Author's Note: Thank you in abundance to everyone who has favourited, followed and reviewed. You are a huge comfort and a great incentive. More stories are on their way to you.

Warning: Contains references to gay sex and male anatomy. And ginger hair. Don't say I didn't tell you.

The London train was packed. People were making the most of the long sunny summer evenings to go into the Big Smoke to party, or see a show. Sherlock and John found themselves sandwiched together in a corner, penned in by the bulk of a woman so enormous she had to spread her thighs to more than ninety degrees in order to accommodate her drooping belly. They watched in disbelief as she proceeded to fish a large box of diet crunchy bars out of her bag and eat the lot, oblivious to either the amount of space she was taking up or the way she was spraying other passengers with seeds and pieces of nut from her food.

John watched in a kind of dazed fascination. His head was spinning anyway, so it was a distraction. But Sherlock's long body pressed against his side kept drawing him back to the exchange in the hospital corridor.

From the twinge of half-forgotten desire at the first mention of Julia's name that morning on the telephone with Paston, to the electric pressure of Sherlock's thigh trapped against his own, John's mind was awash with feeling and sensation. It had been more than enough to have to cope with the return to Aldershot, to face the once familiar world of uniform and regiment, to handle the memories that came rushing back. And then there was Sherlock's outburst.

John didn't understand. Sherlock didn't do feelings. Yes, there had been emotion when he had returned home after the whole faked death thing, there had been John's anger and sense of betrayal, and the pain of grief. But he had never for a moment guessed that Sherlock thought of him as anything more than a friend.

There had been a lot of things that John had been forced to face when he lost Sherlock. Somehow, he had managed to bury a lot of them.

Today had brought them back.

He didn't know where he and Sherlock went from here.

Where they actually went was, of course, London. At Waterloo, Sherlock cavalierly ignored shouts of protest at the taxi rank and commandeered the first cab that arrived with a shout of 'Urgent Police Business!' and a wave of Greg's missing warrant card (thumb carefully positioned over the photo, of course). John scrambled in behind him, embarrassed and ashamed yet again. They sat in silence on the drive home, both staring up at the buildings they passed. The sky was glowering, a hot, sunny day obviously about to conclude with a rainstorm. John shook his head at the British weather. It felt like the only thing in his life that was predictable.

John took the stairs two at a time to catch up – Sherlock having bolted as soon as the taxi drew up, leaving John to deal with the fare as usual. When he got to the top, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The flat was hot and stuffy. Sherlock was standing at the window, silhouetted against the silver light of evening. He had thrown the sash open, and the net moved softly around him, everything else dark but for that gauze billow. He looked like something from another world.

'It's started to rain,' Sherlock said, softly.

John went to stand beside him. For a while, the city around them seemed to still, breathing out the heat in a mist of twilight and quenching downpour. Drops pattered on the painted windowsill. Sherlock reached out, palm up, caught a few on his skin.

'I love summer rain,' he breathed. 'Washes everything so clean. Smells so sharp. A fresh start.'

John found himself drawing closer, unable to resist this strange, whimsical mood. It took a moment to realise that Sherlock's arm had drifted gently around his waist.

'Sherlock?' he whispered.

'I know you can't, John,' the detective told him, eyes still focused out there, on the street, where the rain fell in pearlescent sheets onto steaming tarmac. 'But I need you to know. I need to say it.'

John's hand lifted, palm resting on Sherlock's chest. He was not aware of wanting to do that, he realised, staring at his knuckles. It had found its way there of its own accord, as if it was going home.

'Say it, then.'

'I love you.'

The words sang in his blood. He bent his head forward, resting his brow against Sherlock's shoulder. Once more, he felt the world slow, and that deep bliss descend on him. Would it always be like this, he wondered, if he gave in to this love?

'I need to know what you want from me,' he said, hardly daring to speak in case he broke the moment, shattered this heavenly stillness forever.

'It doesn't matter what I want.'

'It does. It really does. But you have to say it, so I know.'

Sherlock was silent, as if gathering himself. John could feel that huge heart racing against his own forehead.

'I want to laugh with you,' he whispered after a moment. 'I want to talk with you and argue with you. I want to eat with you, and drink your tea. I want to share your bed. I want to drift into sleep beside you at night, and wake in your arms in the mornings. I want to lie around the flat in my pyjamas and watch dreadful telly with you. I want to hear you say 'that's brilliant,' when other people would just punch me or call me a freak, and I want to hear you say it every day. I want to grow old with you, and when it comes to it, I want your face to be the last thing I see before I die.'

John lifted his head and looked into Sherlock's eyes. They had changed to the colour of sea glass.

'That's pretty comprehensive,' he smiled.

'I've always been thorough,' Sherlock replied, twinkling.

'The dying part,' John said. 'You aren't planning to do that again too soon, are you? Only I don't think I'm quite ready for a repeat performance just yet.'

'No,' Sherlock whispered. 'Not for years. Decades, in fact.'

'Good.'

They were staring into each other's eyes.

'You aren't running away, screaming 'I'm not gay',' Sherlock observed.

'I'm not, am I? Now why do you think that is?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Frankly, I have no idea. It's certainly not the response I expected.'

John reached up and touched Sherlock's cheek gently. 'Well, here's the thing: when I lost you, I realised there were a whole lot of things I wished I had said to you. I mean, apart from 'You idiot!' and 'Why didn't you talk to me about it?''

'Of course.' Sherlock bent his head, coming infinitesimally closer, looking deeply into John's eyes as if he were measuring every fractional response.

John took a deep breath. 'I realised I'd never told you that I, well, that I love you.'

'Really?'

'Yes. I do.'

'Oh.'

Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned.

'Do you want me to repeat that?' John grinned.

'Are you still not gay?'

'I think that is a bit irrelevant now, don't you?'

'Possibly.'

'Well, what do you think?'

'I think I very much want to kiss you, if that would be acceptable?'

'More than acceptable.'

Sherlock moved in, his eyes darting down to John's lips.

'It's okay,' John whispered. 'It's fine.'

And then it finally happened. The thing the whole world had been holding its breath for since that first afternoon in the lab at Bart's, when Mike Stamford had introduced them as potential flatmates, and a legend had been born. The thing that John had been waiting for since he lost his one true love, the thing he had been hoping for since his one true love came back.

It wasn't how either of them had imagined it would be, that precious moment. For John, it was primarily not how he had imagined because Sherlock's idea of kissing appeared to depend almost entirely on the application of pounds per square inch.

When it was over, John came up for air with bruised lips and the suspicion of dislocated cervical vertebrae. Sherlock crooked his neck back, drawing his chin in, and frowned unhappily.

'That wasn't how I thought it would feel,' he said.

John brushed the pad of his thumb across Sherlock's lower lip lightly, and the detective's eyelids fluttered closed.

He sighed. 'Oh.'

'I think that perhaps we should try it again,' John whispered, leaning closer. 'But a little less intense this time.'

And then John proceeded to give Sherlock a lesson on the stimulation of the tightly packed sensory nerve clusters in the mouth and tongue.

Sherlock whimpered.

Sherlock moaned.

Sherlock's knees gave way, but luckily John had his arms around him, and he caught him deftly.

Sherlock's eyelids cracked open, and he looked at John with slightly unfocussed eyes.

'Is it always this good?'

'Sometimes its better,' John smirked.

'I think I need to sit down.'

'I have a better idea,' said John.

Epilogue

Sherlock. Lying on his back, with sweat trickling down his sides. Hair like a bird's nest. Skin gleaming. He dabbled his middle finger in the well of semen that had gathered in his navel and examined it.

'Oh,' he gasped, because he still had not caught his breath.

'Give me a minute,' John panted beside him. 'I'll get a flannel.'

Sherlock let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling.

'Gosh,' he said.

John laughed, a wheezy laugh, because he was still trying to get his breath back too. 'Only you would say something like that at this precise moment!'

'I'm not sure I know what else to say. What does one say in such a situation?'

'How about, "fuck me, that was the best sex I've ever had"?'

'That was the only sex I've ever had,' Sherlock added.

'I gathered that.'

'What gave me away?'

'Let's start with the kissing technique.'

'Yes, well, I think I've got that sorted now.'

'Yes, I think you have.' John was grinning up at the ceiling too. 'Fuck, Sherlock, you really are incredible!'

Now it was Sherlock's turn to grin. 'Thank you.'

They lay there for a while longer.

'John?'

'Mmmm?'

'I didn't think you did that.'

'Well, there you go.'

'I mean, you said you'd never been with a man before.'

'Doesn't mean I've never done that. Men aren't the only ones who enjoy it, you know.'

'Really?'

John shrugged. 'I had a girlfriend once who was really into it. And it's a bit like riding a bike, you kind of never forget how.' Then a thought struck him and he rolled onto his side to look at Sherlock.

'Anyway, there's something you didn't tell me either.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Oh, you noticed.'

'Hardly going to miss that.'

'Yes, collar and cuffs don't match. What of it?'

'Sherlock, you're a red head!'

'Auburn, actually.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Why should I? It's one of the few bits of advice Mycroft ever gave me that proved useful.'

'Mycroft's a ginge, too?

'Horribly. Much brighter than me, at any rate. He's been dyeing his hair since he was about 17. Nobody takes you seriously if you have red hair.'

John looked down at the soft, ruddy curls twined around the base of Sherlock's cock. There was suddenly something so poignant, so vulnerable about the artifice of Sherlock colouring his hair in order to be taken seriously. He couldn't help reaching out to stroke, teasing a few fronds out, tenderly.

'I think it's lovely.'

'Not going to happen,' Sherlock said, flatly.

'What?'

'You want me to grow my colour out. It's unthinkable, so don't even ask.'

'Well, I can't comment, I'm a bit ginger down there myself.'

'Fair hair,' Sherlock observed, and ruffled John's fringe fondly. And winced, very slightly, at the movement.

'Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?'

'Not in the slightest.'

'Really?'

'Really, not at all. I thought it might be uncomfortable, but it was lovely. I think it was that thing you did with your mouth, you know-'

'Oh, right. Good.'

'You know that's illegal in some parts of the world, don't you?'

'I think pretty much everything we've just done is illegal somewhere, love.'

'Do you realise you just called me love?'

'Oh, God, I'm sorry, I-'

'No, I liked it. I just thought I should point it out. But I think perhaps its better if you don't call me that when we are working, don't you? I'm not sure it would go down well with the likes of Donovan and Anderson.'

'Since when do you care what they think?'

'Never, but there's no reason to give them any further ammunition, is there?'

'I suppose not. Love.'

Sherlock giggled. He actually giggled. It was impossibly perfect.

'So, when can we do it again?'

'Sherlock!'

'It's a reasonable question.'

'Give me a break! I'm not as young as I was, you know!' John gave him a kiss. 'Besides, you are really going to feel that tomorrow.'

'I already do. I think I shall be walking funny for a week!'

'Oh, God, this is just too surreal!'

Sherlock pulled him close for a long, breathy kiss. 'Perhaps you could put it in my mouth, how would that be?'

'Sherlock Holmes, you are a very bad man.'

The End. Thank you for joining me. More stories soon, I promise.