A/N: Hello, my darlings! I'm back! I know I've been away from a while, but my real life has been crazy, what with a surgery and a couple of scares resulting as well as the holidays. In any event, I'm working on another multi-chapter fic for you, but it's been delayed by life and my muses fighting one another (or getting drunk and not returning my phone calls- whichever). Fortunately, this little one-shot popped into my head tonight, and got written in one sitting, so you get more Johnlock!

Because I do have a few chapters done, I'm going to ask you this, and I'll go with whichever option the majority suggest. Should I post what I have of my new fic daily until I run out, and then just post as I work, or would you prefer that I wait until I have enough that I'm confident I can keep a schedule like I usually do? Let me know- in the meantime, please enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~Wings

"I'm a genius, John, I don't have time to keep to 'an ordinary person's eating schedule!' Can't you understand that this case is more important than me fitting into your preconceived notion of what I should be like? It's like you don't understand me at all!" Sherlock was angry, but John was too, and unlike almost everyone else, Sherlock's moods were no deterrent to him.

"Well, I don't know why you keep me around then, if I'm such a hindrance to your genius and don't understand you! Maybe you should just go track down another Moriarty and have a laugh at poor, stupid, boring, ordinary John!" Silence was all that rose up to meet this thunderous statement, with Sherlock staring, open-mouthed, at his normally calm doctor. It had been several days of running about the city chasing down leads on little sleep, and they'd both been a little more irritable as a result. But that… Sherlock could hardly believe John had said those things.

Clearly John couldn't, either, because he blinked for a few seconds before throwing on his jacket, mumbling something about needing air, and leaving. The slam of the door echoed as Sherlock stared at it, and it was only after the harsh sound faded completely from his ears that he realized he was trembling.

Sherlock slowly lowered himself to the sofa, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. It was his worst nightmare, coming true.

Sure, they'd been arguing more and more often lately, but that was what happened to people who cared about each other, right? They did their best to help their partner be both healthy and happy, while balancing their own needs, and sometimes that led to friction. But it was nothing they couldn't work out… except they hadn't been working it out. John had always dismissed whatever argument they'd been having before Sherlock could even begin to figure out how to appropriately broach the topic, this being his first relationship, and he hadn't a clue what to do about that.

John's comments clearly suggested that he felt insecure, perhaps eclipsed by Sherlock's personality, but what he'd said about finding another mad genius to spend time with instead… it hurt. It wasn't supposed to be like this… but he didn't know how to fix it.

Silent tears began to leak from his eyes as he considered the possibilities. John would want to move out. Of course he would. He'd questioned why Sherlock would want him around, but the truth was, Sherlock had always wondered the same of John. He knew what he was—insensitive and abrupt, often ignorant of others' feelings and irritating, in addition to being highly intelligent and using that as a wall between himself and the world. More than once John had come up against the sharp side of his tongue… it was a miracle he'd stayed this long.

It had only gotten worse a few weeks ago, a little while after they'd agreed to enter into a physical relationship. John had wanted to do something normal, like go on a date, but Sherlock… Sherlock hadn't been interested. He'd had a case on, a fairly interesting one, and had dismissed the idea. He hadn't even realized it was John asking him out until he'd read a small comment about it on John's blog, which the doctor was obviously unaware he still read.

For how observant Sherlock can be when it comes to cases, he is almost painfully ignorant of the people he claims to care the most about.

That had been his only reference to the incident, and Sherlock had thought the issue dropped. But then there had been a few other comments, sometimes to their friends and sometimes to Sherlock himself, about how little he seemed to care. But this… this was far beyond all of that.

Was he really so callous? Sherlock knew he could do stupid things, but he tried, so hard, to be good to John. He slept more often just so John wouldn't have to be alone in case of nightmares, had actually turned down some less interesting cases when his doctor hadn't wanted to work during the Christmas holidays, and had been trying, very hard, never to insult John in any way. He was used to calling those around him idiots, as almost everyone was by compare, but he didn't want to hurt John.

Apparently John didn't see any of that. It had only been a few weeks. Sherlock could try harder… but maybe John had already given up. And if he didn't like who Sherlock really was, should he really try harder anyway? Was it right for him to try to completely change himself just to make John happy? The internet, though surprisingly vague on the nuances of human interaction in regards to romantic relationships, had been adamant that it was wrong for one partner to expect another to change.

Curling up into a tight ball on the sofa, Sherlock let himself cry, doubting John would be back. He'd probably send someone for his things. And he would be alone again, always alone, in the hell that was his own mind. It had only been a foolish dream, thinking someone could love him.

John was absolutely enraged at himself for the things he'd said, and knew he couldn't go back to the flat until he'd gotten himself under control. A thousand things had been rushing through his head when those words had simply flown out, and he knew, from the way Sherlock's face had seemed to crumble before he fled, that the genius had taken the thoughtless statement for honesty. It wasn't at all what John had meant to say, and he knew it had been a reaction to being tired and short-tempered because of the case.

But there really was no excuse. He knew how hard Sherlock tried with him, tried to be a good partner. The way he treated John was totally different from the way he treated the rest of the world—even friends like Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson—and John knew his behavior was due to his own hang-ups.

He'd seen it before of course, he thought as he walked along the riverbank with his hands shoved in his pockets. Men whose wives were beautiful and funny and smart, who resented them for glittering when they were just ordinary. There was no call for it, not when Sherlock did nothing to try and make it seem like he was out of John's league, but he'd never been able to figure out what Sherlock saw in him anyway.

If he'd been able to consider himself a convenience, it would have made sense to him. But John knew that wasn't the case. Sure, he was probably the only flat mate Sherlock had been able to keep for more than six months, but that only explained their friendship. Sherlock could probably have anyone in London he wanted, male or female, and his appearance alone would make them his slave. Instead, he chose the short, stubborn doctor who wasn't even the best in his field.

John had tried to get over it. When he'd realized what was wrong with him, he'd tried to shove it down deep, bury those feelings where they'd never see the light of day. But it kept bubbling up through the cracks in his control, and how it had hurt Sherlock. That was unforgivable.

He had no idea how to make it up to the lanky genius. He considered chocolates, which Sherlock probably wouldn't eat, a plush toy, which he'd probably light on fire for an experiment, and roses, which he'd probably subject to all manner of things to test their rate of decay, before realizing he was treating this like a fight with one of his old girlfriends. Sherlock was nothing like them. He was… Sherlock.

And what would a Sherlock like as an apology? He wouldn't care about any of the trappings, John realized, though he would be extremely unlikely to object if he swung by Bart's and picked up that necrotic leg he'd formerly denied access to the flat. No, Sherlock was unlikely to set stock by the ordinary methods of apology, because he was anything but ordinary.

What he would want most is you, home with him, being honest. John knew the words which came to him unbidden were probably, amazingly, true. Sherlock was a relationship virgin, and all he'd known of love before John came along was the myriad ways it could lead someone to murder. John was the one who was supposed to be steering the emotional aspects of their bond, but he'd been failing horribly to communicate due to his own fears.

Sherlock had undoubtedly picked up on that. The doctor could still hear the desperation in his voice earlier when he'd made the observation that John was acting as if he didn't understand him. That he was trying to fit him into a box. Well, as far as the latter, he'd probably been right. John had always waited for the women he'd dated to be the ones to bring those things up, and played the role of calm, confident, stereotypical male. It was hardly a wonder those relationships hadn't lasted, really. His heart hadn't been in trying to reciprocate.

But in a short period of time, Sherlock had already come to mean more to him than any of the women he'd thought he'd loved before. He couldn't imagine life without him, no matter that he could be difficult at times. And if John felt like the only thing he could really offer Sherlock was a reminder of proper self-care… well, he would need to get over himself. Sherlock deserved so much more than that from him, and he hated the thought of never waking up to that curly mop tickling his face again.

Mind made up, John started walking back to the flat, turning it all over and over in his head so that he would know exactly what he wanted to say when they did talk. He didn't want to choose the wrong words again. Never again did he want to see that level of sheer devastation on his lover's face again.

But when John got back, there was no conversation, because Sherlock had cried himself out and fallen fast asleep on the sofa, the days having taken their toll on him and the argument doing what the criminal underground of London never could. He had curled up small, and he looked like a child, worn out and just a little pathetic with his arms wrapped around himself as if trying to embrace his own pain away.

John felt his heart melt, and if there had been any anger left in him, it would have evaporated right then. With an affectionate smile, John gently picked him up, taking care not to wake him now that he was finally seeing to one of his body's needs, and carried him to bed. They could talk in the morning, he thought as he settled down, Sherlock's body automatically curling up around him even in sleep, their limbs twining together like ivy.

Closing his eyes, he, too, slept soundly through the darkest hours before dawn, at least until Sherlock woke up, opened, his eyes, gasped, and started peppering John's face with kisses. Words, too, streamed out, though it took a few moments for the still drowsy doctor to make sense of them.

"… thought you weren't coming back. But you came back! I'm sorry, John, I'll try to do better, I really will, there's just so much about this that I don't know and unless you tell me that you're hurting I can't tell because I don't know how to read people like you do and I don't know what I'd do if you left, I'm lost without you, please never leave me again."

Head spinning a little from the seemingly never-ending sentence, John grabbed Sherlock's face and kissed his lips before he could start up again, and the consulting detective positively melted against him, becoming six feet of sinuous vine that wanted nothing more than to be wrapped around five and a half feet of ex-army doctor. John felt laughter bubbling up inside him, but knew it couldn't be so easy. Sherlock clearly didn't think there was anything John needed to apologize for, had seemingly decided that it was all his fault, but that needed to change.

Gently separating them, John had to press two fingers to Sherlock's lips before the genius could start kissing him again the very second he had breath again. He looked confused, and a little hurt, but John needed to apologize.

"Sherlock, I'm really, really sorry about what I said. You have to know I didn't mean it. I just… I've never understood why you want me, and it gets to me sometimes. I love you, love you for who you are and the way you are, and I never wanted to hurt you like that. I know that for you, the cases have to take priority, but my priority is you. Maybe it's my fault, that I decided that it's a personal failure if you're not eating or resting properly, but sometimes I feel like it's my only contribution to our relationship. I do understand you, and I don't want you to change to fit into a box."

There was silence again, of a much less painful kind, during which time Sherlock bit his lip, thinking.

"Why would you think my bad habits are your fault? I don't blame myself when you work overtime at the surgery because there's a wave of flu patients and you don't want to leave even when you're in worse condition than they are." Sherlock looked extremely puzzled by John's logic, and then his swift brain jumped to another part of the explanation. "And you contribute plenty. I know people think of me as the brain, but there are things that you know that I don't, and anyway, the brain could never operate without the heart. I love you with the heart you've given me."

It was such a simple statement, but it brought tears to John's eyes. For how complicated he could be in other areas of his life, Sherlock was absolutely guileless when it came to their relationship, and to him, it was just that simple. Sherlock was the brain, and John was the heart. And while he could never understand how he'd come to be that important to this beautiful, complex man, he knew he would forever treasure the position anyway.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. Both for the argument, and for walking out. I just… I have a temper, and when I'm like that, my mouth runs away from me. I thought it best to leave before I made things worse. I never meant to make you think I was leaving you. I doubt there's a force on earth that could make me leave you, unless you told me to leave."

Sherlock shook his head, then buried it against John's shoulder, mumbling his words so badly they were incomprehensible. John chuckled, carding his fingers through those silky, inky locks.

"I'm sorry, love, want to repeat that? At a volume for humans this time, perhaps?" Sherlock looked up, emotions vibrant in his eyes, and repeated himself, something he hated doing but did every time, if it was John doing the asking. Like so many other things, it was part of the wordless love letter John hadn't been seeing all along, but promised himself that he would pay attention to from now on.

"I'd rather you scream at me than leave, you know. But most of all, I'd like for you to talk to me. I don't know how to do this, and I'll be the first person to admit that, but even I know this doesn't work unless we're honest with each other. If I'm doing something that hurts you, I need to know, before it comes to a fight."

Sherlock was right, and John nodded, knowing he would rip his still-beating heart out of his chest with his bare hands before he would ever devastate his lover so completely again.

"I promise you, Sherlock, I'll be more open about these things." Oddly, the promise made John feel better too, and after Sherlock's tentative but satisfied nod, John kissed him again, and again, and… again. Before long, they were naked, and then his apology began in earnest.

He made his way down Sherlock's body while the sun made its way up into the London sky, caressing his body with his hands and tongue while the bright rays outside caressed the city, heralding spring, new beginnings bursting into bloom while hope and laughter filled the air.

Inside 221B, John prepared himself and sank down on Sherlock, throwing his head back at the incredible pleasure/pain while Sherlock's hands gripped his hips, holding him steady, his own expression full of rapture. They moved together, faster and faster until they cried out, coming one after the other, and then collapsed together while sunlight crept into the room, casting out the shadows and warming their already sweat-slick skin.