Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Rated M for sexual content, but not XXX status.

John Watson could not figure out for the life of him why he was still living at Baker Street.

He also couldn't explain to you why he had never moved or cleaned anything in the flat unless it had started moulding.

But most of all, he really couldn't tell you why he was so completely broken up about the loss of Sherlock Holmes.

Of course he was upset. Sherlock was his closest—and probably only at this point—friend and he had watched him jump off a building. Yes, it was normal for him to be shaken and for him to be sad. Except it had been more than a year since it happened and still John was haunted by his dead friend, missing everything about him. The oddest part about it though was that John knew that his late friend Sherlock Holmes was an egotistical arsehole. He took John's computer without asking—well, he never asked to do anything—and commanded John to get things for him or go on cases for him when it wasn't interesting enough for Sherlock to bother putting on trousers. He was a bloody know-it-all in the worst sort of way and part of the time John had wanted to sock him anyway. The man had never shown an ounce of affection towards John in their—

No, that was a lie. He had shown affection. It was infrequent, but not nonexistent. It wasn't fair for John to say that he wasn't sure if Sherlock even liked him because he knew that he did. John had been Sherlock's best mate the same way that Sherlock was John's.

It was just a marvel to John, when he tried to think about it, that all of Sherlock's bad qualities seemed so endearing when Sherlock was no longer around. He would've paid anything to grab Sherlock's phone from his coat or go on a case for him while he sat in a sheet at the flat.

And John had nightmares. They reminded him of his nightmares after the war, back when he used a cane—Sherlock was the one that fixed that. In the nightmares, Sherlock would sometimes call his mobile and tell him that he was a fraud—which was a bloody lie and John knew it—or he would watch Sherlock jump off that building all over again. Then he would wake up sweating, wishing he hadn't been so easily tricked. Maybe he could have stopped it from happening.

He still tried to figure through why Sherlock would kill himself. The man worshiped his own intelligence, for Christ's sake. He never seemed the type to kill himself. Yes, Moriarty had destroyed his career and his reputation, which Sherlock was very unhappy about. He was married to his work, after all. But John figured he'd compose a few sad songs on his violin and then think of some brilliant plan to fix it all like he always did. Making Sherlock feel that hopeless, like he had run out of options, seemed impossible to John, but Moriarty had done it.

The thing that scared him most was what Ella had said. He was seeing Ella again since it all happened, and she would ask him to recount his memories of Sherlock sometimes. One time when she did this, very recently, she had replied, "Have you considered that Sherlock wasn't just your friend at all?" I had gotten very angry at that point—honestly, everyone had said things like that about the two of them and it was very annoying—but she had only said that the only way to conquer these feelings was to know exactly what the feelings were.

He didn't want to think about it, but she had forced him to. Sherlock had been his friend. That was it.

But was it? In those tense moments where Sherlock would say something almost kind and John would find himself caught in his friend's jewel-blue eyes, was that just friendly behaviour? The way he missed Sherlock so terribly that his chest ached and he had to try to smile and act normally, was that just the consequence of a lost friend?

He hadn't gone on a single date since it happened, even when women asked, which they sometimes did. He didn't see his rugby lads when they invited him out. He hardly did anything except go into work and sit around, staring at Sherlock's empty chair.

Though he and Lestrade went out to a café a few times, just to chat. So had he and Mycroft. They tried to keep it to only small talk, but even Mycroft looked just a little concerned about John. John had been affected very deeply by the death of his friend, his partner in crime solving, his flat-mate.

Maybe too deeply affected?

He was sitting in the front room, recovering from his latest dream. It wasn't so bad as the other nightmares but somehow it made it impossible for him to try to get back to sleep, even though it was three in the morning.

It had been him, at the graveyard, begging Sherlock not to be dead. He had dreamed that Sherlock had been watching from behind a tree, not really dead at all.

It was ridiculous. Now John was pretending that Sherlock was alive just to make himself feel better, which meant he was really going entirely mad. Sherlock was gone and John was just going to have to get over it—

That was when he could have sworn he heard the door open downstairs. Couldn't have been Mrs. Hudson, she wouldn't have been awake. John looked around for the nearest weapon and saw a metal pole. Good enough. Why Sherlock had kept this thing around, he had no clue, but if there was some sort of robber coming up, then it would be good enough for protection.

The knob turned and through the door came…

But it couldn't be.

"I'm still asleep. Of course," John muttered, setting down the pipe and sitting in his chair. "This is a new one."

Sherlock Holmes was standing in the doorway, his eyes scanning John in that way he so often did, like he was reading every inch of him. It was impossible to tell what Sherlock thought of what he saw usually, but this time there were obvious signs of disapproval in his face.

"When's the last time you slept, John?"

"Not even a realistic dream," John mused aloud. "Sherlock doesn't care if I've slept or not."

Sherlock came forward and leaned in front of John. "It's really me, John. You aren't sleeping. I'm alive."

John stared at Sherlock. This was a very realistic dream.

"Come on, John, think," he continued. "You aren't nearly creative enough to make this up and you know it."

John was beginning to dare to hope, which he really didn't want to do. It would be even worse when he woke up this time, because he'll have been convinced that Sherlock was alive. It was quite a cruel dream. If it was a dream at all.

"Well, if you're really alive, why would you have kept away for so long?" John inquired.

"Moran. I had to get rid of him before it was safe for me to see anyone. He had to think I was dead or he'd have killed you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade."

"He—you—" John was fumbling, because it made sense. Then suddenly Sherlock got up, backing up a few steps. It took John a moment to realize what Sherlock already had—that John was furious. He had picked up the rod again.

"You aren't really going to hit me with that, are you?" Sherlock asked in a bored voice. "I know it's hard, but use your brain. It's really me."

John wasn't having trouble believing it was Sherlock anymore. Maybe he was asleep, he still wasn't sure, but if it really was him standing there, John really did want to hit him. "You mean to tell me that I've been distraught about your death this whole time and you've been off having a good old time, solving a case like always? You couldn't have called, just once, so I knew you were alive?"

"Distraught?" Sherlock repeated. "Come now, John, I'm sure that's not true. You were always angry with me anyway."

"I keep having nightmares about you jumping off the bloody building and I have to try so hard to—damn you, Sherlock! You've been alive the whole—" John dropped the rod and stood, walking over to his friend quickly and hugging him. He was a little surprised when Sherlock didn't try to push him away. He just patted his shoulder gingerly.

"John, honestly, I'm…" he choked on the word for a moment in irritation, and then tried again. "I'm sorry. I just didn't think you could fake it well enough to be believable."

"I'm not a total imbecile, Sherlock," John said irritably, letting go.

"What on earth gave you that idea?"

"Why did I miss you at all?" John grumbled, but he couldn't stop soaking in the sight of him. His memory had been fading, just a little, over time. He didn't remember the color of his eyes right or the exact shape of his cheekbones.

"If it's any consolation, I missed you too," Sherlock said quietly.

John's mouth almost fell open at the comment. Sherlock had apologized and said something about missing John, all in the span of five minutes. If this really was Sherlock, he was acting very odd.

"You missed me. Right."

"Honestly, I did. It was dreadfully dull without you around. I didn't get to have any fun at all."

John glared at his friend, and then hit him in the face. Sherlock was pushed into the wall, but didn't fall over. John noticed with dismay that he had again avoided his mouth and nose. He didn't even mean to. "Well, I'm sorry things were so boring for you while I was over here mourning your death!"

Sherlock just stood there, that look on his face that was absolutely impossible to interpret. "I probably deserved that," he said.

"Yes, you did!" But the anger was flowing out of John as quickly as it had come. Sherlock was only doing it to protect him, after all, and now he was here. John was almost frightened by how happy it made him to realise that. "God, I really missed you, Sherlock."

"I missed you too," Sherlock repeated. "Not only because it was boring," he added.

John could never explain to you what drove him to do what he did next. John came forward, grabbed both sides of Sherlock's face, and kissed him right on the mouth. When John realised what he'd done, he backed up and sat in his chair. Sherlock was just silently looking at John, examining him again. He was actually surprised, which didn't happen very often.

"I didn't expect that," Sherlock said, the shock obvious in his voice.

John put his head in his hands. He was horrified with himself. Ella had gotten him all worked up, that's what it was. He didn't want to… to kiss Sherlock. Not even if it hadn't been so bad… even if it hadn't been bad at all. "I don't know why I did that either. I'm sorry."

"No, that's not what I meant." This made John look up again. "I mean I didn't expect… kissing is completely pointless… but that…" he was rambling, something he did sometimes, except this time John could understand what he was talking about. Sherlock would never have thought kissing had any point to it at all. Only Sherlock seemed to be implying… "Do that again," he said, making it sound like a command.

"What?" John yelped.

"Just… just an experiment."

Initially, John just wanted to say no, but looking into Sherlock's eyes, he couldn't. He had never been able to refuse Sherlock anything. He got up again, feeling a little shaky, and stood right in front of Sherlock, whose face didn't change one bit from its look of determination. He reached his hand up and put it on his cheek, experimentally rubbing his thumb on Sherlock's cheek bone. Sharp enough to cut someone, he remembered. Sherlock just looked down at John, blinking. He seemed lost for words, which was different for him. Then he let his lips touch Sherlock's again, except it lingered just a little longer that time and his eyes were closed. When he opened them again, he was very surprised about what he saw. There was this heat in Sherlock's eyes he had never seen before.

"There's a squeezing feeling in my gut," Sherlock said quietly to himself. "Could be nerves, but it probably isn't. But there's no point to DNA swapping. None whatsoever. So why…"

"Why did that feel good?" John suggested tentatively, only just realising that his hand was still on Sherlock's face. He was about to move it, but Sherlock's hand flashed up, holding it in position. John was utterly silent because he didn't have any idea what to say.

Had Ella been right? Obviously the butterflies in his stomach or the burning in his skin would say that she was. John, looking up at Sherlock and realising just how much he missed him… how much he needed him… would say that she was too. So yes, maybe John had feelings for Sherlock. But Sherlock wasn't capable of having feelings for him too, was he? For Sherlock's skin was hot under John's hand too and he had locked eyes with John and would not let John look away. He even looked a little nervous. He never seemed the type that was able to love—but it wasn't love, of course, John thought hastily. Couldn't be love.

Even if it was, Sherlock thought that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, that love was a great disadvantage. Sherlock would never love anyone.

So why was he looking at John that way?

"What, do you need me to try again for the sake of science?" John muttered just for something to say.

"Yes, actually I do," Sherlock said. "Except, this time, not for science."

John felt his breath catch. "Well, for what then?" John asked weakly.

"For me," he replied. So there was the great Sherlock Holmes, leaning up against a wall with a bruise forming on his cheek, asking John Watson to kiss him. John couldn't believe it was happening. He also couldn't believe how quickly he obeyed the request. In a moment their bodies were crushed together, Sherlock between John and the wall, and this time Sherlock was kissing him back.

John had never felt something so right in his life. He couldn't deny anymore that he had feelings for Sherlock. The way his whole body was burning with desire, he obviously felt something. Something strong.

And Sherlock was feeling something too, because when John slipped his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock did the same. Sherlock didn't seem sure where to touch or what to do, which John thought was endearing. He'd been called The Virgin before. It was obviously true.

Though this was new to John too, being with a man. It was different in a thrilling sort of way.

John pulled himself closer to Sherlock once more and John heard the first muffled moan escape from Sherlock's lips. Suddenly Sherlock's arms weren't as unsure as they wrapped around John ever tighter.

John let go of Sherlock, backing up so there was a few inches between them. They were breathing hard and Sherlock definitely had a fire in his eyes. John took Sherlock's hand and began to walk back into the flat.

"Where're we going?" Sherlock asked shakily. It was odd for John to see Sherlock so unsteady, almost looking scared.

"Just come on," John said. Sherlock followed him and they went into John's room. Now Sherlock really did look fearful, but he shut the door behind him and just looked at John. He came forward and started undoing the buttons on Sherlock's always too-tight shirt, throwing it on the floor unceremoniously. Sherlock stood there for a moment, and then surprised John once more by starting to peel off John's sweater. Then they were kissing again and they fell back onto John's bed, exploring one another tentatively.

"I'm really glad you're alive," John said at one point, when they were under the covers, naked, and just looking at each other.

"And I'm glad to be here," Sherlock said, leaning forward and kissing him. It was the first time he had initiated anything that night and John understood what that meant.

"I don't sleep with people on the first date," John said.

Sherlock smirked. "I'm feeling rather tired anyway," he said, getting up.

"You're going to your room?" John asked.

Sherlock looked down at him. "Would you like me to stay?"

"You're welcome to. If you'd like."

Sherlock lay back down on the pillow and shut his eyes, saying nothing more. John didn't mind. He fell asleep and had no nightmares.

John woke up to his empty bed in dismay. Of course it had all been a dream. A frightening one, because it made John realise that he did have feelings for his dead friend. Ella said it would be easier to handle the emotions once he knew what emotions he was handling, but John wasn't so sure. He didn't want to get up, but he knew he couldn't stay in bed all day, so he threw off the covers and stood.

That was when he saw the clothes on the floor. His own sweater and jeans, but also a black shirt and trousers. He also had no clothes on, when usually he slept in pyjamas.

No, it couldn't be true. Could it? John's pulse quickened as he threw on his jeans and went into the front room, and there was Sherlock, on John's computer in just a sheet.

"You changed your password to 'Holmes'? Terrible choice, really," he said.

"You're actually here."

"Of course I am," Sherlock said, not turning from the computer. "Don't you remember last night? I certainly do."

"I just thought it may have been a dream or something."

"That would be a very odd dream, John."

"Dreams are often odd."

"My dreams are in binary code, usually, but they are quite normal."

"Of course they are," John said, rolling his eyes and sitting in his chair. He looked back to Sherlock and then Sherlock was looking at him too, a kind warmth in his eyes that John really had never seen before. He stood up and sat on the arm of John's chair.

"I think I may have been wrong."

"About what?" John asked, afraid that Sherlock had decided that the actions of the night before had been wrong and that it would never happen again.

"Maybe love isn't always a disadvantage." John looked up at Sherlock, who leaned down and let his lips brush John's, just for a moment. "I haven't decided yet though. Maybe it still is. We'll have to go on the second date to figure that out, I suppose."

John only smiled. A second date sounded good to him.