AN: My second Sherlock fic. My first one, Morning, was written primarily from Sherlock's point of view, so I wrote this one primarily from John's. Please do enjoy and let me know what you think!

It was fairly late when John came home from the surgery on Saturday evening, but not so late that he felt like showering and going immediately to bed. As he walked up to 221B under a sky that was beginning to show stars, he thought about what he'd like to do after his shower instead: make some tea, continue reading the book he'd started the previous week, perhaps finally get around to mending his favorite shirt. As he turned his key in the lock, however, he shook his head in slight exasperation with himself for not admitting that what he wanted more than anything was to see Sherlock; that what he hoped for above all else was that he would come home and find Sherlock somewhere other than the study, which was where he seemed to have been shut up for at least three days.

He didn't feel very optimistic about that happening. He of all people knew how Sherlock could throw himself into his work, sometimes for weeks, all while sleeping little and eating less. John missed Sherlock's warm body wrapped around his when he fell asleep at night, as much as he missed their kisses and overall togetherness. Simply put, he missed Sherlock.

As he'd suspected, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen when he entered the apartment, and John gave a brief sigh of disappointment. When he saw that the study door was still closed, he forced himself not to knock and disturb Sherlock, then turned away and headed for the bathroom instead.

He took a long shower and when he was done, he went to the kitchen to make tea. It had been several weeks since he'd first kissed Sherlock; since that rush of previously forbidden feelings had finally been set free and begun to make sense. He touched his lips lightly with his fingertips as he remembered how that first kiss had felt. He ached to kiss Sherlock now, to take him in his arms, to be reminded that Sherlock loved him too, but he didn't think that would be happening tonight.

As he put the kettle on to boil, he felt the full, considerable depth of his loneliness. Once or twice since they'd become a couple, Sherlock had had to leave London and go to another city for some case or other, and John had stayed behind. He'd missed him then, of course he had, but this was different. Sherlock's distance from him now wasn't a matter of physical space; it was a matter of a simple closed door that John couldn't open.

Well, he had to come out sometime, hadn't he? John thought as he sipped his tea, sitting at the kitchen table and poring idly over the previous day's newspaper. Even Sherlock would at some point need to use the bathroom, or eat something, or even breathe some fresh air. John would wait for him, he decided. He knew he wouldn't be able to really concentrate on anything until he'd seen his partner.

John sighed in mild frustration, raking both hands through his short blond hair. He wished he didn't feel this strong need for reassurance; he wished he could just trust that Sherlock loved him as much as John loved Sherlock. He kept being plagued by feelings of insecurity, usually accompanied by memories of Sherlock saying that he was married to his work. If that were true, what did it mean for John? Did Sherlock wish they hadn't fallen in love?

John leaned his forehead into his hand, trying to clear those painful questions from his tired mind. Perhaps he would go to bed after all…but no, he didn't want to sleep without Sherlock. "Bloody hell," he said under his breath. Cursing; that was the way to make himself feel better. He rubbed his forehead slowly, with a methodical circular motion, and closed his eyes. He tried to picture what would have happened when he'd come home if Sherlock hadn't been behind that bloody door.

He imagined Sherlock smiling that heart-melting smile at the sight of him, kissing him hello, running his large hands over John's shoulders and removing his jacket. He tried to recall the exact sensation of Sherlock's lips moving against his, Sherlock's hands as they cupped his neck, Sherlock's long, lean body pressed up against his. He pictured their kisses steadily growing hotter and more passionate, and he began to feel the effects of the mental images in his groin. He groaned very softly and opened his eyes, sitting up straight again and wishing he hadn't already taken a shower; he could have gone for a cold one right about then.

Frustrated in more ways than one, John stood up and began to pace the apartment, his hands clasped behind his back. Perhaps he'd go for a walk, he thought. At least it would remove the temptation to knock on Sherlock's door and beg him for a bit of affection. But no; if Sherlock came out of his study of his own volition, John did not want to miss it. He really disliked the feeling of being so much more dependent on Sherlock than Sherlock apparently was on him, but damn it, he was a man in love, and he needed attention from the object of that love.

Sadly, John sat down on the sofa, then put his feet up and closed his eyes. He would not sleep; he'd just rest for a moment…Jesus, he was tired.

His body relaxed without his consent, and as he drifted off, he imagined Sherlock's arms around him, Sherlock's warm breath making the skin of his neck break into gooseflesh, and the quiet "I love you," that Sherlock would no doubt whisper into his ear if he were there.

It was darkest night when Sherlock emerged from his study, irritably rubbing his burning eyes. He'd lost track of how long he'd been awake, and staring into his microscope on and off for hours hadn't helped. He didn't feel entirely alert; his mind was a little foggy from tiredness, and he knew that, like it or not, he needed to sleep.

He began walking through the apartment, intending to take a much-needed shower, when he saw that John was asleep on the sofa. The sight of him lying there made Sherlock feel oddly, but not unpleasantly, tingly all over, and he reflexively clenched his long, slender fingers. He hadn't seen his partner properly in days, and he couldn't resist walking over and looking down at him.

An uncharacteristic wave of sentiment rushed through Sherlock's heart when he saw John's sleeping face up close. Moonlight from the window was touching his skin, and he looked so beautiful that Sherlock's breath caught. His John, his beloved John….he'd been neglecting him the last few days, and he knew it. He'd missed him during those brief moments when, for some reason or another, his focus had shifted while he'd been in the study, but now the full intensity of the feeling enveloped him, making him feel as if he desired nothing more than to touch John, to hold him and kiss him. He did not want to disturb his sleep, however, so he made himself turn away from him and went to the bathroom to shower.

The sound of running water brought John slowly back to consciousness, and he blinked his eyes open in surprise. He sat up, realizing he'd fallen asleep on the sofa, for hours by the look of the light in the room, and he groaned, stretching his now-sore back. However, then he realized what the sound of the shower meant: Sherlock had come out of the study.

Almost without thinking, John rolled off the sofa and headed for the bathroom door, planning to sit down outside it and wait for Sherlock. It was a bit ridiculous, perhaps, a bit not good, but he couldn't help it; he needed to see him. He needed to make sure Sherlock was alright, and, God help him, he needed a kiss.

As he approached the bathroom door, John stopped suddenly in his tracks. Sherlock hadn't closed it all the way, and it was all John could do not to barge in. The thought of Sherlock naked in the shower sent a spark of arousal through John's body, and he sank to the floor beside the door, impatient. He desperately wanted Sherlock.

After a few minutes of painful waiting, the water turned off. John sat in anticipation, listening to the sound of Sherlock dragging a towel over his beautiful skin, a thought that had him rock hard by the time Sherlock's voice said "Hello, John," before Sherlock's hand pushed the door all the way open.

John shot to his feet and faced his flatmate, who was wearing sleeping attire: a good sign that he didn't plan on returning to the study that night. "How did you know I was-never mind," he said, looking into Sherlock's blue-green eyes. "Hello, Sherlock." Tentatively, he reached for Sherlock's hand, which Sherlock willingly gave. "I've bloody missed you," John said huskily, unable to help himself. The simple touch of Sherlock's hand was making his heart swell with incredible love.

Sherlock's eyes were unusually soft as he laced his fingers through John's. "I've missed you too," he said quietly, and then he stepped closer, took John's face in his free hand, and kissed him, long and firmly. He pulled away after a moment, leaning his forehead against that of his partner, his hands now splayed over John's back. John licked his lips, relishing the taste of Sherlock's kiss.

"John," Sherlock almost whispered, his deep voice raw, "you are fully aware that I love you, yes?"

John gripped Sherlock's slender hips. The emotion in Sherlock's tone was fragile and wonderful, and it made John's uncertainty melt away. "Yes," he said softly. "Oh God, yes, I know."

"Good," said Sherlock, "because I don't think I've been doing a very satisfactory job of it lately, and I'd like to apologize for that. I don't want you to be angry with me, John."

"I'm not angry," John said, lowering his head so that he could touch his lips to Sherlock's tantalizingly exposed collarbone. "I'm just…well, as I said, I have bloody missed you."

Sherlock raised John's face again and began covering it with kisses-lips, cheeks, nose, jaw, down to the neck, which made John moan slightly. He reached up to tangle one hand in Sherlock's damp hair, thinking about how much better it was to really feel Sherlock's lips on his skin than it was simply to imagine them there.

"Can we go to bed, John?" Sherlock asked in a muffled voice.

"Please," John replied, his voice infused with a combination of love and desire. "Yes, please, let's go to bed."