John felt as though he'd been slapped.

Not in the metaphorical sense, either. His cheek stung, and based on the way Sherlock was watching him, John knew he knew.

"You… Slap…" He couldn't form any coherent words, and was painfully aware of the tremoring hand by his side. His breaths quickened, a combination of realisation, guilt and regret wracking his lungs. His mind raced with every word, every action, every moment they had shared together. He wondered how long Sherlock had known. Keeping John in the dark, waiting for the perfect opportunity like there was all the time in the world.

But there wasn't all the time in the world. They both knew that.

This revelation was everything. Everything John had ever wanted but everything John had ever feared. His legs threatened to give out beneath him, and he reached blindly for something to hold.

Sherlock stared at John, donning an expression John was sure embellished his own.

But he couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle the words Sherlock was sure to speak next, or the words that threatened to spill from his own mouth.

"Sherlock," he exhaled, voice shaky. "I'm sorry. I need… I need to think. This is too much."

Sherlock sunk into himself, watching with fearful eyes as John grabbed his jacket from the hook and left their flat in a hurry.

'Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.'

For the first time in a while, Sherlock had to agree.

John's feet led him to nowhere in particular. He strode through the streets of London, every brick in the walls reminding him of a different memory. He wanted to be angry at Sherlock. Wanted to hate him for keeping him in the dark for so long. But he couldn't.

How could he be angry at someone who had given him the world?

He had eventually circled back to Regent's Park, and simply sat on a bench, staring wistfully into the distance. So much time had already been lost. So many years of naivety, foolishness and denial. So many years of lost love. John cursed Sherlock in his head. Why had he been so hesitant to tell John to begin with?

Fear of denial? Fear of change?

But John couldn't criticise him. To do so would be hypocritical. Because hadn't he been fearing the same things for years – every time the thought of pursuing a potential relationship with Sherlock invaded his mind?

John buried his head into his hands. A shaky breath escaped his lips and wisped into the foggy, London air.

This was all so difficult. So new, yet so familiar. The mere thought of what the future could hold made John's palms sweat.

So much time had already been lost. It would be of no good to lose any more.

The sound of a violin thundered dangerously. It might have been bothering Mrs Hudson. But Sherlock was oblivious to everything around him and merely continued to play.

One might have described the tune as melodramatic. Maybe as simply sad. Sherlock preferred the word 'haunting.' It was an accurate describer of how he currently felt: haunted. He was haunted by his own unanticipated actions and mostly, he was haunted by John's reaction.

They were soulmates – that much was certain now.

Shouldn't John have sparked with joy? Exclaimed how happy he was and that this 'was everything he'd ever wanted.' That's how Sherlock had imagined the scene unfolding, anyway. But dreams weren't realities. Dreams were nightmares in disguise.

Sherlock checked the time again with a huff. John had been gone for hours. Surely he was returning. Even if it was for ten minutes to collect his belongings, Sherlock had to see him again. Even if it was to say one last thing. Or to simply see John's face one last time. Smiling, preferably. Sherlock was well aware that he was expecting the worse. He had always been dramatic, and that much wasn't going to change anytime soon. But it was truly difficult to maintain any flicker of hope. Not when John had reacted the way he had.

The truth was, Sherlock wasn't well acquainted with relationships. Any sort – unless you counted what he had with Mycroft as a 'relationship'.

He was at a loss, and loss was an unfamiliar concept to Sherlock. He had no idea what to do, what to say, or what to think. All he could do was stand in the middle of the room, play his violin angrily, and hope to a higher being that John would return.

John would return.

He would.

John did return.

But it wasn't for another two hours. He entered the flat with dripping hair and a face flushed from the cold. Sherlock was curled up on the sofa and facing the wall. He didn't turn around upon hearing the door.

Sherlock was aware of John's feet treading up the staircase to his bedroom. Another door closed. He'd been correct. John was leaving for good. And Sherlock hadn't even turned around to memorise his face one last time. He shuffled around and sat up. John had to come back down at some point.

He did, mere minutes later, and his arms were empty. When he noticed Sherlock staring at him from the sofa, he froze.

"Well?" spoke Sherlock.

"Well, what?" John's voice was scarce.

"Are you leaving?" continued Sherlock. He spoke steadily, but his insides were stirring. He wasn't quite sure he wanted to know the answer.

John seemed quite scandalised at his question. "What—? No, of course I'm not leaving. Of course not."

"Oh."

John's hands shifted and twisted by his side. "Did you want me to leave?"

Sherlock looked up at John. "No. I didn't."

"Right." John spoke tersely. Silence dominated. The two stared at each other from across the room; Sherlock on the sofa and John by the kitchen.

Finally, John cleared his throat. "Well, then. I'm going to make some tea. Do you want any?"

"No, thank you."

John nodded with thin lips before awkwardly shuffling into the kitchen.

He made the tea slowly, methodically. Sherlock watched him closely. An influx of discomfort invaded the flat. Neither could think of words to speak. But neither wanted the moment to end like this.

The kettle finished boiling and John poured his tea. He exited the kitchen with cup in hand and came to sit in his armchair. John took a sip and looked into the fireplace. The flames flickered.

Sherlock continued to stare at John, unsure of what to do. He didn't know where to look, or what to say. Rather, he lifted from the sofa and moved to his own armchair across from John. Closing his eyes in fear of uncanny eye contact, Sherlock propped his hands beneath his chin. It was silent. But it was far from peaceful.

John lifted his gaze to study Sherlock. But then Sherlock was opening his eyes again. Their gazes met. John froze, his teacup to his mouth.

Neither could speak.

Moments passed. Carefully, Sherlock's foot slid forward to nudge against John's. They continued to stare.

"I don't mind." John eventually whispered.

"Me neither."

Peace was vaguely restored. The silence was no longer so drowning. John took another sip and offered Sherlock a small smile. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Sherlock's gaze softened in response. An expression reserved only for John. "How was your walk?" he asked.

"Enlightening."

"Oh?" prompted Sherlock.

"Yeah…" trailed John. "I thought about a few things."

Sherlock snorted quietly. "I gathered. You were gone for an awfully long time."

John appeared bashful. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Sherlock assured. "You had every reason to."

"Yeah. Look—Sherlock…"

Sherlock froze. He anticipated what came next. Rejection. A polite, 'thanks, but no, thanks.'

"I just have one question. Just one." John licked his lips, gauging Sherlock's response.

"…"

He took this as an invitation to continue. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Silence.

Eventually, Sherlock spoke. "I didn't think it could be true."

John frowned, albeit waited patiently.

"Here was John Watson. A military doctor. He'd made it very clear to me the second we met that he was 'not gay, thank you very much.' And at first, I really did suspect you were my soulmate. The injuries you had sustained, your age. Everything fit. But, then, as we became acquainted, I began to doubt it."

This was a unique experience. Sherlock spoke freely, sharing his emotions with no constraint.

"But why? Why didn't you believe it, Sherlock? There doesn't have to be a reason for soulmates."

Sherlock smiled grimly. "Oh, John." He sighed. "I'm the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all around obnoxious asshole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. How could it be that you, John Watson, the bravest and kindest and wisest human being that I have ever had the good fortune of knowing, was bound to me?"

John sat still. He stared at Sherlock with wide, wavering eyes. How could Sherlock perceive himself as so unworthy?

"You're an idiot." he finally spoke.

Sherlock looked away. An unfamiliar emotion clouded his face. John thought it might have been shame. "How so?" he prompted.

John swallowed thickly and adjusted his foot against Sherlock's. Now, their feet were completely intertwined, pressed together firmly. "Yes, you're an unpleasant, rude, ignorant and obnoxious asshole." he began. "But you're also the most intelligent, brilliant and best man I've ever met. And I don't think I've ever told you this, but," John was having difficulty. His throat was thick and he couldn't speak. "I owe you so much. You've saved me in more ways than I thought possible."

The awkwardness between them returned, but beneath it was something deeper. Something raw. Something to be guarded.

"The consensus is, I think, that yes, you shouldn't have doubted yourself and yes, you should have told me sooner. But I was an idiot too, and I should have been more open with you. What's done is done, now."

"What's done is done." agreed Sherlock.

John's tea had long gone cold and he seated it beside him.

"This changes a few things, doesn't it?" asked John quietly.

"More than a few, I'd wager."

The corner of John's lips quirked into a grin.

Neither had any idea of what to do. They were seated the same as they were. An hour had passed in tense silence and it was getting late. Sherlock shifted in his seat before finally standing up. He nodded to John in goodnight and moved to retire to his bedroom. He was almost there, halfway down the hall, when John called out.

"Sherlock—Wait."

John was standing now too. His expression and posture were overcome with hesitance and his gaze flickered over Sherlock's nervously. Moments passed and John took a cautious step forward. And then another. And another. And then he was standing before Sherlock, mere centimetres separating them.

They were both painfully aware of how heavily they were breathing, lungs quaking in a suppressed fear. The silence in the room was nauseating. In that moment, Sherlock was convinced he'd become a helpless victim of vertigo.

Slowly, carefully, with his eyes locked on Sherlock's – as though to gauge his reaction – John moved forward. His arms came to softly circle Sherlock, pulling the detective to his chest. Sherlock was tense. His arms were limp by his side and his breathing had momentarily paused. But as the seconds passed, he gradually relaxed into the embrace and clutched the fabric of John's shirt between his fingers.

It was comforting – to hug someone. To know that both of you are there in that moment together. Their breaths rose and fell as one. The two of them against the rest of the world.

Sherlock smelled like tobacco and hair product. John smelled like laundry detergent and tea.

Neither had understood how familiar those scents were to them until that moment, when they intertwined and held each other for dear life. Because it was no longer just a simple hug. In that moment, John and Sherlock was holding everything together.

Every fist, every overdose, every bullet.

The pain the two had suffered over the years had become something to be shared. They no longer had to bear the burden alone.

John finally knew his soulmate. Completely – Not just a little.

And Sherlock finally understood. It wasn't masochism. It was empathy.

This pain was a synonym for their love.

And the two had plenty to give.