John is sitting on the couch reading the day's newspaper, a frown lightly in place, when everything changes.

Sherlock closes John's laptop, and stands. He walks over to him, fiddling absently with the tie of his blue satin dressing gown, and slowly sinks down to his knees, kneeling between John's legs, looking up at the wide expanse of newspaper. His own eyes look back at him from the front page.

Blinking, John lowers the paper.

There is an intense sort of gleam. John has never seen a face so intense. And this is not I'm-on-a-case intense, no - it is something else entirely. His breath catches. He can feel, he can sense with utter assuredness that something monumental is about to happen, and that he will never forget it as long as he lives. He quietly clears his throat.

Sherlock closes his eyes as if John has done something particularly wonderful or clever. His hands are clasped in his lap and his head is slightly bowed; he could be praying. John sets the newspaper aside. When Sherlock opens his eyes, he also lifts his hands to his lips in a prayer fashion, then lowers them again, the firm lips trembling.

"Thank you," he manages.

There is so much blue. Moments pass in silence. John swallows. He takes in a shaky breath. Sherlock isn't finished and the delicacy and intensity of the situation is making him feel light-headed.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock says again, just to see if he can, in fact.

Sincerity. "You're welcome," says John. Has he ever said anything to Sherlock that wasn't sincere? he wonders.

Sherlock rises up a little. "You are...invaluable to me."

The slight change in posture, the verbal acknowledgement from John, the subtle lighting of the already fire-blue eyes...these are the small clues that tell John his best friend is currently a train gathering speed. He clenches his jaw, half inside the train, half on the tracks. This is about to happen.

"John, you...are my best friend."

"Yes," John says softly, nodding.

Sherlock wrings his hands in his lap and nods as well. It seems he had been hoping for confirmation of this, for he appears immensely relieved. So much so, that John leans forward with a small smile, and squeezes his shoulder.

"But I feel I should tell you...more."

"More?"

"Quite a lot more, yes."

"Okay."

"Well, to begin - "

"Wait." John holds up a hand, taking in Sherlock's nervous expression.

"Yes?"

"Have you got a speech prepared?" John's eyes twinkle.

Sherlock stares at him.

"Seriously, Sherlock, you're kneeling on the floor before me like you're about to ask for my hand in marriage." The words tumble out of his mouth before he knows what he is saying. What the hell is he saying?

"W...What are you saying, John?" Sherlock asks, tilting his head at him. John mentally straps a bomb to himself, shaking his own head.

"Nothing, I'm...being an idiot. Sorry. Continue."

Sherlock's eyes rove over his face, and John can see that he has hurt him. It is barely there, but it is clearly there. John has come to be able to distinguish the different emotions that Sherlock so often attempts to conceal, and now he almost wishes he hasn't. Except, he doesn't know which is worse.

"No - " he says, "don't - "

But the world's only Consulting Detective springs to his feet with a sudden, panicked look in his eye and rushes over to the window to pick up his violin. John follows him. He gently plucks the bow from his best friend's hands, forcing him to, in turn, put down the intrument.

"Turn around, please," he says.

Sherlock doesn't.

"Sherlock," he firmly pleads.

Sherlock does not turn around. So John gets in between him and the window, hands gripping his elbows, and slowly wraps himself around the long body in a hug, his cheek pressed tightly to Sherlock's chest.

"John - "

"I know."

"But - "

"I know."

"But I - "

"I know, though."

"You are infuriating."

Sherlock winds his long arms around him, resting his cheek on top of John's head. Everything has changed. And John is relieved.