A/N: This is a one shot based off of a prompt from happycamper48 on Tumblr.

Prompt: When he sees John and Mary at the restaurant and John decks him, he gets up, puts his hands on John's face, and kisses him.

He was confident when he told his brother of his plan. He ignored the indignant snort from Mycroft and the comment that "John has moved on with his life". He pushed down the intense, bubbling sensation in his gut as the time approached. If he were an ordinary person, this could have been described as having butterflies, but Sherlock Holmes is far from ordinary.

He was not nervous. He did not feel anxious about announcing his presence to John. He was certain of the solidity of their relationship. Two years apart would surely not change things. Perhaps things would be a tad…awkward. But things would be right with the world once more. It would be John Watson and Sherlock Holmes against the rest of the world, just as it always should have been. There would be a period of adjustment, then they would be solving cases together just like old times.

As he walked through the entrance to the restaurant, he was not expecting to be so severely effected. That changed the moment his eyes sought out John. It was like time stopped, and so utterly taken aback was he by seeing him, that he was forced to take a step back and do a double take.

John looked…exhausted. It had only been two years since Sherlock had last laid eyes on him but in that time John had aged significantly. His face was covered in a new set of frown lines, his lips seemed thinner as though they hadn't smiled in a while, the bags under the eyes told a story of their own, and the eyes themselves no longer held the light Sherlock had fallen for.

You did this to me…

Eyes stinging with the threat of potential tears, Sherlock tried to shake the voice away from his mind. More and more frequently Sherlock had been privy to hear, and even sometimes see, a dark unforgiving mind!palace John Watson.

When first conceiving the plan to fake his death, Sherlock had not weighed up how guilty or horrible he would feel, or how much he would be letting John down by lying to him. The only thing that had gotten him through the dark times had been the thought of one day returning to John.

But now that the moment was finally here… Sherlock wasn't certain he was ready.

He'd dreamed of this moment so many times. Had envisioned it behind his eyelids like a wet oil painting. In those moments where he had been beaten and tortured in Serbia, where he'd been certain that he was going to meet his bloody end, it was that image that had forced him to stay alive.

But that's when the unforgiving John Watson had settled and made a home in Sherlock's mind palace. Apparently it had been his minds way of coping, of preserving the memory of John. Only, now the voice had turned bad.

He knew that the only way to rid himself of the John in his mind, was to replace him with the real thing.

It won't work. I won't want you back, Sherlock. Not after what you did to me.

Sherlock pushed the voiced down. Squashed it. Envisioned it trapped in a glass beaker deep, deep inside a locked room in his mind. He needed to focus. Needed to pin all of his attention on the real John Watson, his John Watson.

He forced himself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

When he felt some of the tension leave him, he pushed forwards, towards the man himself.

Perhaps dressing up as a waiter had been overkill, in hindsight. Sherlock should have stayed himself. Perhaps then John would have been more…lenient. But as he'd approached John, caught sight of the ring box, and had deduced John was going to propose to a woman called Mary, suddenly Sherlock had felt so exposed and vulnerable that it was like someone had turned him inside out.

Dressing up with a bow-tie, glasses, and a silly mustache had been an attempt to hide himself away. Perhaps it had come across as insensitive? That hadn't been his intention at all.

As John's fist clenched and collided with the table, he'd wanted to ask "a bit not good?" just like old times. Old John would have told him firmly, but affectionately "yeh, a bit not good." then the conversation would be over.

This John was a whole new species. He was furious. Brimming with an unnerving amount of anger. Perhaps the voice had been right. Maybe it was too late to fix any burnt bridges? What if John could never forgive him? What if he never wanted Sherlock back in his life?

He had to break the tension between them, so he made a joke about John's mustache. It had been lighthearted humor, really. Sherlock could never truly tease John about his body. Not when he loved ever single inch of John, even that scruffy caterpillar on his top lip, but apparently that wasn't the way John took it at all.

That was the signal John had been waiting for, apparently. The last straw that would lead John to lunge at him.

The force behind John's small body took Sherlock off guard. The room spun for a dizzying second, before both of them were sent flying to the ground.

John's hands immediately tried to get a death grip around Sherlock's neck. They scrambled about and tried to find a purchase. Sherlock placed his larger hands over the top, and tried to get the older man to pull away.

There were people yelling at them. Waiters trying to pull them apart. Even Mary - who had been watching from a distance horrified - tried to get them to peel away from one another.

In that moment John and Sherlock were like strong magnets, drawn to each other, hardly able to keep their hands off one another. Both of them grieving and hurting for different reasons.

Sherlock was grieving over the friendship he used to have with John. He had worked so hard just so they could be back together again. And now that it was really happening… this was going so much worse than any scenarios he had come up with. He was also hurting because now he was certain that John didn't want him back, and he would go back to his life before John, where he was alone. Only this time he would understand that he was lonely, because he knew what he was missing.

John was grieving over the man that he thought he had lost. The man that he was certain he'd seen die right in front of his very eyes. He could still see the blood on the pavement, could feel the lack of pulse beneath his fingertips, could feel the moment his heart was ripped to shreds. And he was hurting because the man he'd seen die had the audacity to turn up unannounced like it was NOTHING. Like it was a perfectly OK thing to do.

For a brief moment John's fingers found their way to one of Sherlock's wrists. This confused Sherlock for a moment, but he soon realised what John was after. He needed some kind of confirmation that he was in fact alive, and this wasn't some horrible nightmare or hallucination.

So he grabbed John's hand and tugged it close to his wrist. There John would be able to feel his racing pulse. By this point Sherlock's heart was hammering so hard in his chest that the sound gushed in his eardrums. It was erratic, uncontrollable. Whether it was because he was scared, excited, or if it was just being in such close proximity with John, Sherlock didn't know.

The touch of John's fingers on his pulse didn't last long, as he was pulled off from Sherlock, and they were both stood to their feet. There - no longer with the threat of lunging at Sherlock - at least not for now - the two men just stared at each other.

They were both complete strangers. At the same time they were still the same people beneath all of the pain, the hurt, and the lies. How could Sherlock possibly show that to John?

He knew then that he would have to do something radical. Something that prior to the fall, to the being on the run for two years, he would not have dared to do. If he didn't do it now, it felt as though Sherlock would lose John completely.

He would walk out of the restaurant, marry Mary, live a dull life with small talk and babies, and good god…that was no life for John Watson. It would be a prison sentence for the man who was just as equally attracted to danger as Sherlock was.

so…without further hesitation…Sherlock took a tentative step towards John.

"Sherlock," That one word was heavy with warning. It said "if you don't stay away, bloody Sherlock Holmes, I'll deck you again."

That warning was paid no heed. Sherlock had too much to lose now. He had to get his message across. Words would do him little good now, because in John's eyes words were just more lies and tricks. Actions, however, were fare more telling.

Before John could catch on to what he was doing, Sherlock had closed the space between them completely. He placed his humongous hands on either side of John's face, his thumbs caressing the tanned skin he found there.

He didn't allow any room for arguments, or protests of "I'M NOT GAY". He swiftly closed in on those lips and pressed gently but firmly, not wanting to scare the man away, but wanting to convey his love for John in the gesture.

At first it was incredibly awkward because John's lips froze beneath his, remaining thin and pressed tightly together.

Perhaps he had made a mistake? Maybe kissing John hadn't been such a good idea. What if it only made John hate and resent him even further? No. He couldn't let himself dwell on that thought. John was yet to pull away from Sherlock, so perhaps that was a good sign?

His long, slender fingers curled around the nape of John's neck. They lightly brushed that spot, feeling the tiny individual hairs that grew there. This induced an encouraging, borderline pornographic moan from the depths of John's throat. So he liked that? The sensual touch was what got to John Watson?
Very well, then. He could most certainly work with that.

Continuing those tiny touches, his lips once again picked up pace. He became a little daring, and flicked his tongue between his cupid lips. Please, he thought, begged. Please, John, let me in. I need you.

Very gradually, almost at though Sherlock was breaking through walls, John's lips parted and allowed Sherlock's tongue inside. There was still something hesitant in John's kiss, like he was holding back. Well, that simply wouldn't do.

Sherlock's hands moved to run through John's hair. The feel of how soft it is against his rough skin was enough to make him gasp out loud. It's too much. Having him this close, feeling every inch of John pressed up against him, the feel of their lips and tongues locking, the soft silky strands of hair running through his hands.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were at last back together in the most intimate way possible. It felt as though the world might just implode behind his closed eyelids.

Sherlock had no idea how much time passed. He didn't measure time in minutes, or hours. He measured it kisses, and touches, and unspoken promises.

The kiss itself was now so heated that it was obscene they were still in public. The noises that they were making alone were sounded like they belonged in a porn film, rather than a calm and expensive restaurant.

Sherlock didn't care about that at all. He couldn't bring himself to even care he'd probably broken Mary's heart. The fact was he was kissing John…and John was kissing him back. And that was the most wonderful feeling he'd ever felt.

He wanted to encompass that feeling. Roll in it. Bury himself beneath it like a thick duvet. He never wanted it to stop.

Unfortunately the idiotic restaurant staff had not shared the same view as Sherlock. A very angry owner had chucked them out the moment Sherlock's hands had started wandering to forbidden places.

Mary had left by now. She hadn't even been able to look John in the eye. Had just gotten into a taxi and left John and Sherlock to "deal with their demons".

Now John and Sherlock stood side by side once more, leaning against an old brick wall in an empty alley way. Neither had anywhere to go anymore.

Sherlock didn't feel like going to 221B by himself, and John couldn't return to where he was staying because it was Mary's flat. They were both at a loss as to what to do now that it was just them.

"Why Sherlock?" John grit out. The question wasn't filled with the same anger as earlier, but it was still borderline peeved. "I need to know why. Tell me."

John asked, and as always Sherlock gave. He lay all his truths bare for John to see. He told the story of two men, and their frankly ridiculous adventures, and he recalled how Moriarty had goaded him into jumping, or else the one man in the story would lose the love of his life and all those he held dear.

He held back some of the details when it came to his time away. He could not let John know about his time away in Serbia. He was nowhere near ready or mentally prepared to handle John knowing he'd been tortured and injured severely. The look of pity John was sure to give him upon seeing his scars was enough to stop him from divulging those details.

Apparently, even as he tip-toed around the delicate details of his past, John was still concerned about Sherlock. Perhaps it was the fact Sherlock's voice trembled at certain moments in the story, or the fact that he was visibly shaking by the time he was finished talking.

He was suddenly shaking from both emotion and the cold, breezy November night. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself against John and forget everything, just revel in his warmth and the safety of his arms.

"John," Sherlock's voice was just a whisper in the darkness. He reached out and placed a hand upon John's cheek, forcing the other man to turn to him. "I owe you a thousand apologies for what I have done to you. I know that I don't deserve your forgiveness but -"

John held up a hand. "Shut up."

"I-" Sherlock isn't used to John being so blunt. He blinked in surprise as John moved forwards and pressed a tender, loving kiss to Sherlock's lips.

"There,that's better." John grinned when Sherlock was literally stunned into a long bout of silence. "I would have kissed you years ago if I knew it was so efficient in shutting you up."

After a while the silence became unbearable. It pressed against all of Sherlock's senses and he was painfully aware of it. He needed to hear that John forgave him, he needed that confirmation, or the voice would have been right all along.

"I need to know what you're thinking. I-please?"

The please seemed to do the trick. It was polite, out of character even, and was enough to make John look at Sherlock. Really look since the moment they'd locked eyes on each other at long last.

John could see past the mask Sherlock usually wore. The pain and the torture Sherlock had endured sat plain as day on the detective's face. Everything he was feeling, and thinking, now lay exposed like an open wound. It felt as though the floor beneath his feet was crumbling away, and his knees felt as though they might give way at any given moment.

John reached out to him, holding Sherlock's shoulders steadfast, as though trying to keep him grounded. He licked his lips in a way that let Sherlock know he was thinking deeply about what to say.

"I've thought long and hard about what I want to say to you. These are prepared words, Sherlock. I've chosen these words with care. It's all I could think about since you walked through those bloody restaurant doors."

There was no anger in his words now. No sign of malice. Just a tenderness that melted Sherlock's heart and started up the threat of tears once more. His eyes prickled and dampened as he waited for John to continue.

"Go on," he managed to choke out.

"The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future…are my privilege. That's all I have to say; that's all I need to know." John's facial expression was so full of compassion and open love that it hurt. It's painful to look at. Sherlock doesn't deserve that look. He's certain that he deserves John's hatred and resentment instead.

"You don't even know half of the things I've done over these past two years." Sherlock scoffed, though the sound is heartless, and holds little scorn.

"I don't need to know. I'm a soldier, remember Sherlock? I had bad days, and I'm certain you've had your fair share of bad days too, hmm?"

Sherlock nodded and rubbed a hand against his eyes. When he pulled away he noted the slight wetness on the skin. Those words were enough to break the dam and the tears started to cascade down Sherlock's cheekbones. He was now powerless to stop them, and soon began to sob openly, the sounds echoing around the alleyway they were stood in.

"Jesus…" He heard John breathe from close by. When had John's face gotten so close to his ears? He realised then that John had moved to embrace Sherlock in a tight bear hug.

"S-s-s-sorry." Sherlock blubbered against John's coat jacket. " I didn't mean for this to happen. I…miscalculated. I thought perhaps I could refrain from this…"

"Shhh, Lock. It's OK. I've got you now." John raised his arm and used his jacket sleeve to wipe some more of Sherlock's tears away. Then, smiling weakly, he tried to make a joke out of this terrible vulnerable position Sherlock had found himself in. " Though this doesn't mean I'm not still basically pissed off with you."

"Mmm," Sherlock made a muffled sound into John's shoulder. "I know."

"I am very pissed off, and it will come out every now and then."

"I know, I know, I know." Sherlock would have been surprised if John was anything but pissed off with him. His eyes scrunched closed tightly, trying to stop any more tears from falling.

"But I'm done shouting and throwing my weight around for one night." John said softly. "I just want to go home with you. We started something in the restaurant and I'd like to see it through."

"221B?" Sherlock asked, his deep baritone rumbling against John's neck, making the individual nape hairs stand up on end.

John pulled away and looked into Sherlock's face, his own eyes damp but twinkling with happiness. "Oh god yes."

Sherlock swallowed those words with another kiss.