Sherlock stood anxiously by as Doctor Blankenship administered a sedative to the tall, motionless form that had so recently housed John. He didn't know how long it would take before his return to his own body would take place, if it did.

It happened far more quickly that he had expected.

A wave of dizziness swept over Sherlock and everything went white for the briefest of moments, then he opened his eyes to see the ceiling and the figures standing around him. There, in the midst of them was John. The doctor was leaning heavily against the bed, obviously recovering from the abrupt absence of Sherlock inside his head. Their eyes met and they smiled at one another. "John..." The detective reached out to lay his hand across John's where it pressed into the mattress.

"Sherlock, we're back," John said giddily. "You did it, you figured it out." He turned his hand over under the detective's palm and grasped it. "I didn't think... God, but it feels good."

Sherlock sat up and jumped down off the bed. "It does indeed. Mycroft, it's time to get out of here." He started for the door to the lab.

"Wait!" Doctor Blankenship exclaimed. "We don't have all the data we need. We need to run more tests, take samples..."

Mycroft silenced him with a stony glare. "Doctor, I appreciate your enthusiasm for this project, but my brother is right. Doctor Grisham is hardly the only person in this facility who wants to get their hands on my brother."

That silenced Doctor Blankenship effectively on the matter. "I understand." Still, he didn't look happy about the situation.

"I'll contact you at a later date," Mycroft said, then he started after his brother and Doctor Watson. The security detail fell in behind him.

In the car, John stared at his friend. It was hard to believe that the last few days had happened. He understood the detective better than he had before, which, John thought, was saying quite a lot. The most interesting thing he had learned was what he had found in that special room in Sherlock's Mind Palace. If it wasn't for Mycroft's presence, he'd be asking about it. As it was, he planned to do so once they reached the flat and he wasn't going to let himself be distracted from the issue.

Almost as if he had heard John's thoughts, Sherlock looked around at him, considering. "You're thinking too loudly. Stop it." In fact, he knew what the doctor had to be thinking about and he was uncomfortable with the idea. Sherlock didn't want to address his feelings for John, he wanted them kept hidden. He resolved to ignore any questions that his friend might put forth.

They travelled the rest of the way in silence. Mycroft looked on, sensing that something was hanging in the air between the two men. He observed them both for a bit, seeing how close they sat to one another, how Sherlock's jaw was clenched in tension and John's was set with determination. He smiled to himself. It seemed the good doctor suspected what Mycroft had known for quite some time - Sherlock was in love with him - and in typical fashion, his brother was oblivious to the fact that John returned the sentiment. He didn't think that would last much longer. Good.

Sherlock climbed the seventeen steps to their flat with trepidation. Once they were inside, he took off his scarf and coat, then placed them on a hook. He could feel John's gaze on him and tried to ignore it. It was useless. Now that they were without the presence of Mycroft, it was only a matter of time until John raised the subject that Sherlock wanted to avoid.

"I'll make us some tea, then we're going to talk," John announced as he headed for the kitchen, "and you are not getting out of this, so don't even try."

By the time John pressed a steaming mug of tea into his hands, Sherlock had resigned himself to the upcoming discussion. He now saw it was unavoidable. Still, he had to try. "I don't see why we have to talk about this," he said petulantly.

"Oh, lets cut through the crap. You care about me," the doctor declared.

Sherlock swallowed. "There's nothing new about that. You're my friend. My only friend. Of course I care about you."

"No. No." John pointed a finger at the detective. "That's not what I mean and you know it. You... You love me." It wasn't a question, but a firm statement of fact.

For a split second, Sherlock considered bolting for the door, but he realised it was far too late for that. "Yes," he said in a voice just above a whisper, "I love you." He looked down at the floor, not wanting to see John's reaction. The floor creaked and the doctor's shadow fell across him.

"Sherlock, look at me," John said gently. He waited until he could see the detective's silver-blue eyes. "You don't have to hide it from me, you berk. I love you too."

The detective's lips parted in a silent "Oh" of understanding. Even as it sank in, John dropped into his lap and pressed their lips together in a long, soft kiss. Sherlock answered it with a kiss of his own. They were together, now, in the way they were meant to be. John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John.