The March of 1894 was a mild one, and I remember never feeling the chill so much as I meandered through the Park that cool day, breathing gulps of cold air as I looked for evidence or some small clue- but only succeeding in rendering myself well and truly puzzled, and my dear friend's absence more prominent to me than ever. I knew that for all my mediocre attempts, if Sherlock Holmes had been at my side he would have found some illuminating clue or other in the time it took me to walk the circumference of that fateful house, No. 427 Park Lane. Though I could try to revive for myself the excitement of chasing crimes, there was nothing in the world that could replace the comforting warmth of his arm linked with mine, or the brush of his tobacco-scented lips next to my ear- and that was enough to make even the most sunny day bleak and immobilising, as if ice pierced my bones.

Never could I have contemplated the astonishing way in which the dear fellow returned to me. And yet we returned to our old ways as if no years had passed- anticipation bubbling in my veins as I sat beside him in a hansom carriage, brimming with a fervent joy at his reappearance in my life. I had barely time to listen as he explained the escape of his most certain death before he was once again enlisting my help in a case, and I was thoughtlessly accepting.

As we waited in Camden House that strange evening, Holmes' eyes held a familiar glint which had always seemed to encompass the very energy of life itself. Even as we were forced to remain motionless and silent for those two hours, there seemed to be a static vibrancy emanating from Holmes, which was only heightened by the fact that there had not been a chance to greet each other properly since the appearance of that old bookseller in my study. I felt his restlessness in every hushed breath, every quick turn of his head, the drum of his fingers against my palm. In contrast to his excitement, I felt motionless for the first half of our vigil; part of me still believed that I remained in that solitary, stagnant life of just hours earlier, even though the warmth of his slender hand in mine pressured me to think otherwise.

Then slowly, my mind adhered to reality once more, urged by the whisper of Holmes' voice in my ear at intervals, replying to my queries of his plans; of the sentinel we hoped to capture that night and the wax bust in our own Baker Street to act as the bait. Even the cool smoothness of my revolver handle ignited my skin, awakening memories etched into my every fibre and intensifying with each passing second. When the time came to finally act, it was a huge relief- an age of suppressed energy exploded from the both of us as Holmes pounced, catlike, onto our enemy; and I struck him with the butt of my gun.

This expelling of tension was beneficial to the both of us, as I could tell by my companion's much more relaxed attitude (and familiar exasperating smugness) as Lestrade and the other policemen dealt with the devious Moran, yet I, for one, did not feel entirely satisfied. Perhaps it was the primal urges which lurk inside every man, or the collective longing of two years passed, but I remained in a quiet state of unrest until Holmes, seated by my side in a carriage headed to our old quarters, placed his hand delicately on my knee and patted it comfortingly. At this simple touch, a different kind of energy sparked within me- one much less controllable, in my own experience, and I could not help my sharp intake of breath, nor the way my hand responded in kind and intertwined my fingers with his own. Many a time we had shared a hansom in this position - mostly under darkness, so our closeness could not be easily observed – though never with quite the same extremity of anticipation. I could barely sit still.

Somehow, Holmes still retained a key to 221B, and under deft hands the door to our old abode was opened and then closed again, and I gratefully fumbled my way to my old armchair, uncaring of the fine dust which lay on its fibres. I did not care much for trivial things, just then.

I had not removed my coat as the room held a chill in the cool air entering through the broken window, but I busied myself at the hearth whilst Holmes studied the bust by the window, wearing an eerily similar expression to that of his waxen double. Soon a fire crackled in the grate, and Holmes' eyes sparkled warmly as he related the Colonel's encyclopedia entry. Though, unusually so, my mind lingered not on the case but instead on the slope of Holmes' forehead and proud nose, the jut of his chin; the way his cheekbones appeared more pronounced and his skin paler than in my memory, suggesting a weakened health. His hair, prestigiously combed. The gracefulness of his movements as he drew his legs beneath him, curling up in his seat like some contented feline.

'I have missed you, my dear.'

'And I you, Watson. I do apologise again for not sending word, but appearing not to exist does hold certain benefits-'

'I can imagine. Do not apologise, Holmes. I am not at all angered; merely relieved. Your return brings me more pleasure than any man could comprehend, and I have no wish to dwell on the past.'

A flicker of a smile crossed my companion's strong features. 'I am glad for that. I did often fear as to how far you would be affected by the return of a dead man... enough, it seems, to collapse in a breathy faint-'

I couldn't hold back the chuckle in my throat at the memory of my own drama. 'Holmes!' I reprimanded.

The man laughed quietly, the firelight illuminating his hard features into something much softer, and I felt a great rush of fondness.

'Come here,' I said, reaching out my hand on some impulse.

My friend unfolded himself and stood lazily, accepting my hand. The revered touch of those smooth, pale fingertips was calming, and the hem of his old dressing gown swayed as he moved to seat himself astride my lap. Here, I could count the soft etchings and lines of his face, trace the hairline of his nape, see reflected back at me in his grey eyes the love I felt.

His gaze drifted to my upper lip, and Holmes tutted. 'You have been neglecting yourself,' said he, running his thumbnail along the edge of my moustache, which had grown untrimmed recently, though not long enough yet to be an irritation.

'I have had no reason to look presentable,' I replied truthfully, giving the tip of his thumb a small kiss. 'And I could comment similarly on the state of your waxen skin.'

'And I would give the same reply,' a silken voice murmured next to my ear. 'Though now, that excuse has been rendered invalid. You are reason enough for anything, dear Watson.'

(I hate to admit a certain heat came over my face at this sentiment).

'Nevertheless,' said I, my hands on his slim waist. 'As your doctor, I insist upon good rest and plentiful, healthy meals to get you back right again – no sporadic running off to solve cases at a moment's notice.'

'Oh, I quite agree,' came the surprisingly complacent reply through thin lips curved in a smile. 'I have no plans of leaving this house for at least the next two-or-three days. In fact-' and Holmes paused here to slip my coat from my shoulders, and I freed my arms from it to immediately return my hands to his hips. 'I have no plans of leaving our bedchamber for the foreseeable future.'

'Holmes!' I cried, though his words had stirred a heat low in my stomach, and it was all I could do not to let out a most undignified groan.

Another devious chuckle filled my ears and then finally, Holmes kissed my lips, and it was just as I remembered. He tasted of tobacco and a coolness almost like mint; a combination I had always found most delicious. His fingers fumbled at my collar with a certain haste.

For two years, I had believed my dearest companion was deceased. Eight seasons, each one emptier than the last as I removed my belongings from Baker Street, as I tried to find solace in my friends' void words, as I roamed the roads of London in search of anything with which to occupy myself. It was just three months or so ago that I had stopped accidentally setting out two teacups instead of just one.

And now my life was back to its perfect normality.

I struggled to find some way of expressing my thoughts. This had always proved difficult for me- unlike Holmes, who's sentiments were so rich and genuine that if collected, they could rival the sales of the most romantic poem anthology. Holmes' usual sharp comments had often left his enemies shredded and lacerated beyond repair, and thus it was justified that I never expected sweetness from him- and that, I suppose, was probably his plan all along. After all, sweet words on a smooth tongue seemed to hold more meaning when that very same tongue could deliver such a vengeful lashing.

'Holmes,' I tried, running the pad of my thumb over the arch of one dark eyebrow and down across his temple and the curve of his cheekbone- yet I found I could not continue when grey eyes shot upwards and I found myself immobilised entirely by his keen stare. A shiver passed over me; a shiver of relief and pleasure, but Holmes seemed to misinterpret the involuntary movement.

'We should retire, perhaps, if you are cold,' said he, lifting himself back to his feet. This time I was the recipient of an outstretched hand, and I allowed myself to be led further into the depths of 221B. Somehow, I had never managed to bring myself to move any of Holmes' belongings from his quarters, and so everything in our old chambers was untouched and unchanged right down to the bustles of papers and books which dotted nearly every surface.

'Mrs Hudson has not neglected her dusting during our absence,' reported Holmes in that definitive way of his.

I nodded, amused. 'Yes. Perhaps she had some inkling that you would come back, one day,' said I with a sideways glance at him.

Rolling his eyes wearily, Holmes murmured, 'It would have been dangerous to have more than one confidant-', and would have probably defended himself further had it not been for the pressing of my lips to his. We stood for an age in the middle of that room, re-discovering every part of each other that had been so sorely missed, and relishing the perfect alignment of our two selves.

Holmes emitted a low groan when I pulled away to diminish the light of the room and draw the curtains as to hide any suggestion of our activities from the street below. Frustrating as the necessity of that act was, my irritation melted away with each press of my partner's graceful fingers and every gasp of heated breath against my neck.

Soon our patience – already weakened by months of quiet longing – wore thin, and in a rush of movement my waistcoat and shirt were near torn from my chest to join that camel dressing gown on the floor next to the bed. Laying on our sides, we urged to be as close as possible, and I don't think I have ever felt a truer contentment as that I felt with all six feet and two inches of Holmes curled into me; his sleek hair tickling my chin, his palm flat against the small of my back, his hardness pushing into my thigh. Pacified at last, we simply breathed together.

A heavy sigh huffed into my chest, and I looked down in response. 'Sherlock?'

As my fingers traced patterns on the smooth skin of his shoulder, I felt thin lips curve into a smile against my chest, and a quiet kiss press against my sternum.

Another flurry of absolute joy rose within me, and I glowed in the satisfaction of the moment in contrast to the lonely wasteland of the past few months. 'I've bloody well missed you,' said I after a second or two of deliberation in which no other words came to mind. It did not matter, as I knew even through my lack of eloquence that Holmes would understand entirely- which he proved by his small murmur of agreement as he lifted his head. My friend's observant stare did not miss the quiver of my brow nor the glisten of my eyes, and an expression akin to worry crossed his usually stoic features.

'All that matters now, Watson, is that we are reunited,' he spoke firmly, his cool hand finding my own in the dim moon-light and squeezing it comfortingly. He was frowning slightly, and that fine crease had appeared between his eyebrows.

'Yes,' I said simply, not trusting my wavering emotions to say anything more. I kissed him again as I pulled him to me. This time, I let my lips drift to his neck and in doing so I gained the most delightful response of a sharp buck of his hips. His fingers clenched my forearms as I repeated the gesture, over and over again, intensifying my touches with small bites whilst Holmes' agitation steadily became more deliciously apparent. Burying my nose in the crook of his neck, the tang of masculine musk filled my senses, though I was interrupted by a sharp exclamation.

'Oh! Watson, you really must trim that moustache. It does tickle so.'

This, along with the devious shine in his eyes and the smug curl of his lip, earned my companion a jab in the ribs. Though internally, I was blissful. This was how I remembered our partnership; a deep connection which came from not only physical attraction and intimate caresses, but a solid understanding of each other, our strengths and weaknesses, and our desires, and our limits. While it may be arrogant of me, I feel able to declare that if any two men experienced all that we had in our years together, they would not gain anything as near as such a clear knowledge of the other as Holmes and I shared.

With an desire to both discipline and heighten the tension in my partner, I pulled away to sit on the edge of our bed and begin unlacing my boots with the most deliberate precision. I knew this would aggravate Holmes' tolerance- as indeed it did my own, as I wanted nothing more than to give in to my wants quickly. Yet I knew from experience that a slow, agonising build made the final result exceptionally stimulating, in great contrast to a short rush of stimuli.

Just as I pulled off the second boot, I felt a shift in the bedlinen and then Holmes was behind me, his chin on my shoulder. 'I am conscious of your approval for a languid approach,' said he, polite as ever, deft fingers sneaking slyly to my waistband and fastenings. 'Yet I feel I must rather selfishly remind you for how long I have waited in anguish to see your beauty once more.'

I forced myself to not alter the speed of my movements, and replied with a similar unwarranted charm to my speech. 'Pray do not think my desires are different to your own,' said I with a short laugh. 'Perhaps my restraint and control surpass your own.'

In a spontaneous flurry of movement, Holmes appeared kneeling on the floor by my feet. 'Surpass my own?' he exclaimed, eyes shining with excitement and a tell-tale quiver in his voice. 'Why, I have scouted out and followed the Colonel Moran's movements for months, biding time even as it drove against my very nature of detesting stagnation, yet never once striking until the prime situation presented itself this evening. The very moment in which I could pounce-' At this, he lunged forward and gripped my thighs, his eager face suddenly so very close to my own. '-and render him helpless. And you, dear Watson, the man who once took a blind oath to abstain from drinking alcohol and lasted a mere three days before reaching for the whisky, have the audacity to challenge my own forbearance?'

I had frozen under his fiery gaze, and found myself both amused and shocked at this vibrant display. Obviously, the tedium of the recent past must have forced him to contain and store some of that boundless energy of his, and now I was being shocked with the full force of it.

However as much as I thought I knew him well, Holmes would never stop surprising me throughout our years together. In a blink, he was the charming, reserved detective again. His voice now taken on a fluid, low tone, he murmured, 'Dear, dear Watson,' and, ignoring my blush, kissed my cheek.

His hands drifted to my trouser fastenings and within a couple of seconds had them undone, and was smoothly pushing them down, and I lifted my hips to help him. His skin was pale as marble and almost ethereal in the stark half-light of the room, the wiry strength in his arms and shoulders showing as he quickly disposed me of all my remaining garments.

He surveyed my length with an intensity usually only reserved for his methods of deducing, yet the half-closed position of his eyelids and wideness of his pupils suggested to me that his brilliant mind might just have been, for once, clear of all those hurried, rushing thoughts. With a raw, uncalculated instinct that I had rarely seen come from this man, who's actions were almost meticulously planned, his lips parted, his eyes closed, and he unconsciously leaned into my groin, inhaling deeply. Then that sly tongue of his darted out and lapped against me, and I could no longer hold back my vocalisations.

'God, Holmes!' I cried, my hands immediately rushing to his hair. A quiet smirk, and another deep suck were his responses, his mouth this time closing around at least half of me. His hands meandered across the skin of my thighs, feeling as my muscles tensed. His brow furrowed deliciously as he concentrated, and I could not help but wring my hands in his hair as he worked.

In all the times Holmes and I had ever done this to one another, the act had never lost the excitement for either of us, and I soon found myself very near to finishing. Regretfully, I pushed his head away, and he sighed, licked his lips, and looked up at me with eyes almost black with passion. I found his hand and tugged persistently, and in one graceful, fluid motion he was beside me on the bed again. Smooth fingers traced my cheek and brought me closer, and then our lips were joined once more, and there was a bitter addition of ejaculate to the usual taste of his tongue. Though it did not at all hinder my enthusiasm, and in running my fingertips down his chest, ribs, waist and hip I unfastened his own hindrances and took him in hand.

The low keen of his voice in moments like these had always been so pleasant to my ears, and I revelled in seeing the gasp of his breaths, the tightening of his fingernails into my forearm, the clench of his jaw as he fought his composure; in knowing that I was the cause of this great display of lustful debauchery.

Removing my hand for only a moment provoked from him a frustrated, low groan and a keen glare, even as I removed his trousers as quickly as I could. Displaying great tension now, Holmes kicked the garments off from his ankles eagerly, obviously wanting to be rid of them immediately. Under his watchful stare I moved to sit atop his hips where he lay, and his gaze flicked downwards. As our lengths touched, the faintest colour flushed his pale face. As I closed my hand around them, his head dropped back and a hiss escaped his lips.

The only sounds to fill the room then were breathless gasps and hushed moans. It was essential to be quiet – we tried to not even rock the bed too much – for the sake of anyone overhearing. Though it was common in London for bachelors to share lodgings, it was also common for these men to be the subject of scandalous rumour. Holmes reputation, in all its greatness, would never withstand such an assault.

Though I desired to cry out his name to the Heavens I had to content myself in taking his hand, which had been exploring my hip and side, and pressing it to my lips. I whispered, 'Magnificent,' because that was my prevailing thought at that moment with my view of his bare chest and shoulders, his head thrown back and his throat exposed, of his stomach, tensing as he fought the urge to spend quickly.

Yet I also felt very close now, and I did not want him to fight it. I rushed my movements to the extent that it almost hurt – though the feeling of him pressed tight against me could never be anything but exquisite. His hand, which I still held loosely in my own, twisted and locked our fingers together.

In a few quick seconds of blind pleasure Holmes bucked his hips up against me and was finished, and his cry of my name – John! - was enough to bring me to climax too with the added ease of his fluid slicking my hand. Even through closed eyes I could feel Holmes' eyes on me once more, never looking away until I lay down beside him again.

With some struggled effort we managed to pull the bedsheets around ourselves, still short-for-breath as we did so. Holmes' arm draped over my waist, my back against his chest. I felt a kiss to my hair.

'Dear Watson,' said he, a lazy drawl to his voice a sure sign of tiredness. 'You are also rather magnificent.'

'I beg to differ,' I replied. 'I am no feat of magnificence- but you, my dear fellow, in more ways than one, are extraordinary. Your mind itself is most remarkable.'

Three seconds of silence followed, then- 'Yes. I must admit I do agree.'

My elbow to his ribs earned me a low chuckle. I smiled to myself, safe in the long-awaited comfort of his arms and feeling the lure of a peaceful sleep tugging at the edges of my consciousness. I succumbed to it readily with the knowledge that my mornings of waking up alone were now a far distant memory.

The next morning, I was awoken by a sharp cry.

'Watson!' came the call from the bathroom. I opened my eyes, blinking in the sunlight just as Holmes came rushing into the room.

I yawned widely. 'Case?'

'No!' said he levelly. 'Look at my hair.'

I did, and saw that it was decidedly ruffled in a manner I had never seen before, instead of its usual neat style. I could not help but blush immediately, remembering our activities of the past night, and becoming suddenly aware of the itchy tightness of dried fluid on my stomach.

His eyes were wide with amusement, and I could see him struggling not to smile. 'This need not require much deduction... Watson, care to share your thoughts about the cause of this abomination?' he said, gesticulating towards his forehead.

Difficult as it was to take Holmes seriously when it seemed as if one of his chemistry experiments had exploded in his face to make his hair so dishevelled, I endeavoured not to laugh. 'I should think it was me, Holmes!'

'I should think quite rightly, Watson.' said he, rushing to my side. 'These! These hands of yours are the culprits.'

He dropped something mildly heavy into my hand beneath the bedlinen, though I did not look at it yet and with my other hand reached out to the mess of his hair. Still stiff with pomade, it bounced slightly as I prodded, and I laughed at the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

Holmes pressed a kiss to my cheek, his unshaven jaw scratching my own. His thumb brushed the corner of my moustache. 'I assume you will be wanting to complete your own toilet presently, will you not?' he asked but did not wait for an answer, and merely raised one perfect eyebrow before disappearing out of the room again.

It appeared Holmes had obtained a stronger sense of humour while away; this, coupled with the excitement of being at last back in London and by my side, had obviously led to this morning's display of silly excitement. I can't say it didn't amuse me, and I smiled fondly as I opened my hand to reveal what Holmes had given me. In my palm lay my old trimming scissors.

They had been in their case next to the mirror in my bathroom at 221B for the past two years. When Holmes and I lived here before, they had been used regularly, at least once a week, as I used to take some pride in my appearance even to the finer details of facial hair – an attention to detail no doubt inspired by the close proximity of such a well-tailored, effortlessly presentable man as Sherlock Holmes. I examined the scissors. Obviously after so much disuse, they had begun to rust slightly, and the joint was very stiff – they would be of little use if I tried to use them now.

However it was the thought that counted, as goes the old saying. Holmes had never been very subtle in his attempts to get me to do as he wished. My eyes narrowed.

'Holmes!'