Author's Update: Hello readers! Okay, this is the last chapter of Shake Me To The Core, since this story is sort of a one-shot, but I promise this won't be my last Johnlock story. I hope you all like it and continue with me. I'm already working on my next Johnlock story. Thank you!
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John and Sherlock had not discussed the events that occurred at Christmas. In any other case that would have been ideal for Sherlock, but because it was him and John, somehow, this bothered him to no end. He was becoming more and more anxious every time John so much as looked at him.

John, on the other hand, had taken his course of action to new, confusing waters. He was smiling more, taking extra care of Sherlock, he had more patience and had added ten more minutes to his morning routine. Sherlock had no idea why he was acting as though he had won the lottery.

He was also touching Sherlock more often, becoming increasingly more intimate. A pat on the shoulder had changed to an arm around shoulders, or John's hand on Sherlock's face or neck. As far as he could tell, John did not seem to be catching the anxiety-bug that had infected Sherlock.

"Will you stop staring at me? For God's sake, I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin…" John grumbled from behind his laptop. Sherlock mentally shook himself; he hadn't been aware he was staring.

"I'm sorry," he replied, quickly picking up The Great Gatsby from the table next to him and hiding behind it.

Sherlock heard John set his laptop aside and sigh. He didn't dare look at him head on, not wanting to read the expression on his face, or the reasons behind it.

"You okay?" John asked, and Sherlock could hear the concern in his voice. More confusing data.

"I'm fine. Nothing to worry yourself about," he answered, keeping his voice calm and bland. He could hear John shift in his chair.

"Sherlock, look at me," John said. Sherlock lowered his book reluctantly and immediately his mind catalogued every emotion on John's face.

"We need to talk," his kind doctor said, his forehead creasing. Sherlock sighed and stared John in the face, patiently waiting for him to explain his sudden moroseness.

"What's wrong? You know, ever since we—"he paused, looking down, "Ever since Christmas you've been acting differently."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock frowned at John, who had become rather pink around his nose.

"Well, for one, you've been staring at me like I've grown another head. And you've been acting like I'm a bomb about to go off." John said blatantly, before adding in a kinder voice, "What's going on? Is this about Christmas? Did I make you uncomfortable?"

Sherlock shook his head, and for the first time in his life, didn't know the exact words to say.

"I just…You, after—Christmas," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, wondering if this is what social embarrassment felt like, "You just started being…affectionate. Was there something I was supposed to have done? I'm just not…I don't understand."

Something in John's expression changed and he immediately burst into laughter. Sherlock stared at him until he regained composure.

"Oh God, Sherlock, you don't realize...Do you want me to spell it out for you?" John said, but not unkindly. He looked sympathetic for some reason, and Sherlock was plagued by the familiar feeling that he only got with John: the feeling that he was missing something in his own consciousness. Like John saw something in him that he didn't catch.

Sherlock nodded, and John leaned forward, holding out his hands. Sherlock hesitated, and then put his hands in John's, wondering why the physical contact was so important.

"I kissed you because I wanted to. Not because I was drunk, or confused, or trying to trick you," John said softly.

His eyes were a deep violet-blue in the morning light. The more Sherlock stared at them, the more naked he felt.

"I keep trying to get close to you, emotionally and physically, is because I have feelings for you. Deep, intense, romantic, probably-not-that-healthy feelings." John was rubbing circles into Sherlock's palm, and Sherlock had begun to flush, which was ridiculous.

"They may have been buried deep, but kissing you at Christmas made me realize that…I want to be with you." John's voice was small, but his face was warm and Sherlock could tell that this was a difficult thing for him to express. He unconsciously felt himself drawing nearer.

"Why?" Was the only thing Sherlock could think of to ask. He had been alone his whole life, set apart from everyone else. He had resigned himself to the fact that no one could ever love him long ago. In fact, up until the day John killed someone to save him, he wasn't even sure he was capable of loving anyone.

John looked bemused, "Because, like I said at Christmas, you are worth it. You're worth all the trouble, and the silly experiments, and freezing my arse off chasing criminals through London," John reached up and put his hand on Sherlock's jaw and Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch, "You fit me. Was I so wrong to think the feeling is mutual?"

Sherlock reached up to softly stroke John's hand, his eyes still closed, "No, John. You weren't wrong. I just…didn't understand. It's very difficult for me to…express how I feel sometimes," He opened his eyes and grimaced, "I don't like emotions. They get in the way, they taint the evidence. But with you…" He caught John's gaze, and the warmth he saw there made his stomach flip, "I want to feel."

John caught his hand and pressed a light kiss to it. He smiled at Sherlock, letting him know that there would be many more kisses, and smiles, and companionship, because he was Sherlock and John was John.

And somehow, they fit.