John wakes before his alarm and after much internal debate and a sniff of curls he wrenches himself from the octopus limbs of a one Sherlock Holmes.

Today is a special day, so John takes his time getting ready, even using some of Sherlock's gel (mostly used for disguises) to attempt to tame his unruly hair. He looks in the mirror and thinks about how it needs to be cut but his... (lover? partner?) Sherlock likes it this way.

He slides the blue jumper that Sherlock bought him last year over his head and remembers when he put it on the first time.

"It goes with your eyes." He had said and then they kissed. They may have not even made it out of the flat if it had not been for pressing dinner arrangements with Mycroft.

The thought makes him smile before taking in the rest of his appearance.

John isn't as fit as he was while enlisted. He has been working hard to get back in shape after the months of recovery but even chasing after Sherlock and criminals can only do so much to counteract real meals that aren't courtesy of her majesties' government (if courtesy is even the right word for some of that slop served in the mess).

The dust makes it hard to focus and the pain is unbearable. It's almost funny how his first thought is 'Stupid, how did you let yourself get separated." But you don't say that to a soldier that is bleeding out in your hands. Especially, one that is barely 20 and is so wet behind the ears that he has only been here a couple of weeks. Johnson Smith had wandered away from the group and got shot. Of course, when John saw it he rushed to the boy's aid.

'Dear God, please let me live." Had been the second thought. He continued to apply pressure to Smith, even while he starts to lose focus.

"Watson! Watson!" Murray's face swims into view as warm hands try to pack John's shoulder. He tried to push the hands away.

"Help him first..." is the last thing he remembers.

Sherlock reaches out to fine the bed next him empty and cold. It isn't impossible for John to leave the bed without him knowing but it is highly improbable. Though, the case they had just finished had dragged on for two weeks. Two weeks of living off of cat naps and digestives; just enough to keep his brain going. When he figures that into the equation maybe it isn't so improbable that John managed not to disturb him.

Sherlock lays still and listens intently to the sounds of 221B. The stillness suggests that John isn't there at all.

'Where's John? What day is it? Monday. John doesn't work on Mondays,' he thinks to himself.

John turns off his phone as he enters the airport. He had told Sherlock twice the day before that he would be unavailable today.

He shuffles nervously from foot to foot, occasionally smoothing down the front of his jumper.

John had thought about this day many times over the last year. 'What will it be like to see him again?' He thinks to himself, he always thinks to himself.

"We shouldn't be doing this." John said between kisses so heated they could barely be classified as such. There was no form to them. No lingering tongues. They were completely adrenaline filled and served no other point than to remind them they were alive.

"Of course not." Murray replied as he paused long enough to slip John's shirt over his head. John did the same, running his hands over the toned chest of the other man.

Neither knew how they ended up on the cot that marked John's bed; only that as they rutted and gripped their cocks together that they needed this.

John came first, followed soon after by Murray. They didn't lay together when finished, not ever. There was always too much of a chance of someone walking in. While homosexuality was accepted, having sex with someone in your unit was frowned upon.

"Watson! John Watson!" The familiar voice pulls John from his memory.

"Bill." John replies, pulling the man into a hug as he drops his bag.

"You're looking great." Bill says with an appreciative look. "Much better than the last time that I saw you."

"Well, not being in a hospital bed may account for some of that." John says with a laugh. "Shall we?"

They walk out of the airport and grab a cab to the Veteran's apartments that Bill is staying at until he gets himself settled.

John, where are you? - SH

Sherlock puts his phone back in his pocket after the 7th text and decides it's time to take some action.

'Return to the scene of the crime.' He thinks as he races to what has become their bedroom.

He begins to take in his surroundings. Missing are 1 pair of black trousers, 1 pair of good dress shoes, 1 wallet except for Sherlock's debit card (which is on the corner of the desk), 1 phone (which apparently is dead or shut off, but not dead since it was on the charger last night), and 1 jumper. And not any jumper but the one he had bought for John before he introduced him to Mummy. The one John only wore on special occasions.

"Oh, that is clever, John. Wear the jumper that you know I would instinctively notice was missing when you're kidnapped..." He trails off. "That isn't right. No one could have taken you our from under my nose unwillingly, no matter how asleep I was. You left."

Sherlock goes back down stairs and starts sorting through John's laptop. 'Surely it should hold a clue.' He thinks to himself.

John orders another round from the bartender. The food was alright but the drinks are fairly priced at this pub, so John doesn't complain. Also, it was near Bill's hotel, making it an obvious choice.

"I hear they gave you a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross when you finally got back to London and recovered from the infections."

John nods and frowns into his drink. He doesn't like to think of the CGC he keeps tucked away in his dresser. It is a constant reminder of being sent back and leaving the rest of them behind to fight in his stead.

"Well, if anyone deserves it, it's you. I don't even pretend to know how many men you dragged back from the front lines and then patched them up to boot."

"So, what are your plans now that you're back in London." John asks, changing the subject.

"You know how it is, one has to get re-acclimated to city life. I might apply for some clinic work where they need orderlies."

"I could ask around, if you like. See if I hear of anything open."

"That would be great. You can't live in town on an army pension." Bill says, standing. "Gonna hit the loo."

John pulls out his phone to check the messages. If nothing else, then to make sure Sherlock hasn't gotten himself taken hostage.

157 Unread Messages

He quickly fires one off to Sherlock to make sure he is alright and then starts to read through them.

"You look deep in thought." Bill slides a fresh set of drinks onto the table.

"Yeah, just making sure Sherlock hasn't blown up the flat."

"Oh yeah, the flatmate. The one from your blog."

"That's the one." John replies with a grin. "Though, I should tell you it is more than that." He feels his cheeks heat up even as he says it.

"What is this? 'Three Continent' Watson has finally settled down?" Bill lightly punches him in the arm.

"Seems so."

Sherlock is about to call Mycroft when his phone chirps.

Told you I had plans today. Have you injured yourself or the flat in any way? -J"

iNo, of course not. Where are you, and why are you wearing the blue jumper? -SH"

Will be home soon. Turning off phone. Thai for dinner? -J

FIne. That did not answer my question, John. -SH

John? -SH

John gives Bill a hug and hails a cab.

"Don't be a stranger. If you need anything, let me know." John says.

"Yeah, we should do this again soon."

John agrees and then gives the cabbie the address to the Thai place that Sherlock likes.

Sherlock hears the familiar tread on the 17 steps that lead up to the flat. He plucks at his violin, still unsure as to how to confront the doctor.

John smiles at him as he enters and places the take away onto the counter (since the chemistry set is taking up all of the table) and begins to pull down plates.

"Did you have a nice day... with your lover?" Sherlock asks, deciding that being on the offensive is better for when John tells him they are finished.

There is a crash from the kitchen as John drops a plate.

"My what?" he asks walking into the sitting room, confused.

"Well, that is where you went today. You wore nice shoes, used gel and even decided on the blue jumper. You were obviously meeting someone you have feelings for because you wanted to make a good impression." Sherlock spits out. His release of deductions lack their normal 'voila' theatrics which raises the hairs on the back of John's neck.

John knows there are two ways to confront this. He can go on the defensive and yell at Sherlock but the jealousy that he hears in the detective's voice points him in another direction.

He walks over to the chair across from Sherlock and pulls it closer so their knees are touching. He places his hands on those long lean thighs, one of his favorite body parts on Sherlock (really which part isn't one of his favorites), and squeezes gently.

"As always, my love, you got almost everything right."

Sherlock looks away.

"I did go meet someone and I did want to impress them but it was a former lover." John continues, "And not someone that is any threat to you and what we have. I went to meet up with Murray, from Afghanistan. He is finally back in London."

"Did you tell him what you had was over?" Sherlock still doesn't make eye contact but his voice betrays his concern, reminding John how emotions are still new to him.

"Sherlock, we both knew it was over when I was invalid home. This was never something that was supposed to come back with us. It was all based on 'You're not dead and neither am I, let's fuck.'"

"That's not how you work, John." Sherlock tries to read the deception in John's eyes but finds none.

"No, not anymore. He wants to meet you, by the way. Wants to meet the man that finally was able to 'ensnare' me, was the word he used."

"You told him about me?"

"Of course I did, you idiot." John leans forward and with a chaste kiss upon the lips walks back to the kitchen to clean up the broken glass.

Silence fills the flat for a few minutes.

"John?" Sherlock's brain snags on something from earlier in the conversation. "You called me your 'love.'"

"Huh, so I did." John shrugs walking back in and places a tray in Sherlock's lap. With a wink, he is back in the kitchen to grab his own dinner.