Merry Christmas! (literally and in the sense of the story as well. . . in a manner of speaking)

Warnings: Dub-con (again, in a manner of speaking)

John knew what it looked like. John knew what he looked like. God help him, he was desperate.

The streets around him were completely empty. Of course they had to be. It was three at bloody night. Of course the only people there would be were sleepy patrol constables past their shifts and only junkies and smugglers perhaps. Muggers and rapists tucked in for the evening and serial killers wouldn't have woken up yet, as Sherlock would've said, John thought with a bitter chuckle.

He knew the last time that had prompted him to do something like this while he was sober. The exact time of the clock, his degraded mental state and then indulging into the most selfish sex that Sherlock somehow made into something sweet and lovely and absolutely precious. John was almost in that same mental state now, if not exactly that. Sherlock's words, his few but damning words kept revolving in the back of his head and John knew he was making excuses because frankly none of it was Sherlock's fault (maybe except yes, Sherlock hinting at them screwing around at the beginning of their liaison almost toed the line of sexual harassment) that John was walking down a light drizzle from the his house to Sherlock's flat on foot. Again. Because it was three of bloody clock and he couldn't stand the sight of what was supposed to be his home. Not with Sherlock nowhere.

No, this time he told himself. Sherlock wasn't the root of what had prompted him out. Even though he was, albeit in an indirect way. Because Sherlock was all that remained of his rapidly disintegrating life and even that part of John was perishing to pieces—perhaps had already perished.

But it's too late now, isn't it? There's no us. And even if there were, there would be no more time for us.

He paused in an alley to get a hold of himself as Sherlock's words—those terrible, terrible words—looped over themselves in John's mind. A breath down his nostrils hurt so horribly and his heart protested against the mere act of it. He had to clench his teeth and his fists stubbornly, as if willpower alone could defeat it and contain it within his skin, this utterly barbaric notion to hurt, just hurt something, even himself for that part. Every nerve in his body rebelled in him to just collapse in that dirt alley and just cry, cry his guts out. Just one drop of tear—his body coaxed—and all the burden and the tension would vanish into air and he'd be able to function once more. It was unhealthy to keep it within himself. There was this absurd, blindingly intense, screaming ache in his spine and John wanted to bang his head against the wall so hard so that it stopped hurting him, if only for a short time.

He pressed his back against the wall and punched it stubbornly, closing his eyes tightly shut so that it wouldn't fall. He bit on his tongue resolutely. His cheekbones hurt from the effort. He wanted to cry out loud and he wanted the whole of London to hear him weeping, perhaps even all the people who were even remotely associated with St. Bart's and all the schools and the universities in the world, just so they'd know what it felt like, being in John's place. He felt he deserved the pain. If only Sherlock hated him, it would've been so simple and so crude and maybe then he'd stop feeling so awful.

But no, Sherlock being the perfect righteous human being that he was, he still condescended to touch and kiss him, let alone hate him.

"Oh God!" John let out a whimper, punching the wall again when one particularly stubborn tear made its way out of the prison of his eyelids. He punched the wall again—and again. With his fists and his feet as he slowly lost control of himself, he punched at the wall whenever he felt the need to exchange with physical pain the emotional one—but he didn't break down. He muffled his agony behind the back of his hand and bit on it harshly, as if that could make him forget everything else. He wasn't weak, he told himself. He had to submit his thesis to the university newsletter and it had also caught the attention of one of his old senior professors from King's. He had no time—or place—to be weak.

He buried the treacherous ones in the crook of his arm as he felt himself relaxing in spite of his wishes. The rest, the drizzle washed away from his face as he walked on, on and on, not really sure what he was feeling more: anger or agony. And before whatever giant beast he was sure had followed him from his house could catch up, he knocked on the door.

When Sherlock finally opened his door, John made sure that he didn't meet Sherlock's eyes—just to ensure that he had more time to collect his frail self. He hid his bruised knuckles in the pocket of his jeans, anything for Sherlock not to see that and question his sanity. That was the last thing he needed.

As soon as he caught the first sight of Sherlock's feet—still bare, blue and greenish varicose veins rising on the pale skin and miniscule hair on his toes—John was transported back to another time, a couple of weeks ago (had it really been only a couple of weeks, it felt like a lifetime). The inner vulnerable part of him wanted to crumble down, cry at his feet, beg for forgiveness and stay there until Sherlock decided to kick him out.

For Sherlock's part, the door was partly open, as if Sherlock had resorted to his battle stations, with the door as a barrier between them if John attempted something untoward. Clearly, Sherlock was reminiscing the same moment as John. How could he still trust John to not appear at his doorstep drunk and pissed and shout insults at him? There was something heavy and fragile in his chest and yet he felt lighter than he did hours ago.

Neither of them spoke anything until Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Joh—professor." He didn't sound startled. Oddly. Like he had been expecting John. Did he say that purposefully, just to hurt John?

John shooed those thoughts away. Sherlock was many things, but never cruel.

John finally forced his eyes upwards, wanting to ask out aloud Why're you calling me that? He knew his eyes were probably red—they had been red for the past few weeks so Sherlock really couldn't figure out how he'd almost had a breakdown in a dirty alley. Sherlock looked blank, completely blank and it made John's position all the more intimidating. Still, Sherlock relaxed and tried to give John what was a very horrible placating smile tinged with worry along the edges. Still trusting, still hoping. Was that the advantage of being Sherlock? Was he so immune and aloof that he'd never be hurt, no matter what John did? It couldn't be. It shouldn't be. Sherlock, for all his high and mighty ways, was a human being after all.

"Can—can I. . .?" John felt his voice breaking and he trailed off, unable to continue. He had to stay strong and brave, for his sake. For Sherlock's sake. He felt tears sting his eyes again and he lowered his head to hide them from Sherlock.

"Come inside," Sherlock whispered. John was only aware of Sherlock stepping back and then closing the door quietly, "We can't make much ruckus. Mrs. Hudson is a very light sleeper."

John knew what Sherlock meant. If you're here for sex again, here's my very convenient excuse for not wanting to indulge in the bodily exchange of fluids and false words said in a frenzy of intimacy.

Once the door was shut, John—ready to tear screaming out of his skin—turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock simply looked back at him.

"You weren't asleep—" was all John but croaked.

"Cut the small talk," Sherlock said dismissively. The bruises in John's knuckles hurt harder as he clenched his fists inside his pockets.

"I apologise," Sherlock said softly when John couldn't find his words, "that must have been rude."

John couldn't look away. The nerve of this man, apologising to John of all people. He felt a serious terror of breaking down in Sherlock's arms. What would Sherlock do? Would he hold him? Would he stand there awkwardly while John wet his t-shirt? Would he pull away quietly while John tried to cling on to him ungainly?

"I—I—just—" John began explaining why he was here. What was he supposed to say without sounding like a needy five-year-old?

"And when I said that Mrs. Hudson is a light sleeper," Sherlock overrode him as usual, "it was your cue to climb the stairs towards my flat. I think I have a first aid thing somewhere. Always a risk of infection, that."

John stiffened, but wasn't surprised. Sherlock always knew. He always knew everything. He felt strangely comforted by that, by his deductions. He gazed towards the banister, where they had shared their first kiss before Sherlock had pinned him. . . He felt so uncertain of himself. What if he lost control? What if he ruined them again?

He looked at Sherlock again. What else was possibly there to ruin?

John cleared his throat as quietly as he could and tiptoed upwards with Sherlock behind him. There was something distinctively homey about 221B Baker Street although he really hadn't had the time to appreciate the place during his last time here. The flat had loud, splashy wallpaper and creaking stairs. Sherlock's things were strewn about in such disarray that it seemed perhaps hurricane-force winds had blown through only moments before his arrival. A laptop was open on the desk and the only light source was the lamp behind where Sherlock had perhaps been sitting. There was a human skull on the mantelpiece, and a bovine skull—wearing noise-cancelling headphones, John noted—mounted on the living room wall.

He had never seen anyplace more wonderful.

John stood there, in the middle of the sitting room. When he raised his chin to look at Sherlock, he found the man in the arch of the doorway looking at John's feet. John felt himself turning a dangerous shade of crimson when he realised where he was standing upon. He felt his throat closing and a painful constrict in his windpipe and he stepped away, trying to hide his pale face gone horribly red.

John felt himself gravitating to the spot. Now that he was here, every place, every spot in the flat reminded him of what he'd done, what they'd done. He was truly surprised that Sherlock still chose to live there while John lamented about the emptiness of his own place.

"Erm. . ." John began in a choked voice, looking around aimlessly at anything that wasn't Sherlock at a thankful distance from him, and then found one, the one that had struck him as odd even the last time, "it's. . . a skull."

Sherlock nodded and mumbled. John felt some of the tension in the room dissipate, "Yes, it's. . . just an old friend."

"Erm. . ." John glanced back at the skull, but Sherlock did not elaborate and John had to wonder if that was supposed to mean that the skull was Sherlock's friend, or that the skull was Sherlock's friend's. He looked down again, at the elephant in the room.

"Is it appropriate then?" he shuffled to his feet. A glee as odd as the sight of the skull seated there bloomed in John's chest and he couldn't comprehend why, "keeping a skull on the mantelpiece?"

"Oh yes. My landlady adores him," he drawled blandly. It was hard to tell whether he was joking or not.

John peeped closer, "It's a. . . her, not him. Do you even listen to what I drone on during my lectures?"

Sherlock looked like he had swallowed a lemon, "Oh. . . yes."

Silence fell again. John stood there, feeling terribly out of place. He looked down at the spot again, feeling heat returning to his cheeks at the thought that if he kneeled down and pressed his nose to it, he might still be able to smell them, however preposterous the idea sounded like. Although that would only be if the carpet hadn't been washed since then. John almost staggered backwards at the possibility that. . . He looked questioningly at Sherlock.

"Did you ever—?"

"No."

"Not even once—?" he gestured to the carpet disbelievingly.

"No," he looked away, and then added, "I assure you it's nothing sentimental."

Why would it be, John thought, his heart skipping a beat, it must decisively have been the worst thing that anyone could have done to you.

"Erm," John cleared his throat, taking out his fists. There was no point hiding them from Sherlock anymore. Sherlock nodded sharply and set out towards what John remembered was the bathroom. He watched Sherlock's tall, slim figure disappearing into the bathroom and then snatched glimpses of the flat in his urgency. He looked at the two armchairs, and the sofa. None of them seemed contented enough to seat him.

Soon it was obvious that Sherlock did not keep all his first aid in one place. He was rummaging all over the house with a bottle of antiseptic in his grip. He found the cotton on top of a not-so-sterilised-looking chemical equipment. The bandages had somehow ended up beside the coffee jar. John had half a mind to not use them. He felt like a six-year-old boy who had come home crying to his unorganised mama after having fallen down in the dusty street.

"Not much," he confessed as he came to John with his findings, "but sterilised. I can guarantee that."

"One can only hope," John said, as Sherlock handed them over, "can I sit on the—erm. . .?"

"Oh the sofa," Sherlock said, "I'll join you shortly."

With that, Sherlock made his way to the table and put his laptop on charging and then to sleep. John stared after him and then set down the things on the table, settling down into the dip that Sherlock had probably made into the sofa. In a flat that smelled of Sherlock, was Sherlock, John felt as safe and warm as he had once with Sherlock's arms around him, with Sherlock's voice whispering his name in his ear.

"Look, I just wanted to—well actually, Sherlock, erm, can I—" John eyed him shyly, "can I stay here? Just for tonight? I promise I won't be a. . ." John tried to bring up a word that put it all in a nutshell. Sherlock sent him a prompting look.

". . . an inconvenience."

Sherlock's face settled into something granite as he wordlessly sat down next to John, "Well, I have spare room upstairs but there isn't any bed. It's just full of Mrs. Hudson's old stuff. So, you. . . can take the sofa perhaps, if you don't mind."

John nodded mutely, not trying to think that he had been entertaining the hope of. . . best not think about it anymore.

Sherlock looked down at John nursing his hands, "Really foolish of you to do something like that to yourself, professor. No, no, don't give me that stupid look. I know you punched something hard and rough, plain as day. You couldn't have got into a fight, not at this time of night, the wound's still fresh. Muggers and rapists are tucked in for the evening and serial killers wouldn't have woken up yet."

John dabbed the liquid on the still-somewhat-fresh wounds, feeling a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips at Sherlock's words, "You can go back to what you were reading, Sherlock. I can sort myself out."

Sherlock looked away and John winced at the stinging, "You're still mentally distressed," Sherlock's voice invaded in, and oh, is it a welcome diversion, "over the Powers' case, obviously. You're unable to sleep, so you've come to the other perpetrator in the need for solace. It's understandable and perfectly natural. Nothing to be ashamed of."

John blinked, trying to recall who Powers was before his brain kicked in.

"We're talking about me," John said gruffly, trying to wrap the bandage around his knuckles, "not you."

Sherlock stiffened immediately and backpedalled into self-preservation.

"I wasn't thinking about Powers," Sherlock said, a little too quickly, and then he cleared his throat, "i assure you."

If John had been even a percent of his normal self, he'd have seen Sherlock's unprecedented anxiety as something he'd definitely want to probe questions about until Sherlock shut off like clams guarding a pearl. But now, John dismissed it as he fumbled clumsily with his shaking hands.

"Soo Lin is safe, Sherlock," John said earnestly and he barely registered Sherlock blanching, "You don't have to keep worrying about her and her brother. Not that I'm not upset about all of it. . . but you were very brave today, keeping her secret like that," when Sherlock looked unsure, John tried to make his voice sound reassuring, "I'm sure Moriarty would get his comeuppance for doing something as horrible as that. You don't worry, Sherlock." Don't worry. I won't let that bastard get to you again.

At that, he furiously wrapped the bandage around him knuckles.

"Here," Sherlock took his hands in his to stop him when John winced again, "allow me."

Sherlock's hands were careful, albeit not very gentle. The rough pads of his fingers brushed against John's red knuckles every time as he tied the bandage a little too firmly. His fingers moved across his, tracing the inner palms quietly. It was a curious hypnotic motion and John found it hard to concentrate on anything other than that.

"I thought you'd have a terrible bedside manner," John said wryly, transfixed on the sensations.

"Technically, this isn't bedside," Sherlock remarked and held his gaze as he covered John's smaller hands with his own. There was something there, in his eyes, something seeking confirmation and John nonverbally nodded his consent.

A split second, and then Sherlock raised the back of his hands to his lips and John closed his eyes, feeling his heart swell when he felt Sherlock's lips brush against his bandaged knuckles. And then again. And then again. And again. Every time Sherlock did that it was like being lifted up a crest and it didn't matter to John when Sherlock held his hand in a way that stung the wound. There was a clawing sensation under his skin that somehow felt pleasant. Everything else felt so distant and unimportant. Even this time, taking a breath down to his lungs was just as painful when Sherlock let go of his hand.

John slowly opened his eyes, recovering from the sensual act.

"Why?" was all John could croak, blinking rapidly and breathing deeply. Why me? Why not someone else who won't be afraid to tell you how much they love you? There was so much more needed to be said but John couldn't bring himself to say it.

Sherlock continued to hold his gaze and John could sense him coming closer. The raw scent of him seemed to intensify for a moment and John leaned in far too late, for Sherlock pulled away. John's lips felt terribly denied.

"I have to tell you something," Sherlock looked away. John's heart sank to a pit. This was never good. But still he put on a smile, for Sherlock's sake.

"Okay."

When Sherlock hesitated, John tried to face the way Sherlock was looking, "Is it something bad?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to say it, and then abruptly closed it, and then gulped, "Don't sleep here, if you wouldn't mind."

John blinked, collecting Sherlock's meagre first aid, anything to deflect the magnitude of his words. Damn him for being polite and so thick to ask, even if he knew that that wasn't what Sherlock had wanted to say.

"Would that be. . . proper?"

"I can't see why not," said he, standing up, "This isn't the Victorian era."

John smiled weakly, not able to believe how light he actually felt, so light that he couldn't help but blurt it all out, "They'd have burnt you at stake if you had been born then. Sherlock Holmes in 19th century without your phone or internet and stuck with only books. I could just crack up."

"There'd have been so many more things to explore and discover," Sherlock said wistfully.

They glanced at each other and their smiles as well as the easy camaraderie they had fallen into faded away. John tugged at his jacket, "Do you have something to. . .?" he trailed off.

Sherlock nodded and it was raw, watching him like that, all cold and distant with barriers high up sprung from John's rejection, "I'll get something for you."

With that, Sherlock turned around and walked off towards in the direction of his bedroom. John wondered if he should follow. He wondered if that would be a major breach of privacy. It was only after a glance from Sherlock that he decided to follow.

He knew that the sheets were white. Olive green, John noted the wallpaper of the room he had spent the best and the worst night of his life in. He couldn't quite meet Sherlock's eyes as he wordlessly handed him his spare pyjamas.

"Are you. . . going to stay up?" John ventured.

"For a while," Sherlock smoothened the sheets even if it wasn't needed, John noticed with a pang, "I have been working on an assignment whose due date passed a week ago."

John gave him an exasperated look at that, "Sherlock, how many times have I told you not to—?"

He broke off. Sherlock wasn't smiling, but he seemed smug about John's predictable reaction. There he was again. The old Sherlock, he was coming back, just there. . . so close to the smile John hadn't seen since. . .

A blink. And he was gone again.

"I'll just change. Which side do you take?"

Sherlock frowned, "Sorry what?"

"Which side of the bed do you sleep in?" John asked, trying not to turn red like a schoolgirl in spite of his heart doing flip flops in his chest.

"When I stay up late reading, to the left because there's the lampshade. Otherwise to the right because it's closer to the door. Why would I have a pre-determined side?"

John stared at him for a beat, "No reason. You wouldn't."

Sherlock threw him a suspicious look, and then retreated to the sitting room. John got a good look at his surroundings as he changed into Sherlock's spare pyjamas that depressively smelled of only detergent and nothing else. He couldn't help but run his fingers over his knuckles as he took in everything significant and non-significant about the small niche that Sherlock inhabited. He couldn't help but smile at the periodic table chart hung near the window like the poster of a world famous footballer.

Would I really want the bullshit to win? Over us?

There's no us.

And even if there were, there would be no more time for us.

Trying not to think anymore, he tucked himself as noiselessly as possible into the sheets that were somehow warm and smelled of Holmes. He took the left side seeing as the mattress was dipped on the right, spending some time letting his hand linger over the side that Sherlock used more often, as it seemed. He was aware how gauche it would be. He and Sherlock had slept together in that very bed, in all senses of the word. He had seen Sherlock at his best and at his worst in there, undone with pleasure and want. Their arms entwined around each other, holding, anchoring, clawing. Sherlock on top with his mouth hung open and looking straight, fearlessly into John's eyes, John pounding into him from bottom as he called out Sherlock's name while keeping their foreheads joined. It sent a shiver through him, that sort of intimacy.

He turned to look at Sherlock's books. He had never thought that Sherlock, a staunch supporter of the Internet and instantly accessible information, would have such a. . . wide range of books. There was even a copy of the Bible in there. There was a globe on the top of a cabinet there. John felt like he was seeing an entirely new side of the man as he lay in foetal position, as small as he could make himself.

He tried to curl into a smaller space and lay there, eyes wide open in the almost-dark. He wanted Sherlock to know that he hadn't been expecting sex or anything remotely that. He was just clinging on to the only thing he had left, if only disintegrating.

A single tear stained the pillow as John slowly felt the old dejection and agony rise back to the surface. He stayed silent through it, not wanting any stupid unmanly cries to reach Sherlock. He buried his face in the pillow and tried to control himself, pretending that the pillow was Sherlock. He felt like his insides had been wrenched through his throat and spread out and trampled and shoved back down and fuck you, the world, he thought furiously, for making him such that he couldn't even remember how Sherlock's lips felt against his or his bruised knuckles, even if through the barrier of a cloth. He felt so powerless, so fucking powerless, not to be able to stop the overflow of emotions through him as he balled the sheet into his mouth and bit down on it. Was he still the man Sherlock would leave university for? He wanted to be, but he wasn't sure whether he still was.

He wasn't sure when he heard the door open and close behind him. John's heart sped up as he heard a rustling of the sheets and a soft squeak and dip of the mattress. He gulped down, trying not to tremble with the effort of not crying. Sherlock was motionless somewhere beside him. John wasn't sure how much distance he would have to cross before he could touch Sherlock again.

John did not take a single breath, afraid that he would be heard sniffling. Sherlock's breaths were inaudible too. John only wondered how much time it would be before one of them gave in, even though he knew that he would be the first to give in. He always gave in to Sherlock.

If only he had given in when it mattered. Sherlock could've still been the same, with no impenetrable barriers around him or so. . . cold. John sometimes felt that he had killed a small vital part of Sherlock's spirit with his fear and now he only saw the vanquished man who focussed only on protecting himself.

"I disgust you, don't I?" he whispered quietly to the dark. It was probably the most honest thing he had ever said to Sherlock.

"Go to sleep, professor. you might say things you'll regret later," Sherlock advised.

Maybe I want to regret it, John wanted to say. Maybe then I'd finally stop hoping that I'd get a happy ending with you after a hundred years when we're both corpses rotting in a cemetery and then maybe I'd just let the world do whatever the fuck it pleases and finally tell you that I can never hate you like you believe me to. I love you. So fucking much. That even if the start of our relationship, from Day One had been wrong in every single way I can think of, I had got swept along with you and that is all that matters to me.

Instead, all he could manage was, "You wouldn't know what I would say."

"I'm no mind reader," Sherlock said, and there was a strain of tension in his voice that John couldn't decipher why—but his own distress seemed far too great, "but I can make certain assumptions on the similarity of. . . situations from before."

Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe I'd regret coming over here tomorrow. Maybe I'd lose control of myself again. Maybe I should just go back to my little flat, spend the night twisting in my covers, spend the night in tension about whether Dr. Greer would give my paper a positive feedback so that I don't have to spend every wakeful moment thinking about a man who's here, so near and yet so far away at the same time.

"And what assumptions are that?"

"Something happened to you, apart from the Powers' thing as you claim so religiously."

John was quiet for a moment, and then said, "Today, in my office, you said. . ." John took a sharp intake of breath, "that 'us' is long gone."

When Sherlock did not reply, letting a prompting silence take his response, John took it as his cue to ask further, "Did you mean it?"

Another sigh. "Does it make any difference now?"

Are you fucking kidding me? "To me, yes." I wouldn't delude myself by thinking that it would for you too. "I—I hurt you a lot."

For once, Sherlock did not reply. For once he stayed quiet and unmoving, and John feared that he might become a blabbering mess if Sherlock didn't stop him soon.

"What I—"

"Need I remind you," Sherlock said, "you have already said these things. You've already apologised."

John gaped at the dark, "That was enough for you?"

"Logically speaking, you were remorseful of your actions and you tried your best to remedy it. That consists of a properly put and meant apology," Sherlock sounded like he was chanting off the Book of Life from the section of "What An Apology Must Be Like?", "so it's obligatory of me to accept it."

John shook his head. It felt weird, talking yet not facing Sherlock, "There are no rules and parameters for an apology, Sherlock."

"There must be," Sherlock said dismissively as if he had no idea that what he was saying was utter bollocks, "how else would you tell a false one from a real one?"

John didn't know how to respond to that without offending Sherlock, "Does this mean that I'm forgiven?"

"I accepted your apology," Sherlock's tone was cutting and clinical and it set John on edge.

"But am I forgiven? After," John looked away, "taking advantage of you in my office. Twice."

Sherlock did not reply and John took it as his cue to go on, "When you said that we were over and that there was no more time left for us, I felt—" he bit down harshly on his lip but he had to get it out, even if it was the most difficult task for him, "I was. . . well—"

He collected himself in a second, "I was terrified."

He let out a breath. He definitely didn't feel any lighter, telling Sherlock that. He braced himself for any number of possible reactions. Non-resistance. Derision. Accusations.

Out came Sherlock's incredulous voice, "You were terrified?!"

"Well," John began uncertainly, "when you put it that way. . ."

"You're never terrified," Sherlock retorted in an accusing tone, "You're always in control."

You're the one to talk, John thought.

"No, I think I'm capable of being terrified, Sherlock. Look, I told you, remember the day you made me help you getting those footages illegally—"

"It wasn't illegal per se—"

"No, it was. It was illegal, Sherlock. Anyway, that's not my point. That day, in my office," he took in a deep breath, "I told you that this—us—isn't over for me."

"It was merely out of guilt," Sherlock declared emphatically, "and out of various other sentiments that aren't vaguely close to what you thought—"

"I wasn't capable of feeling guilty at that point, Sherlock," John whispered to the dark, gripping his pillow tighter. Letting his emotions zone out and letting logic that Sherlock valued take over, because it was all that could take the anguish away, "What I did was cruel, yes. But at that moment, I thought. . . I thought I was the sensible one, because I was supposed to be the sensible one. . . and I—I regret letting my fear take over us. It's the only thing I've felt all these days. Fear." And torture.

"So. . ." Sherlock sounded uncertain, "you're—you're not distressed about Soo Lin?"

"Fuck Soo Lin and fuck everyone else!" John lashed out, and then quietened, "Sorry."

Something that sounded like a sigh of relief escaped from Sherlock's lips, "Oh, I thought, well. . . obviously. . . if you might have been wondering what I did with—I mean, when I disposed the recording off. . ."

John inhaled slowly after his outburst, "It affected you a lot, didn't it?"

A beat, and then, "What?"

"The Powers. . . thing. I know you're sick hearing this, but bad things ultimately happen to bad people. Moriarty, karma would catch up with what he's done. Pricks like him always get their comeuppance in some way or another."

Silence fell around them, their first conversation entirely forgotten. John waited and waited for Sherlock's response, but none came and John thought that Sherlock had finally fainted from exhaustion after all the events of the day. And then—

"You wanted to enlist, didn't you?"

John froze. The fragile feeling in his chest was replaced by a heavy thud of his heart, "What are you saying?"

John could hear rustling of sheets and he felt heat rising in his chest again when he thought that this time, Sherlock would be facing him, if only his back. Sherlock spoke as if a train was chasing him, "Longing for excitement. Dislike towards a sense of alienation, favouring group work than individual. Preferring quick, intuitive thinking instead of long periods of introspection required of an active researcher. Jumping into action without a properly thought-out plan. Good time and interpersonal management skills—"

John closed his eyes at Sherlock treating him as a mere puzzle, not revelling at all in the not-so-vague compliment, "Sherlock—"

"—and now, the last piece of the puzzle, hero worship. You battle every day out at St. Bart's, that's what keeps you going—"

"Sherlock—"

"—you were made to be a soldier, John. How do you live here? How can you live here?"

John gulped, feeling like he was steps away from seething, "Stop talking, okay?"

There was another moment of silence, which Sherlock finally broke with a tentative call out.

"Can I. . ." Sherlock began behind him, and John was sure that all activity in his body had stopped in attention, "Can I still call you John? Earlier, it just. . . slipped."

John gulped. Even such a simple request meant the world to him. Something about Sherlock's tone told John that the man had suddenly had a revelation that altered he way he looked at John. His voice wasn't as cold and distant now. There was something close to reverence in him.

"Ahem, I meant that when we're alone. In private. I wouldn't call you John in front of your students and peers."

"Does that mean that we will get to be alone again?"

There was no reply. John cursed himself for allowing himself to be hopeful again. Of course Sherlock wouldn't want to anymore. Sherlock had said that they were over. He was probably tired of John being a coward, and now only consented to show his dormant affection through small, neutral gestures.

He heard the sheets rustling again and a blast of sudden warmth as he felt Sherlock looming over him. For a stupid second he thought Sherlock was going to climb atop him and John withdrew in response only to see the lampshade beside him flick on. John caught a glimpse of Sherlock's granite-like expression, pale skin and dark hair and John wanted to follow. . .

"Turn and look at me."

John refused to comply, gritting his teeth. He hastily rubbed his tears off.

"Turn and look at me, John."

Reluctantly, John turned. Sherlock's hair was attractively mussed up. Soft shadows played across his face which, as it had been of lately, betrayed nothing at all. The space between them was so small that it seemed unrealistic, so easy that John could keep a hand in neutral territory and it would touch Sherlock's. They stayed still, facing each other, holding each other's gaze. John didn't know that he still had the strength to do that.

"I'd never find you disgusting," he said quietly.

John looked away stubbornly, "I'm glad I didn't go. Was a fleeting fancy anyway."

"We both know that's not the truth. At any rate, fighting is what you do all the time. There, you'd have been fighting armies, here you're just fighting your daily existence."

John gave him a humourless smile, feeling sudden anger rise up his spine like magma. He tried to tell himself that he had no right to be angry at Sherlock but his inner beast didn't listen, "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I might not, but I think you do," he said, and John blinked, "You fight for the life you lead, and hence you fight yourself, and in the process you fight me and all your sentiments concerning me. It—it makes a lot of sense. . . You've become such that you'll fight anything that's remotely not the life you've learnt to lead because you're afraid of the potential. Not many people have the perseverance to live a life that's not them—"

John knew that he was looking murderous at this point, for Sherlock backtracked on his words furiously, "I'm. . . aware that I might have unintentionally struck a sensitive nerve in you—"

John fumed, clenching his teeth, "Oh yeah?"

"I can see that you're. . . angry now."

"That's good deduction," he said, now gritting his teeth. Sherlock looked like a cornered animal, "I don't even know why I thought I—you know, never mind," he pulled out of Sherlock's covers with a clear of his throat, his entire body protesting at the loss of the shock of warmth that was Sherlock's presence. He realised belatedly that Sherlock was right because that was exactly how he was acting and thinking now, but he was too angry to care.

"John—" Sherlock pronounced.

With a last glance at Sherlock's languid figure now growing tense with every passing second, John gathered his somewhat drenched clothes pooled on the floor, "I think the sofa would be fine for me."

"It's—it's full of my things!" Sherlock burst out, "Toxic things! No one's idiotic enough to bother cleaning it at this hour."

"I'll manage," John said with difficulty and opened the door of their—Sherlock's—bedroom. When he arrived at the sofa, it was spotlessly clean with none of Sherlock's said things. He wanted to curb the tendril of lingering hope that Sherlock had wanted him in his bed with him, but he found that he couldn't.

And this time, if the misery and the reproach returned, he didn't blame the world for not getting to spend the night beside Sherlock.

"I want that tape back!"

For the tiniest bit, Sherlock thought he saw Jim's eyes widen in excitement and wonder when Sherlock slammed him against the backdoor near the abandoned stairwell of the East Building. For only a bit, and it was gone. Gone with the faintest trace of the cologne that a working-class boy like Jim couldn't have been wearing.

"Oh, I knew that all the act of Molly's devoted girl friend was all sham," he laughed gleefully, "You're a dominatrix. Ah, careful! I like your hands on me, not on my collar."

"Don't be a bore," Sherlock spat. Up close, Jim's lips looked pink, plush, and he had to look away as always, "it's served its use. Nothing good will come out of exposing Soo Lin now, now that you think you know some hidden secret of mine."

"Oh yes," Jim shook Sherlock's hands off him and yawned, "the good old professor. How is he? Oh, how long have you two been shagging? I bet he's old and patient, preparing you like that so you're not all sore in the morning. Slow and boring, he must be, mustn't he?"

Sherlock looked at him with loathing. He felt a twisting, a tightening in his gut wringing out tighter and tighter, but before he could say anything, Jim chimed on merrily.

"He makes you frustrated, doesn't he? You think you're in love with him, but he doesn't love you back. He thinks you're just a good shag a night because his wife isn't probably as tight as you."

The twist inside got tighter and tighter, and he almost blurted out that John wasn't old and married. Nevertheless, he simply smirked, "You're just jealous I'm with someone else."

At this Jim stopped short—and then laughed. Shrilly. Unsettlingly. Laughed till Sherlock could see tears in his eyes, "Jealous?! Me? How many times do I have to prove that I own you now, Sherlock? I'm the only one who can give you what you need. I'm not going to be jealous of you fucking someone else when you truly belong to me, am I?"

With this, he smirked and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock's mouth. A kiss that Sherlock had felt building between them since the first time he unwillingly admitted to himself how similar they were.

Sherlock went still. Frozen and shocked, as Jim continued his assault on his mouth, as he felt the soft slickness of Jim's tongue tracing and mapping out the insides of his mouth with practiced ease. All he could see was pale skin and dark hair as Jim cupped his face and continued to kiss him, occasionally biting down on his lower lip and pressing himself flush against Sherlock's nonresponsive body.

"So lovely," Jim whispered, "to finally let go of all that delicious frustration, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had never felt so weak and conflicted before. Up close, he was nothing like John, couldn't simply trust his body to a man that wasn't John, couldn't close his eyes. But his lips were. Soft and pliant, the fit of them perfect together. His chin and his cheeks were unbelievably smooth under Sherlock's fingers. He splayed his palms on Jim's chest but was unable to shove him away.

He couldn't—shouldn't have been so weak as to succumb to Moriarty's games, but somehow he couldn't find any strength in himself. John had stripped him of that last night.

Jim took the initiative and pressed the keel of his hand onto Sherlock's burgeoning arousal. Instead of horror and dread, all he found himself capable of thinking was how much he should spread his legs so as to not prove Jim right, even if it didn't matter anymore. Jim had him there.

He could feel Jim's fingers massaging the bulge between his legs. He knew he was canting his hips up for Jim. Jim who didn't reject him and spurn him at every step—

No, stop, his brain ordered, but he wasn't capable of caring anymore.

Jim, who was like him. Jim, who knew exactly what he felt and needed. Jim, who could kill for him. His touch nothing like John's bold and endearing caresses, his tentative fingers almost exploring what it felt like to be with a man—

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Jim whispered, close to his lips as Sherlock inhaled sharply at the cross-eyed sight of him, "I bet he doesn't blow you off. Old prude's too proud to suck or even touch you," he undid Sherlock's jeans and slipped his hand inside. He applied just the right pressure, enough to make Sherlock ball his fist into his mouth to contain his moan, "there."

"St—stop—" Sherlock forced out of his mouth. Something that was distinctly a baser, more disgusting part of himself that he hadn't yet learnt the control of, was hindering his fight-or-flight instincts.

"Oh, I'll get the name out of your pretty lips. And then we'll get the annoying professor out of the way, won't we? And then you and I can play together. Forever. What a shame. Wasting yourself with that man when you can be with me."

Sherlock let out a small whine, his heart thundering in his chest. He tried to push Jim away, he really did, but something about the way he pushed only drew Jim closer to him. He was conscious of his heartbeat in his ears, of Jim's erection pressing into his thigh and of his hand between his legs. Sherlock pressed his mouth to Jim's before he could form the soft 'o' of John's name on his lips, and Jim only chuckled when he mistook it for Sherlock's eagerness.

"Don't worry," he whispered before he leaned in to run his tongue over Sherlock's neck, "This place is usually empty, you'd know. But I'd love it if your lovely professor came up here, saw us at it. How much fun would that be?"

That snapped Sherlock of his lust-induced daze. He swore and tore his mouth from Jim's with as much strength as he could muster. He resisted pushing a knee into Jim's groin and gazed at him with utmost loathing, "You're sick."

Jim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Sherlock felt triumph for the little moment when Jim's face was furious with rejection and a little shocked at Sherlock's vehemence, "And yet you want me. How different can I be from you after all, Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't touch you even if my life depended on it!" Sherlock spat venomously, zipping up his jeans.

"You're still hard. Such a pretty sight—"

In a shocking moment, Sherlock crossed the distance between Jim and himself, towering over him as he dug his fingers into Jim's shoulders, making Jim smile instead of wincing at the pain, "Karma will catch up with what you've done. Pricks like you always get their comeuppance in some way or another, Moriarty."

Moriarty stayed silent for a second, and Sherlock foolishly thought that he had got to him. But then, he narrowed his eyes, "Oh well, that's it? Pity. And I honestly thought it was going to be a good joke."

He howled into laughter, shaking his head and tutting at Sherlock, "One day you'll come to me, Sherlock. When all the world's against you, I will be the person you'll seek."

With that, he left Sherlock reeling with revulsion towards himself as Jim walked away, free from what John believed to be karma. Free from justice itself.

"CR?" John called after he was finished before time with his lecture, "Kindly distribute the answer scripts."

A short, freckled boy rose with a nod as John could hear grumbling from the rest of his class. They never really liked receiving their papers and then their shortcomings being discussed as well, and John never really liked being on the receiving end of it. John didn't know why, but he was starting to feel that somehow, he was becoming less and less likeable to his students of late.

He couldn't figure out why.

He tried not to glance at Sherlock, who was sprawled against his chair in a carelessly arrogant way, uncaring and unmoving. He tried not to succumb to the floor and hide behind his desk when he felt the papers leaving his grip. He had done what he had to. There was no going back and that didn't make his embarrassment any less. Once out of his hand, Sherlock's answer sheet was bound to reach him. John didn't know any other way to communicate with him. Yes, he had his address and he had his phone number and he could make another late-night encounter to his flat like yesterday (well, technically today) and he could make him stay behind in the class—oh yes, he could certainly do that. But this, what he had done now, it made him feel like a primary school girl writing a love letter to her crush and leaving it unnamed and unsigned. And John thought better of it than to be face-to-face with him, in case Sherlock should make fun of him or something—since such things did seem to set Sherlock off into laughter and make John feel persecuted for feeling the most natural of human emotions. It had been really hard, coming up with this.

He was almost glad that Jim Moriarty did not share this class with Sherlock.

Except what he had inserted between the sheets of Sherlock's answer paper was not a letter. He really hoped that the concept of a hint wasn't lost on Sherlock, even though he really was oblivious to such prompts and hints when he was on the receiving end of them—sometimes.

His heart leapt to his throat when he saw Sherlock touch his answer paper. John had thought long and hard the previous night after he had understood that his extremely poor concentration on his current research paper would continue to elude him if he didn't set down to doing something about Sherlock.

And so he had set down with it, kept his heart on a sleeve and had come up with what Sherlock was probably going to see as he opened his paper.

John's complete attention was on Sherlock; the rest of the world became an inconsequential blur around him. He felt like time would stand still when Sherlock would open the paper and see—

And then, without even a look, Sherlock dumped the answer sheet into his bookbag—and John's heart sank. The weight felt so heavy that it was as if someone was dragging him down underwater and he was struggling against it to stay floating.

John soon endeavoured to correct it.

"Now, everyone pay attention please," John announced, "I will not be letting anyone out of here until I'm finished, yeah? Those who think that they're very clever—" and at this point he threw Sherlock a very convincing glare and was met by a pair of hollow grey eyes and an expression that John did not like one bit, "and have put their scripts inside their bags promptly, take 'em out."

There was a gentle murmur of dissent.

"Well, you don't even have the lab class today, remember? Otherwise you'd have to tolerate me for another hour," John protested, "Let's not be children please, people. Take those papers out, and if you're fond of being smart, you can prove it on the whiteboard," he jerked his head towards it, "here, alright?"

John was not surprised to see Sherlock not listening to what he was saying at all.

"And you too, Mr. Holmes," John said loudly, with a pang in his heart at what he was going to say next, "Yes, you've received top scores again and you may think that you don't need this discussion, but believe me, you do."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and the hollowness in his eyes instantly turned into irritation. With a huff, he took it out and John continued, trying his best not to watch out for Sherlock's reaction.

In the end, he didn't have to continue his charade of discussing the harder questions with a group of near-murderous couples being forced to study on the Valentine's Day for very long, for Sherlock had suddenly understood that his paper weighed heavier than usual and he had opened it and looked at John, his eyes open and expressive like the last night—and perhaps shocked—at John's daring.

John's fingers trembled as he turned at that very instant and proceeded to draw the full diagram that outlined in detail the mediastinum and the pericardium of the heart. His bruised knuckles protested against the strain and he made quick work of the diagram.

Sherlock did not meet his eyes the entire lecture, not even when John dismissed the class, not even when John tried to meet his eye, not even when John felt his heartbeat becoming sickeningly rapid at the thought that if Sherlock took the hint, he'd be physically as close to him as he had been yesterday. He'd be alone, once again, in a room with Sherlock and he frankly felt daunted at what could happen between them.

That depended on whether Sherlock had understood the hint at all.

When the class, and subsequently the corridor became empty, John proceeded towards the first staff gents he could find and as hurriedly as he could. He went inside, put his bag away from him, took off his glasses and eyed himself from top to bottom. He didn't even know what had possessed him to do that. Oh, he was mental, completely mental. John shook his head. Sherlock was never going to come. Of course he wasn't going to. What had he ever done to deserve someone like Sherlock?

Ten minutes, John thought. And then he'd leave. If Sherlock came. . . yes, he'd do that. Thank him for letting John stay at his place when he couldn't stand his own. And tell him that he was angry but none of that mattered anymore and he knew that Sherlock hadn't said it out of spite. Sherlock was right and John couldn't be angry for that.

Okay fine. Fifteen minutes and then he'd leave, he crossed his heart.

Still, John checked whether he looked proper. There were bags under his eyes, his hair was slightly untidy from trying to comb his hair by his fingers clumsily. He smelled alright, nothing that could put Sherlock off in the slightest.

John looked around himself. Perhaps the staff gents wasn't a very nice place for a rendezvous.

He spun around at the knock at the door. He stayed where he was—for a moment—immobile and basically paralysed with joy and anticipation, although that wasn't a very desirable response. He felt himself going into a flight-or-fight mindset.

Sherlock was here, John thought, his chest heaving. The only think keeping them apart was the door and John's inability to open it. Without further thought, John gulped and walked towards the door, trying to keep his composure. He felt his hands trembling—but he took a breath to steady himself—it was just Sherlock, they had done this before, if only once, nothing new or nothing that should be daunting. If only he'd stop being tense over it, maybe he could just stop thinking about all of it and for once, not let all the bullshit win over what he had for Sherlock.

John took a deep breath, ready to open the door and drag Sherlock right in. Best avoid anyone who could be snooping around.

But when he opened the door, he found himself face to face with his senior. John had to blink twice even after telling himself that he was having no hallucinations and that it really wasn't Sherlock. Oh, of course, old men frequently needed to empty their bladders, didn't they?

For a moment, Simpson stared at John, as if equally stupefied that John was here and he had locked the restroom door. And then his senses kicked in.

"Whatever the hell you're doing, Dr. Watson?" Simpson snapped, eyeing John's bandaged knuckles. John had to resist the temptation to hide them from him, as if the wound itself contained a secret whispered between Sherlock and himself, "Let me in."

John stood there like a figurine, blinking and trying to form his thoughts into a coherent order, but Simpson heaved a breath, "Oh, for God's sake!"

John wanted to ask whether the HoD's office really did not have an en-suite restroom—and then thought better not to ask such a quaint question to a no-nonsense man like Simpson. Before John could even turn around, Simpson was already closing the door of the urinal behind him with an audible thud. John collapsed against a washbasin. What was he supposed to do? Oh, wouldn't it be lovely if Sherlock decided to drop in at this moment, and then have the two archenemies (even though they weren't supposed to be there in real life) face each other in the restroom? Wouldn't it be lovely for John's boss to figure out what John had for the one person he hated the most. . .

John stopped thinking. He told himself that he was simply being paranoid.

He glanced at his watch. His fifteen minutes were over. He was supposed to leave. He should leave. He had a lot of work to do. He had to spend at the least four more hours editing his paper before he could forward it to the readers at King's. It was a little unusual, so he had thought better of it than letting Simpson take a look and ban it forever from the academic sphere.

The noises that came from the urinal were disturbing. Wheezing sounds, like Simpson was being choked to death there. John started, thinking what to do, except calling out, "Sir, are you alright?"

"I'm—" wheeze, splutter, "—fine!" John was sure that he sounded like a lot like a sick Sherlock probably would: irritating and insufferable.

"Sir, do you need me to open the door?" John called out, concerned for the old man even though he hadn't forgiven him for conspiring to fail Sherlock in his trimester.

"I'm fine, Dr. Watson! Go away!"

John resisted a 'yes, sir' to get the hell out of there and didn't stop until he reached the end of the corridor. He looked down at the floor and gathered his courage. Sherlock hadn't come. Maybe he would. The next time.

Maybe.

But it's too late now, isn't it? There's no us. And even if there were, there would be no more time for us.

For this one time, this one time, John kept his heart on his sleeve and decided to keep his faith in them, even if the stakes were high. He'd prove Sherlock wrong this one time. He'd prove to him that there was all the time in the world. That it was never too late.

Maybe.

As the day passed by, John's spirits dampened as every hour dragged on. He'd had two more lectures since the last one with Sherlock. Sherlock had not showed up during the four hours that John had spent up holed in the lab, working with a graduate assistant who Sherlock would have deemed the most boring person in the world.

Sherlock hadn't showed up during his precious recess minutes.

Sherlock hadn't showed up during any of the little five to ten minutes between his lectures.

John was still hopeful. Still waiting for his face to appear in his door. At the rate, it was only a day. He'd gladly wait a week.

Still, it'd have been nice, not to mention a tiny bit romantic and very stupid, considering that today was Valentine's Day. Sherlock would laugh at John if he ever mentioned it to him, which he wasn't going to, obviously.

He shook his head, and sent the email with the read-only document. Stared at the computer screen, fingers lingering on the bruise Sherlock had kissed. He should go back home, but he didn't want to move from there. The sun was setting outside the lab window. It was evening and he had just missed his usual bus. His chair gave an annoyed creak; usually it was relieved of its duties by this time, but John didn't pay it the slightest attention.

"What is this?"

John was startled out of his reverie to see a Sherlock Holmes storming towards him like a whirlwind. John gazed at him. It should've been made impossible for someone to be so exquisite and so unreachable at the same time.

John couldn't verbalise what he felt when he saw Sherlock closing the lab door behind him. He had understood. And he had come. He was giving John another chance.

Sherlock arrived at his desk. To an outsider, he would've looked livid, but John could see that he looked conflicted and defiant and angry and somewhat scared and vulnerable. John's somewhat high spirits retired to their fallen state again and all he wanted to do was to take away all the misgivings from Sherlock's life, since he was the major reason behind them.

The man slammed a paper on the desk, the same paper that John had inserted between his answer sheets.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded.

John stood up. It was just possible that Sherlock was upset about previous night. Except that Sherlock was never really upset about such things.

"It's. . . my schedule," he said sheepishly. He felt like he had given away a part of himself with that.

"Of course I can see that it's your schedule," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "My question is the explanation for what it had been doing in my answer sheet."

John's first response would've been an exasperated sigh about Sherlock's most inconvenient obliviousness, but Sherlock's timing made him stop. If Sherlock really had been oblivious, being the curious person that he was, he wouldn't have held out for so long. Therefore. . .

"You really don't know?" John challenged him.

"No I don't. Kindly explain to this lesser mortal," Sherlock said dryly.

"Weren't you the one who wanted to be failed so that you could get yourself improvement private tuitions from me?"

Sherlock frowned, "What's that got to—?"

"So, that's my schedule," John looked down at his desk, and then stole a glance of Sherlock, "so that you never have to think of an excuse when you want to see me. When I'm free, of course."

John felt his heart falling back into the pit when he saw Sherlock's defences coming up. It wasn't very difficult to tell, considering how much he'd seen of Sherlock. He braced himself for rejection, for Sherlock mocking his feelings. He told himself that he wouldn't fight this time.

"Oh really?" the mocking tone came in, "And pray tell why you would do that."

"Because I—" John faltered, unable to continue. Why was Sherlock being like this now? When John finally found the courage to cast everything aside and be with him?

"Just because I let you sleep at my place yesterday, it doesn't mean that I'm available for a shag again!"

John felt colour rising in his cheeks. For some time, he was unable to find his own voice. He knew that Sherlock had purposefully aimed for such hollow, false accusations so that John would recoil back into his shell, but not this time. He'd gladly be hurt if only it healed Sherlock.

"Is that. . . what you think of me?" He said tightly. He hadn't meant it to, and yet it came out as angry.

For one second, Sherlock looked almost regretful, but then his features became cold again, "That's what you keep saying, isn't it? I took advantage you, I took advantage of you over and over again!"

John swallowed back the helplessness, "Sherlock, you know that's not what I—how I," his eyes flickered to Sherlock's desperately, "You know that's not what I feel for you."

"Then what, except for a sense of rebellion and a readily available shag?!" Sherlock barked.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You've lost your mind! Do you even know what you're talking about?" John spat, all his expectations rapidly vanishing in the air.

"Oh, I've lost my mind?" Sherlock all but snarled.

"Yes, you have! I was—and I still am—fucking straight, and I will goddamned continue to be fucking straight for the rest of my life! It's not like I look at you and sex is the first thing that pops into my mind, yeah? You know that, you always told me that I was straight and it goes against all logic that I would be with you for only a shag. So why're you saying something like that?"

For a moment, Sherlock looked taken aback and refused to meet John's eyes, "Why else would you give me your schedule?"

John stared at him incredulously for a beat. What was he supposed to say about something that didn't make any sense to even him? That his schedule was a part of what he was and that's why he wanted Sherlock to have it. It definitely sounded something that wouldn't make any sense to Sherlock.

"It was—the only way I could. . ." he faltered, "well, you know—"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "I know what?"

Okay, here we go. John took a deep breath, "Ahem. . . I just wanted to. . . well, about last night. I really didn't mean to get angry, okay? It's just, my career decision is a very sensitive issue with me. I'd avoid talking about it if I were you, got that?"

Sherlock only murmured something under his breath that John was unable to make out, but he was sure that it would be a string of truth is truth, John. He nodded to himself. There, he had said it.

"So basically you smuggled me your schedule because you felt guilty about shouting at me?" Sherlock remarkedwith raised eyebrows.

Oh God how can a genius like you be so unacquainted with the concept of a hint, John lamented inwardly.

"I didn't shout."

Sherlock watched him carefully, "So you weren't looking for a shag per free time." It was a statement in the guise of a question.

"Um, no. I'm not a depraved man starving for some hookup."

Sherlock stared at him, obviously waiting. John resigned himself to the knowledge that he couldn't be figurative without embarrassing himself.

"Well, um, how did you sleep last night?"

"Cut to the chase," Sherlock said sharply. John inhaled another heavy breath.

"So, just so—just so we're on the same page, that's not how I feel about you, okay? You're not just some hookup. You know that better than I do. When I came to you that night, yeah it was sort of a getaway for me from the world. I don't deny it. And that night was. . . amazing, yeah, it was . . . like you said, beyond perfect. But that—that—whatever you say, that wasn't right. I wasn't in the best mental shape and you were vulnerable. It was selfish."

"What's that got to do with you giving me a copy of your schedule?"

"Yeah, yeah," John swallowed, "that part's coming," he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "Look, I know I'm an absolute sodding fool and I—I screw up a lot. I mean, look at me. You're right, I don't even belong here, Sherlock. I'm a moron. . . and a coward and I have no sense of right and wrong, you're right. The only thing I'm best at doing is ending up in front of your door pissed—in every sense," he inhaled sharply and he could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him, but he went on with his heart in his mouth, "and I keep fighting whatever good happens to me just because I think it's not bloody right."

"I think it would be wise if you—" Sherlock began, but John put up a hand to stop him.

"Please let me try and get this out. You're—" he swallowed and said in a tight voice, "just stay shut up till I finish, okay? Don't make this any more difficult for me. Or I might end up. . . punching you or something."

Sherlock didn't say anything, simply stared numbly at him. John felt an odd twist of satisfaction at that.

"I don't even belong here. You said it yourself. But when you're . . ." he looked down at Sherlock's hands, thought about what they could do to him, "when you're near, everything else is far away. I forget it all. It's bearable white noise. And when you kiss me," he glanced at Sherlock's lips, "Well," he cleared his throat, feeling thoroughly embarrassed, "I know where I belong."

John felt a hot feeling at the back of his throat with Sherlock looking so lost and stunned. He wanted to shake Sherlock by his shoulders, he wanted to hear him say something. Anything at all. But Sherlock remained disconcertingly still.

"You're always right, Sherlock, always. But not this time. Because we're not done. Just. . . give me another chance, please, and you'll see. Give your professor another chance," he bowed his head and closed his eyes when he felt treacherous tears in his eyes again, "because you are, and you always will be, more than just a student to me."

He remained standing with as much austerity as possible, everything to not let Sherlock know how frayed his nerves were. Inwardly thanked Sherlock for probably blacking out because John couldn't get a grip on himself for a long time. The silence hung between them, overbearing in its presence and strangely, John did not care what Sherlock was going to say.

Control, he scolded himself inwardly. There was a part of him which kept saying that now that he had done the right thing, maybe Sherlock would back out. Because that's what always happened. Something always went awry when all was on the way to good.

Unexpectedly, he found two lanky arms encircling his waist, and before he knew it, Sherlock had walked around his desk and was pressing John to his heart and John finally learnt what true, pure happiness felt like.

"Sherlock. . ." he breathed out, and allowed himself to relax despite every nerve in his body being on fire. He hated his instincts which made him do a double check of the partially open window.

"Cowards don't fight, John," Sherlock's adamant, impossible voice sounded in his ear, "you're anything but a coward. But I must say that the moron part is slightly less debatable."

John didn't know if he laughed at that or not. John did not know if he pressed himself against the man or not. For there it was again, under the odour of detergent and iodine, the raw scent of Sherlock which filled John's nostrils and his entire self and nothing else mattered. For there he was again, the glimpse of the old Sherlock winking at him, perhaps even laughing at the sappiness of his little speech, hidden behind shiny impenetrable armour that John vowed to make good riddance of.

"You don't know how long I've waited to hear those words," Sherlock whispered.

John just held on to his anchor, a pinch of Sherlock's shirt in his grip, finding his peace at the eye of the hurricane. He felt a light kiss to the crown of his head and he knew where he belonged.

And no more words were neede