scotland Yard going to say when they find out you are alive?"

Sherlock pondered this for a moment, "Is that what amuses you? Imagining their responses?"

John smiled, "Sort of. But I also just had the best idea for a prank that we can pull on them." And he told Sherlock his idea. Sherlock made several improvements to the plan, of course.

Then they lay back, and laughed together. Both of them fell asleep utterly grateful to be back together. Both of them slept soundly for the first time in three years.

So, there you are! Did you like it? There will probably only be one more chapter, but if people enjoy it enough I might be tempted to write more one shots between Sherlock and Watson :) I love their pairing and I adore Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock! :)

PLEASE REVIEW! REVIEWS MEAN HAPPINESS! :D