After his outburst, John apologised to Greg profusely and promised – yet again – to get out of 'the damn flat' more. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes he had to lock himself in the bathroom and sit on the edge of the bath with his head in his hands, breathing deeply. But he managed, because he had to, and because he had Sherlock back, more of him than he had in a long time.

Most of the time he was happy. Sherlock was happy too, apart from when he got bored or woke up screaming. They tottered their way through life haphazardly, but they managed.

They slipped into Scotland Yard more easily than John had expected. It happened without his realising; whether Mycroft had put in a word for them at the top of the food chain, John didn't know. He was more inclined to think yes, seeing as the newspapers published a story saying 'new evidence' had been discovered, proving Sherlock's genius as authentic. They didn't say he was alive, or that he wasn't. The public had moved on.

Strangely enough, it was Molly who suggested they have another Christmas party at 221b. John would have thought she'd be the last person to want to come after the fiasco of the last one, but she rang him halfway into December, and he couldn't see much reason to refuse. It took a little persuasion to get Sherlock to agree, not because he didn't want to do it, but because he liked being stubborn for the sake of it sometimes, a habit he'd dug up from the past and stuck to. John learned to tell the difference, and he knew when to push, and when to leave it.

Everyone arrived on time, apart from Mycroft, who showed up twenty minutes late looking ruffled and with snow on his shoulders. He and Sherlock exchanged insults that didn't bite as much as they had done in the past, and remained apart for the rest of the evening.

John, unable to drink anything alcoholic since his stomach had come into contact with a bottle of bleach, had only one glass of well-watered juice. Mrs Hudson got very red in the face and giggled a lot. If Mycroft had anything whilst they weren't looking, it didn't show. Molly and Greg stuck to wine, whilst Sherlock drank nothing and spent most of the evening eating mince pies and playing the violin; he'd managed to bring his skill up to full peak again, although John could tell his wrist still got sore if he played for too long. Not that Sherlock let it stop him.

They danced, first to the violin, and then to an old CD which always jumped two verses on the third song because it was scratched. John danced with Mrs Hudson and Molly, and laughed when Greg, who'd had one or two glasses of wine too many, grabbed Mycroft and tried waltz with him. The look of surprise on Mycroft's face was priceless, and Sherlock found the whole thing hilarious; he began to chuckle, loud and genuine, a mixture of a smug smirk and real enjoyment.

Mycroft got annoyed because Greg was 'handling the steps entirely in the wrong way' and Molly stepped in to try and teach the two of them how it was 'really done'. Mrs Hudson said three times she should probably get to bed, but didn't leave.

It turned out Molly was a pretty good dancer, even after several glasses of wine. John sat by Sherlock on the sofa and watched, the two of them giggling like five year olds spying on the grownups doing silly things.

Sherlock was still breathless when he put his hand over John's. Immediate concern was what struck John – Sherlock tended to seek physical contact when he was insecure, or when his panic began to return – but when he looked into Sherlock's face he saw a relaxed, happy man who happened to be a tiny bit defiant into the bargain.

John battled with himself. At one point he feebly tried to tug his hand away, before he decided it felt too comfortable where it was, like a jigsaw piece that had finally slid into place. He let it stay, but he spoke at the same time.

"Sherlock…"

"Don't, John. Don't say anything, unless you feel uncomfortable. Do you?"

John had lost Sherlock too many times to lie.

"No."

"I heard you shouting at Greg, that time. What you shouted." Sherlock's mouth quirked at the side. "Hard not to."

John actually felt the colour drain from his cheeks and lips, as if someone had sucked it out with a vacuum cleaner. "Oh shit. I'm…that was…I'm s-"

"Sorry?"

John jerked his hand away from Sherlock's, curling it into a fist and crushing it against the sofa. His fingers were stinging, his eyes burning. "I can't…"

"You make me safe." Sherlock's voice was barely above a murmur; no-one else could possibly hear. "Not only feel safe, though god knows that's true enough. You make me safe from what might happen. From myself. And I want to be closer to that. For a long time, I've wanted to be closer to that, even when I didn't have a clue what was going on, you were safe."

John couldn't find his voice, and he was trembling too much to look for it. He listened. Sherlock's tone became stronger, firmer, although it still didn't raise much above a whisper.

"Moran was right." It was the first time John had heard Sherlock mention him since Trafalgar Square, and it made him flinch. "You were the only person who he could have used to get to me so much."

"Don't remind me. Please."

Sherlock ploughed on. "Doesn't that tell you anything? About before this…this…"

"Mess," John finished for him, dully.

"I've been thinking very carefully, and I'm very sure of what I want. I realised something had been making you uncomfortable around me. Although you'd never failed to be there when I need you, you've been holding back." Sherlock swallowed; John felt the sound reverberate in his left ear. "I thought I was too different, too changed, for you to understand me. I thought you were angry about what I'd done to you for three years. I understand now that is not the case. And although I want to thank you for what you've done for me, both before and after…"

Sherlock closed his eyes. John, seeing his nostrils flaring, breathing quickening, forgot himself, immediately putting his hand back over Sherlock's, squeezing until he was white-knuckled, and Sherlock's fingers turning red. He still couldn't find his voice, but Sherlock went on before he needed to.

"I want you to understand I don't feel any sense of obligation to you when it comes to…emotions. You know how difficult it was to make me do something I didn't want to do in the past."

John snorted. His voice returned in a hoarse croak. "Better than most."

They weren't looking each other in the eyes; part of John wanted to turn his head to see Sherlock's expression properly, but if he did he thought he might wake up, find out that it was all a dream after all.

"These past months, I've begun to feel…different. Far more like my old self, for a start. I can't promise to be everything you want in a partner. It's not my area of expertise, something I've never been interested in before. I don't know what will happen to us. But I want you to understand that this isn't something I feel I have to do. It's something I very much want to do."

John's chest relaxed, like a knot being undone; he could breathe properly for the first time in weeks. Sherlock, in his own, stiff, awkward, and somehow comforting way, was giving away exactly what he thought. What he felt. And that was…amazing.

"Your mobile," Sherlock added, softly, like a baby bird. "You've taken it off silent."

The change in topic made John blink. "Does it bother you?"

"It still plays the Macarena."

"Yes…"

"I changed it to the Macarena on April fool's day. Four years ago." He felt Sherlock's hand brush his own again, brief, but there. "And you've never changed it back."

It had never struck John until Sherlock said it, until he came to realise he'd kept the same, stupid ringtone because he couldn't bear to let Sherlock completely go. And he wasn't going to let him go now, because he couldn't. It wasn't physically possible.

John didn't hesitate, but he didn't give Sherlock a direct reply either. He got to his feet, dared to look at Sherlock's eyes, smiled. Let him deduce what he already knew. "Dance with me?"

Sherlock's lips curved as he laughed again. "Only if we can do better than they are."

John looked at the other side of the room, where Molly had her arms around Greg's neck and was trying to force him in a circle, and snorted.

"I'm not sure that would be hard."

Their dancing, as it turned out, was uncoordinated and messy, a little too enthusiastic because John wasn't sure when he'd last been this cheerful. He'd got used to keeping his movements and emotions minimal and efficient, and he'd suddenly discovered they didn't have to be any more.

He was allowed to be happy again.

The End.

Well, there you go! It's been a very long haul (I started writing this just under a year ago!) but I've enjoyed it hugely. Thank you to everyone who's encouraged and suggested, and to everyone who's simply told me they liked it, whether they were there at the very beginning or read it all in one go – you're all lovely people and I really appreciate it. Thank you for reading!