Sherlock drops his hands to his lap. He concentrates on the blob itself, attempting to discern any details contained in the fuzzy grey patch. After concentrating for several minutes, he is feeling an ache in the muscles around his eyes, but he cannot make anything out. It is just a blurry softening of the darkness, which would be barely noticeable except that he is so accustomed to total blackness that it stands out to him like a bolt of lightning.

Drawing a deep breath, he repeats his earlier experiments, testing to confirm that the anomaly is eye-specific and affected by light levels. The results are the same.

Sherlock is repeating the procedures for the third time when he hears the door of the building opening, and John's footsteps coming up the stairs, his tread heavier than usual.

He waits, nearly vibrating with impatience, until he is sure that John is in the flat, and then shouts out.

"John, come here!"

"Just a minute, Sherlock," comes the faint reply from the kitchen. Sherlock hears the refrigerator opening. Putting away groceries. Not important.

"John, now! I need you!"

"OK, OK, hang on," John says. Sherlock hears the refrigerator close, and moments later John is stepping into his bedroom. "What do you need?"

"Shine a light in my eyes," Sherlock says excitedly.

"Umm… what? Why?"

"Get a torch and shine it in my eyes. Don't tell me when you do it, just do it," Sherlock responds, impatient.

"Alright." John sounds puzzled. Sherlock hears him leave the room and come back a few moments later.

There is a quiet click as John flicks on the torch. A pause, and then the blob in Sherlock's vision becomes slightly brighter, just barely tinged with yellow.

"You're doing it now," he says. There is a gasp of indrawn breath from John, and then the blob fades back to its former greyness.

"You've stopped."

"Sherlock, how…" John sounds shocked, now.

"Do it again. Tell me if I'm getting it right."

John is silent. Nothing changes for a long stretch of time, and Sherlock feels the hope inside him start to fade, replaced with fierce bitterness. Then, suddenly, the blob is brighter again.

"Now."

"Yes," says John, breathless.

The blob fades, and then immediately brightens again.

"You stopped for a moment, and now you're doing it again," Sherlock says.

"Yes," John answers again, almost a whisper.

"John," Sherlock says, voice rough and catching in his throat, "I can see the light. Just barely, only a tiny bit, and only in my right eye, but it's there, John. I can see it!"

"Oh my God, Sherlock," John sounds joyful, amazed. "That's so… that's so wonderful. I can't… God, that's so wonderful."

Sherlock feels John's arms close around him, and the blob in his vision goes dark once again as his eyes fall Shut and he presses his face down into John's neck. He squeezes John hard as John hugs him back, and suddenly he is weeping, sobbing into John's shirt, crying for the first time in many years, since well before the accident that took his vision, since he was a child. He cannot stop, cannot help it. There is a chance that he will see again, at least partially, and he has never been so happy in his life. And all he can do now is clutch John close and weep his joy out onto John's skin.

Dimly, he feels John gently stroking his back, petting him, hears John whispering soothing little murmurs into his hair as he cries. In response, he just squeezes harder.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

John leans back in his comfy brown arm chair, Union Jack pillow compressed gently behind him, and shakes the newspaper open to the sports section. He has a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits beside him, a book set aside for reading once the paper is done, and no plans for the day except to relax and enjoy himself.

As if it is ever that easy.

As he is reading over the football scores, grumbling to himself about Chelsea's poor performance recently, Sherlock comes bursting into the room, coat swirling around behind him in typical flamboyant fashion. The coat is new, as his old one had been destroyed in the explosion, but it is of a similar style and just as suited to dramatics as its predecessor. He snags his scarf from its hook by the door with barely a pause and drapes it around his throat.

Immediately, John casts the paper aside and moves to stand up.

"So, what's on?" he asks as he starts moving to the door to grab his own coat.

"Oh, John!" Sherlock exclaims, as if he has just realized John is there, although John knows that is not possible with all the noise he was making with the newspaper. "Nothing important, Molly just texted me. She has a new corpse in, died from a rare Caribbean poison. She's saved me samples of the organs. I'm just going to pick them up."

"OK, give me a minute to find my shoes," John answers absently, peering around at the floor.

"No need, John. I'm just going to Bart's and back. Don't trouble yourself."

John looks up sharply at that, mouth opening to say something, but then he shuts it with a snap and shrugs, moving back to his chair with a sinking feeling in his chest.

"OK, have fun then," he manages to say as he sits, and then Sherlock is gone, bounding down the stairs and out the door. By himself.

John picks his paper up from there he dropped it on the floor and goes back to the sports pages, but he cannot concentrate. After rereading the same line three times, he gives up, closing the paper and resting it against his chest as he leans his head against the back of the chair and stares up at the ceiling.

In the two weeks since Sherlock's realization that he could detect light in his right eye, his vision has continued to improve. Now, he can clearly make out varying levels of light and dark, and even some rough shapes, if they are large and crisp enough, if they are backlit by a light source, if they are dramatically colored.

He still has significant visual limitations. He cannot make out fine details, or even most coarse details. He certainly cannot read, and relies entirely on his Braille books and journals and notes. He has trouble seeing colors unless they are very bright, and struggles to discriminate between different objects if they are similarly colored or too near each other. His night vision is nonexistent, and in low light he is still effectively blind.

But the truth remains that he can see again, even if only just a bit. It is fantastic, and by far a better outcome than John could have hoped for when he first heard the doctor's prognosis. John feels overjoyed for his friend.

And yet…

With the restoration of his eyesight, even partial and limited as it is, has come a significant increase in Sherlock's independence and level of comfort. He can move around the environment now with essentially no help from John. He still relies primarily on his hearing and other senses to guide him through the city, but his vision is functional enough that he no longer requires John's assistance for the little things, such as avoiding colliding with people on the sidewalk or refraining from stepping off of curbs unexpectedly.

And as a result, he has almost entirely stopped bringing John with him when he goes out.

John understands. He does. Sherlock was forced to rely on John for more than a month to accomplish every little thing. Sherlock Holmes, who guards his independence more fiercely than anyone John has ever met, spent over a month in a position of near-total helplessness, and even though John was careful to always respect his abilities, the position must have chafed. So now that he can, of course Sherlock is going to want to resume living as independently as possible. As Sherlock would say, obviously.

But somehow, despite his happiness for his friend, despite his joy and delight that Sherlock is not doomed to a life of sightlessness and boredom, John finds himself experiencing momentary surges of disappointment when Sherlock goes dashing off without him. He has become accustomed to being a major part of Sherlock's life, and now he feels left out.

John feels guilty, feels like a giant selfish prat each time he is caught by one of these waves of sadness. He should be feeling nothing but elation for Sherlock, who is successfully rebuilding his life in the face of a truly devastating injury. But no matter how many times he tells himself that he is being an idiot, he cannot seem to help it.

For more than a month, John spent nearly every waking minute with Sherlock, or thinking about Sherlock, or doing things for Sherlock. He was the only one allowed to see the genius at his most distraught, most vulnerable. He was the one to whom that great man turned when he needed help, the only one that Sherlock trusted enough to deliver it. For a month, John had been the single most important person in Sherlock's life.

In his chair, John rubs his hands over his face, pressing hard, and chokes out a short bitter laugh. What kind of a person does that make me, then, for wanting it so much?

He does not want Sherlock to be helpless. He does not want him to be blind, or hurt, or distraught. He truly does feel joy for his friend's unexpected recovery, and would not wish it undone for anything in the world.

It's just that, after being the most valuable thing in the world to Sherlock Holmes for a short period of time, John cannot imagine having to go back to how things used to be. Not now that he knows what it's like to be needed by the man so much.

He exhales hard, disappointment and guilt and desire mixing uncomfortably in his mind. This is not productive, and he needs to stop thinking about it. He leans forward again and picks the newspaper up off his chest, randomly selecting an article off of the front cover and starting to read it mid-paragraph in an attempt to distract himself from his counterproductive and pointless thoughts.

Minutes later, he is still staring at the same page of the paper, and he cannot remember a single word that he has read. He sighs and tosses the paper on the floor before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

So, time to take a new approach then. If he does not want Sherlock to be helpless again, what does he want? What would satisfy this strange and unexpected desire that has awoken in him for Sherlock's attention? John closes his eyes and breathes deeply, evenly as he ponders this question.

He wants Sherlock to want him around, to look to him for help and opinions. He wants Sherlock to seek his attention, to go out of his way to spend time with John, to desire his company. He wants to spend hours wandering London with Sherlock, arms linked, comfortable both talking and just walking along in companionable silence. He wants Sherlock to show him that beautiful expression of unrestrained joy when John surprises him with a gift or an idea. He wants Sherlock to hug him when he is happy, to whisper "thank you" to him in that hushed, breathless little voice that he uses when he is truly and sincerely grateful. He wants more moments like the one in the kitchen, when he sat staring into Sherlock's eyes, feeling Sherlock's breath on his skin… Oh holy hell.

And then, of course, John realized exactly what he really wants. He wants Sherlock. He wants Sherlock Holmes, and he wants Sherlock to want him back in the same way. He wants the intimacy that they have developed over the past weeks of being so close together to continue, to blossom into a true relationship instead of the false pale imitation that they have been living thus far.

He's in love with the bastard.

John sits up in his chair and takes a deep breath.

Oh, I am so fucked.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

In his cab on the way home from Bart's, Sherlock sits clutching a small Styrofoam box containing a variety of samples of organ tissue and keeping his eyes turned toward the windows. As the cab travels along the street, he attempts to identify as many of the objects they pass as possible. People are easy, usually visible as dark humanoid blobs where they are silhouetted against the sky or against reflective shop windows. Trees he can usually make out if they have leaves, but bare trees and very tall trees are difficult to distinguish from lamp posts and traffic signals. He absolutely cannot tell the difference between shops and restaurants, unless they have a particularly garish sign or the cab stops long enough for him to use his other senses to discriminate the details.

He is enjoying himself immensely.

Being out of the flat, on his own, able to move freely through the city with no one's help, is the most incredible and rewarding sensation he has ever experienced. He knew that he hated being dependent, of course, but he had not realized how much he had resented the necessity of relying on someone until he no longer had to, even if that someone was John. The feeling was so incredibly freeing that he nearly laughed out loud the first time he left the flat to travel any distance independently, when he had gone to tell Mycroft about his vision improvement. And now he nearly laughs out loud again at the recollection of Mycroft, doing his best to appear calm and unperturbed but subtly betraying his extreme shock (through an unnecessarily firm tap of his umbrella against the ground) at seeing Sherlock standing calmly in the entrance to the Diogenes Club, all on his own.

Sherlock is so pleased with his newly regained independence that he looks for reasons to leave the flat, and sometimes goes out just to be out, which is unlike him. Not this time, of course, and his little bundle of organ meat can attest, but sometimes.

However much he is enjoying his freedom, though, he must admit to himself that he misses John's company. He continuously finds himself turning to make an observation or comment, only to remember that John is not with him, that he is out alone. And sometimes he finds himself torn between wanting to revel in his independence and wanting to spend more time with John.

Which is silly. John is always around. He is at the flat most of the time Sherlock is home, and they often go out together, even now. Sherlock spends most of his waking hours in John's presence, and has since well before the accident. He never craved John's company before, and cannot figure out why he does now. It cannot simply be the result of their forced companionship during his period of blindness, can it? Certainly, John was around him almost every second, then, his companionship and warm affection a continuous supportive presence in Sherlock's darkened world, but could such an emotional dependence develop in only a month?

It is illogical and ridiculous, and Sherlock has decided to ignore it. It is likely that his emotional attachment to John is the result of some kind of psychological phenomenon engendered by his dependence on him, and it will fade with time as Sherlock remains independent and free. When he sometimes finds himself thinking that he does not want it to fade, that he would rather have John's company and the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction and completeness that it brings than his freedom, he pushes the thought down and locks it away. It is unacceptable.

Besides which, Sherlock is under no delusions that he is as pleasant or desirable to be around as John. John must be heartily sick of his company by now.

The cab arrives at 221 Baker Street. Sherlock pays, identifying the correct bills based on their location in his wallet as he absolutely does not have the visual acuity yet to make out different denominations of money, and hops out. He carries the Styrofoam cooler carelessly under one arm as he enters the building and climbs the stairs to the flat.

Inside, he can dimly make out the form of John, still sitting in his chair. He is sitting very still, looking forward, and does not appear to have anything in his hands. Sherlock takes a moment to confirm this observation by listening intently, but if John is holding anything, it is not a book or a newspaper or anything else that might make a rustling noise. He is evidently just sitting there, doing nothing. Sherlock proceeds to take off his coat and scarf and hang them on the coat rack before carrying his cooler into the kitchen.

"So, no problems getting everything?" John asks suddenly from his place on the chair. His voice sounds rough, a little off.

"No, why would there be?" Sherlock responds, bristling slightly under the suggestion that he might not be capable of completing his errand on his own.

"Well, I know that Molly gets in trouble sometimes for giving you samples," John answers, sounding more like himself. Sherlock feels mollified that John was not worried about his abilities, and then is annoyed with himself for caring. In revenge, he deliberately slides the little cooler into the refrigerator onto one of the shelves labeled "Food Only", smiling to himself as he does so.

He moves back out to the living room and flops down onto the couch. As far as he can tell, John is still just sitting in his chair, doing nothing. It's odd, and he turns his head to look more fully at John with his one partially functioning eye, as if he can deduce anything from him that way.

John shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny and clears his throat as if he has something to say, but just then Sherlock's mobile rings. He pulls it out without making any attempt to check the caller ID – pointless, far too small for him to see – and answers it with his usual brusque "Sherlock Holmes".

It's Lestrade, inviting Sherlock to a case. An actual crime scene, fresh and undisturbed, or at least as undisturbed as it can be with the idiots from forensics traipsing all over the place. Not a cold case, not a file with photos, but an actual crime scene. Sherlock responds blandly that he might be available to come down, and then hangs up the phone and literally shouts with joy.

"It's a case, John! An actual case! A crime scene, with a dead body and everything!"

"Fantastic, Sherlock," John says, and his voice is sounding shaky and strange again.

"What's the matter with you?" Sherlock asks as he throws his coat around his shoulders, his own spirits made buoyant by the invitation from Lestrade.

"Nothing… nothing's wrong. Should I get my coat, then?" There is something hesitant in the question, but Sherlock does not take the time to analyze John's state of mind. All of a sudden he is too busy figuring out his own.

His immediate instinct is to tell John that of course he should come along. It's a case after all, and John usually accompanies him on cases. His help has proven invaluable time and time again, even before, even when Sherlock could see clearly. And he just wants John around, wants to be near him, to listen to him praise Sherlock's deductions and compliment his skills.

However, he is also still possessed with the desire to prove himself, to demonstrate that he is fully functional and as capable as he ever was, that he needs no one's help. And he fears the strength of his desire to bring John with him, for reasons he has not fully explored.

"Not necessary," he finally answers. "It sounds like a simple one. I should have no trouble taking care of it on my own."

"Right. Well done," John says, and this time there is no mistaking the emotion in his voice. It is anger. He stands up quickly and marches past Sherlock into the kitchen. Sherlock hears the sound of a mug being banged onto the countertop with unnecessary force, followed by the tick of the kettle being switched on.

Instead of leaving, heading out to the crime scene, Sherlock follows John into the kitchen.

"You're angry with me," Sherlock says, leaning in the doorway.

"Right again. Nice job, that," John responds, each syllable bitten off in a sharp voice.

"Why?"

John turns, regarding Sherlock from across the room. Sherlock cannot make out his face, of course, but his posture is ramrod straight and rigid, and Sherlock has seen John angry enough times in the past to have no trouble imagining his expression right now. He waits, arching an eyebrow in a way that he knows John finds infuriating, his arms folded across his chest.

"Is this it, then?" John finally says, after watching him for several silent moments.

"Is this what?" Sherlock is genuinely confused by the question.

"You're all better now, yeah? So you'll just be going off on your own, solving cases and doing experiments, just like before?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, still confused. "Exactly. I am finally myself again, John. I can do things by myself. I don't need your help anymore."

John just looks at him silently. Then, as Sherlock watches through his one hazy eye, John's posture relaxes, sags, until he is slumped back against the edge of the counter. When he responds, his voice is soft and ragged.

"Yes. Right. Of course." He turns his back to Sherlock and busies himself making tea. "Tell Lestrade I say hi."

"John, what's the matter? I don't understand. I thought you'd be happy for me to get my eyesight back." Sherlock is upset, bothered by John's attitude. Would he rather I had stayed blind?

"Oh Sherlock, of course I'm happy for you. God, I'm so happy, I can't even tell you." John turns around to deliver this comment, holding something tea mug, obviously in one hand. He leans against the counter again.

"Then what's the problem? Why are you mad?"

John takes in a slow breath, lets it out. "It's just that I… I… Oh, God, this is hard to say." He blows into his cup and then takes a slurping sip of the tea. Apparently restored, he tries again. "It was nice, you know, being important to you. I'm overjoyed that you got your eyesight back and I wouldn't change that for anything, but I guess I just miss how close we were getting." John takes another deep breath. "It makes me sad that you don't need me anymore."

John's face is tilted downward by then end of his speech, avoiding Sherlock's gaze, and his breathing is slightly accelerated. Worried.

Sherlock takes a cautious step forward, into the kitchen, which he finds himself irrationally thinking of as "John's space". And when has he ever cared about someone's space?

"John, you're still important to me," he says carefully.

John barks out a skeptical little laugh and does not respond. Sherlock moves a little bit further into the kitchen.

"We are still close. I've never been as close to anybody as I am to you, even before the accident. You know that."

John sighs. "Yeah, I know that." Then, in a quieter voice, "and I guess that will have to be enough."

"Wait, what?" Sherlock peers at John's face, squinting as if it will help. If he could only see John's expression, maybe he could tell what he is thinking.

"Nothing, Sherlock. Nevermind. It's not important." John turns away again, putting his mug down on the counter. "Go ahead, Lestrade is waiting. I'll get something for dinner, just in case you're hungry later." He sounds so defeated, and Sherlock is overcome with a desire to do something to fix it, to make John feel better.

And what did he mean about it "being enough"?

Sherlock opens his mouth to ask again, when suddenly a thought occurs to him. Maybe John feels the same way he does, that strange sense of satisfaction in his company, and that's what he is missing?

Images start to flash through his mind, pictures of John, of the two of them. Not memories, because of course he could not see at the time, but images nonetheless, pictures as if from the perspective of an outside observer watching them.

John, sitting at his bedside in the hospital. John, cleaning their flat, carefully arranging all of Sherlock's notes and papers in anticipation of his return. John, buying Braille books and surprising Sherlock with them. John, secretly arranging to have case files translated into Braille as a surprise. He and John, walking through London for hours and hours, arm-in-arm. He and John, sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by broken dishes, while John comforted him and called him brilliant. John, patiently and selflessly spending all of his time just being there, available if Sherlock needed him, doing whatever Sherlock asked, giving him whatever he needed, never asking for anything in return. John, holding him while he wept for joy and celebrating with him when his vision started to return.

All of this flashes through his mind in an instant, and then Sherlock know, knows exactly what is wrong with John. And what is wrong with him, too. He understands why he craves John's company, why he feels complete when John is with him, and why John is hurt when he goes off by himself.

Confidently, he steps forward until he is standing right beside John, who immediately turns toward him.

"Sherlock, what-" John starts, but that is as far as he gets before Sherlock brings both of his hands up to gently cup John's face. He looks down, barely able to make out the dark ovals of John's eyes through his distorted vision, but it is enough. He knows John can see into his eyes, anyway, and that is what is really important now.

"You love me," he says softly. He can see John's eyes widen, feel as John tries to shake his head within the confines of Sherlock's hands.

"I-" John starts again, but Sherlock shushes him.

"I love you, too."

John goes still, his eyes wide open as he looks back up into Sherlock's face. His lips part and he breaths out a soft "oh" of surprise.

Slowly, giving John time to see what he is doing, to protest or move away, Sherlock lowers his face toward John's. John does not move, and as Sherlock gets closer he sees John's eyes flutter shut. Then their lips meet, and Sherlock's own eyes fall closed as well, dropping him once again into darkness.

Sherlock kisses John gently, using his hands on John's jaw to tilt his face to the side and bring their mouths more fully into contact. Then John lets out a little pleading grunt and his hands come up to caress Sherlock's face, one finding its way into his still-too-short hair. John pulls Sherlock's face tight against his and traces his tongue along the seam of Sherlock's lips. With a little shiver, Sherlock allows his lips to part.

John's tongue slips into his mouth, caressing his, and Sherlock is immediately awash in overwhelming sensations. The slow, slick slide of it is amazing, incredible, the most intensely sensuous thing Sherlock has ever felt. He squeezes his eyes more tightly closed and drops his hands, wrapping one arm around John's shoulders and holding on tight, bringing the other hand to rest on John's chest as their tongues continue to twist and dance inside his mouth.

They kiss, and go on kissing, for a timeless time, still standing there in the kitchen. And when finally, finally they draw apart, still locked in an embrace and breathing heavily against each other's mouths, Sherlock has no idea how much time has passed. All he can do is cling to John and pant while he slowly comes back to himself.

After several minutes, John leans back slightly and looks him in the eye.

"Yes, I do love you. You git," he says, grinning.

Sherlock throws back his head and laughs.

"Excellent! Now then, get your coat. We have a case!" He squeezes John's shoulders one more time and then releases him, stepping back and spinning on his heel to dash out of the room. Behind him he hears John laughing as he grabs his coat from the rack and follows Sherlock down the stairs and out into the city.