A/N: Okay, so the plot bunny whispered in my ear, and even though I haven't finished posting "A Different Kind of Science" completely yet, since it's complete, I decided to go ahead and let it guide me. It's a little different than my other stuff- I tend to make John more reasonable- so I found it to be an interesting character exploration. Next, I'm going to be working on a prompt that A. L. Cullen sent me- which reminds me, I TAKE REQUESTS. Send me a prompt if you've got one, and I'll do my best to do it justice. For now, I hope you enjoy this little story. A. J., yours is coming, I swear. :)

The feeling was rage. John was absolutely sure of it; there could be no other explanation for the emotion that was flooding him as he stared at the man who had once been his flat mate. The supposedly dead man who had once been his flat mate, who was not only obviously not dead, but had shown up at 221B Baker Street as if expecting a hero's welcome, and seemed stunned when John had slammed the door in his face.

Now he was staring at that closed door, knowing perfectly well that the tall man was still standing on the other side, waiting patiently, or perhaps not so patiently, for John to open the door. Judging by the knocking, it was the latter.

"John, you need to let me in. You can't just throw me out; you need to hear why I've done this. Let me explain." Sherlock's voice was just as demanding as ever, and that made John even angrier. So angry, in fact, that when he opened the door, he grabbed Sherlock by the scarf and yanked him inside, shoving him hard back up against the door the moment it was closed. With one hand around the other man's neck, John felt more in control of his life than he had in a very long time.

"There is no explanation you can give me that could make up for what you did, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what your actions did to me? To all of us?" John was snarling, and for the first time, it occurred to the genius that the John he'd returned to was not necessarily the John he'd left. Instead of the caring doctor who made him tea and looked after him all the time, he was now seeing the soldier… and a thrill of pleasure went through him at being pinned to the wall.

Those damnably inconvenient feelings of attraction hadn't been easy to ignore, exactly, but John's current aggression was a major turn-on to him, which only served to make it harder to hide how he felt. Add to that the three years he'd been away, and it would be nearly impossible for him to hide the bulge in his pants… definitely impossible, he realized when John, who had gotten up in his face again as much as the smaller man could actually do, felt the incriminating evidence against his abdomen.

His eyes widened a little before a frankly cruel smile formed on his face, and he spun around and headed for the kitchen, making one cup of tea instead of two. Sherlock, who understood that not only was he not getting tea, but that he wasn't supposed to talk, simply stood by the door watching him warily. John couldn't have failed to notice his reaction—he wasn't stupid—but the cruelty on his face when he'd looked at Sherlock was frankly unnerving. He didn't know this John, and that meant he didn't know how to deal with him. Should he treat him as before? Should he change tactics? He didn't have any idea what to say or do, and that made the situation extremely perilous.

"John?" He asked in a voice barely above a whisper, and the shorter man shook his head, moving to sit in his own armchair. Though Sherlock's was still there, he almost didn't dare to sit in it, wondering what the appropriate conduct was in this situation. Even in normal social settings, he usually didn't have a clue, so without John to guide him through it, he was definitely in over his head. He swallowed, deciding that following John's instruction to stay silent was probably for the best.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?" The doctor's voice sounded harsh and angry, even darkly amused, and Sherlock winced, taking a hesitant step into the room before stopping again, keeping his eyes locked on the shorter man as if he might offer him some sort of cue. He didn't, except a chilly smile that could have rivaled the consulting detective at his best.

"I came home, John." He sounded almost scared now, his voice little more than a trace of sound, the soft baritone only just audible. John simply let out a cold chuckle, taking a sip of his tea.

"Why?" The question was cool, and Sherlock flinched, an action that gave John more pleasure than it probably should have. The idea of him being vulnerable was oddly appealing to the doctor, who needed to see him suffer at least a fraction of what he had suffered if he was ever going to forgive him for the things he'd done. Considering the obvious arousal he'd felt earlier, he had some other ideas on how to accomplish that in a… mutually beneficial way.

"Because this is my home. I… I needed to be home. I eliminated all the threats to you, so you're safe even if I'm here. I can come back now, without having to worry that a sniper's going to come after you. I thought… I thought you'd be pleased. You asked me to not be dead, and I'm not."

Sherlock looked a little hopeful by his last sentence, as if the memory of John's obvious grief for him at the graveyard reassured him somewhat, and John wasn't ready for him to cheer up quite yet.

"That was three years ago. I hadn't had time to think about things then. And considering you've been away for three years, 221B can't really be called your home anymore, now can it? You don't actually live here." John chose to ignore the rest of what he'd said, to take it out and examine it later, when he was done being angry. It churned sickly in his gut, and when he rose to take his cup to the kitchen, he didn't bother to make eye contact, leaving Sherlock to stare and grasp blindly for something, anything to say.

"It's not the place I was referring to as my home." Sherlock was not at all used to explaining himself with sentiment, when logic could suit his point just as easily, but he found himself wanting to be honest with John, if only on the chance that it might shock him into admitting some feeling. He seemed to have taken on Sherlock's normal shield of ice, though he was sure that there was a fire burning beneath the surface, waiting to be released. He had a feeling that when it did, it would be explosive. But anything would be better than this chill.

"Then what was it, exactly? Do be clear, won't you? Not all of us have superior minds that can easily understand these things."

John's voice was almost saccharine in its sweetness, and Sherlock bit his lip, hearing the note of bitterness in his voice. He obviously hadn't liked being left out of Sherlock's plan, and had obviously figured out that there had, in fact, been a plan he hadn't been privy to. But he wasn't asking about that; no, he was addressing Sherlock's weakest point: emotion.

And yet, how could he deny his best friend anything, after all the pain he'd put him through? Sherlock would have said or done anything in that moment to make John smile at him again as he once had, and it was clear that they both knew it, too. John had the power here, and was clearly planning to use it. Why that sent a shiver of excitement up Sherlock's spine, he couldn't have explained.

"I was referring to you as my home. Because you are, John. I didn't return home out of sentiment for the place, but for the person who lived here with me and mattered so much to me that I faked my death to save his life."

John let out a low whistle as he rinsed out his cup, before whirling and practically pinning Sherlock to the wall with a glare.

"Well, you sure fucked that one up, didn't you. What sort of life did you imagine I would have if you were gone, Sherlock? A genius like you should have known better, really, than to assume I would just continue on as if nothing had changed."

"I had assumed that you would grieve and move on, but remember our time together fondly." Sherlock knew his words had been a mistake when John let out a laugh that sounded completely humorless. It was a little painful to hear, and sounded far too loud in the small kitchen that was extremely clean, devoid of experiments or dishes abandoned because a case was more important or any other sort of debris that had once been commonplace. John had even gotten a new table, one that didn't have an acid spill from the time Sherlock had accidently knocked it over in his excitement over figuring out the solution to a case that had been a four patch problem.

"You talk as if we were lovers or something, Sherlock. 'Remember our time together fondly.' What bullshit. Don't pretend it was anything more than a convenience for you. You had a live-in maid who would put up with your shit and make sure you survived."

"John, you know that isn't true." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, searching for the words to make the doctor forgive him. He had a feeling they weren't going to be springing to mind anytime soon. He wasn't even sure, now that the moment he'd dreamed about for years was here, that there were any words that could fix it.

"No?" The sarcastic twist of John's lips had a hot bolt of anger shooting through Sherlock. Not at John, but at himself. Had he really made the shorter man feel so insignificant, so unnecessary? If so, he deserved this. It was also up to him to make it right, no matter how difficult that proved. He would walk through the fire for John, and this was the moment in which, more than ever before, he would be called to prove that.

"No. You were my colleague, my best friend, and the only person I trusted with everything… including my heart." Sherlock had never purposefully made himself this vulnerable before, but with John standing there calmly staring at him, he knew it wasn't enough to simply allude to his feelings. He would be required to verbalize them, never mind that he had never done so before. Nothing less would do, and if he lost John for admitting the truth, it was something he'd just have to live with; it seemed that if he didn't at least try, he was going to lose him anyway.

"John, I love you. I never would have sacrificed myself for the others Moriarty threatened, would have found a way around it or let them die, but when he threatened you I knew I couldn't just do nothing. It was the only plan I could think of that would allow you to live and allow me to return to you someday. You are my heart, and even when I didn't want to feel, you made me feel, and I've never been more grateful for anything my life because you showed me how amazing it can be to love someone who makes you want to be a better person, and how good it feels when that person smiles on you in affection. Please, John. Let me make this right. Tell me how to make you smile again. I'll do anything."

He wasn't on his knees to plead his case, but he might as well have been, for the panic and pain warring in his eyes. Those eyes, which before had always been so full of the fire that warmed John from the inside out, were now moist with tears unshed, supporting Sherlock's claims. John knew he wasn't acting, considering he was valiantly fighting to shove them down instead of letting them flow unashamedly. Sherlock was a good actor, but if this had been an act, he'd have been milking it instead of trying to cover it up.

The words, though gratifying, were suddenly not enough for the doctor, who'd spent three long years missing this man who'd been his everything. He'd hoped that seeing Sherlock beg might kill the anger and hurt, but he found he needed more. Suddenly, the only thing that would satisfy him, the only thing that had a shot at fixing what was broken between them, was undeniable proof that the tall man meant what he said. And actions spoke louder than words…

"Prove it, then." John said, spinning on his heel and heading to his bedroom. He'd left Sherlock's all but untouched for the past three years, unwilling to intrude on what had been his private domain to clean or even create a place for storage. It was, instead, a sort of memorial to the man who'd lived there—and might, thought the doctor with a spark of hope, do so again—with everything almost exactly as he'd left it.

If John had gone in there a few times to cry and breathe in his scent, it was best left unmentioned. But the idea of having their first time be on musty sheets that were coated in a thin layer of dust wasn't appealing, so up the stairs he went, not at all sure that Sherlock was going to follow him. But after a moment of stunned silence, the genius did, practically running up the stairs. He didn't know what exactly John would want, but he was prepared to do whatever he wanted, even though he'd never done this before and really didn't know how.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. He did understand it, in theory; he'd wanted to understand the strange feelings he'd had for John, and had done some research, which had led him to a variety of interesting stories, pictures, and videos that had explained a lot of things, and given him some idea of how it all worked.

Still, Sherlock knew he learned best through action, rather than simply watching others do something, so he was a little excited to try it, even though nerves were rising inside him almost as quickly as the fire that he felt low in his gut every time John looked at him. He hadn't even realized how badly he'd missed him until he'd been right in front of him, and now, it was all he could think about.

In the dozen or so probable scenarios he'd worked out for his return, this had not been on the schedule. However, he was quite amenable to the idea. He'd expected to get punched, possibly repeatedly, or be tossed out on his ass, as had nearly happened. Instead, some of his wilder dreams were about to come true. Fear and anticipation competing for the top slot in his attentions, he chose to ignore them both, instead trying to stay as calm as possible as he finally came to a halt in the doorway, wondering what to do next.

John was standing beside the bed with a neutral expression on his face, but there was a dark gleam in his eyes that suggested that a fire was building inside him, too.

"Well?" John's voice was imperious in a way that would have made Sherlock proud, if it hadn't proved to him just how little he understood about what went on in a bedroom. Should he strip? Should he remove John's clothes? Was he just supposed to get into bed and let things happen from there? He knew porn was an inaccurate teacher, and that he couldn't trust it to adhere to the normal social rules, so he really needed John's guidance. It appeared he would have to ask for it, for a change.

"Tell me what to do, John. I don't know… I'll do whatever you ask, I promise, but you'll have to walk me through it."

"Strip, and get on the bed." His voice delivered the command coolly, but his eyes spoke volumes as Sherlock hastily reached up and started unbuttoning his shirt, accidentally ripping a few buttons off between his haste and his trembling fingers. John just watched as he slid his trousers down, blushing self-consciously before finally shedding his pants and lying down on the bed, eyes locked with the doctor's the entire time.

"It would be more comfortable, for your first time, for me to take you from behind. But I think I want to see your face while I take you." John didn't leave the option of being taken on the table, and Sherlock, at this point too nervous to even attempt a coherent sentence, didn't ask. Truthfully, he wanted it this way, too; the idea of John taking him made his heart beat faster, and for his first time, he wanted to be lead, instead of leading. The fact that in the bedroom John would be in charge actually felt right to him.

John removed his own clothing much more slowly, deliberately, smile cold but eyes blazing. He was still angry, but there was another emotion quickly supplanting that rage, one that made Sherlock have to fight the urge to squirm a little on the mattress. He'd never felt self-conscious about his body, but the way John was staring at him made it hard to feel any other way.

"I have to prepare you first. I don't know if you've ever been with a man, but this is going to hurt you at least a little. Less, if I take my time with you."

Sherlock's eyes widened, not at the thought of pain—he'd faced enough of that while he was away—but at the idea of John using those clever fingers that had patched him up so many times in order to make him ready for penetration. The idea of those blunt, deft fingers slipping wet inside him and stretching him, brushing against his most sensitive place… he would be lying if he said it wasn't an extremely appealing idea.

John started slowly, slicking up one finger with the lube in his bedside stand before sliding it inside the consulting detective carefully. Sherlock closed his eyes, rocking his hips a little both to adjust and because the intrusion felt oddly… good. He hadn't been expecting that.

A second finger quickly joined the first, since Sherlock was already so responsive, and that made the tall man wince a little before John crooked his fingers and purposefully brushed against the spot that was sure to get a reaction. Sherlock let out a strangled gasp and arched off the bed, hips canting upward to either avoid the sensation or get it back. John wasn't sure which, but he knew that he was the one in charge.

Pinning Sherlock's hip down with his free hand, he began to scissor his fingers, listening to the little noises coming from the man he'd never forgotten. John was still angry, but love was beginning to cover it up, now, and it was that love, unacknowledged until he'd thought it was far too late, that caused him to slow down a little, really enjoy the way Sherlock was falling to pieces because of his ministrations. He wondered what Sherlock would look like when he slipped inside him, and what color his eyes would be during orgasm.

Realizing that he could find out the answers to both questions soon, judging by the state of Sherlock's weeping cock, John added a third finger, earning a whimper that sounded like his name, and pumped a few times, brushing against his prostate on every third stroke, before pulling his fingers out. Sherlock let out a small cry at this, ready to sob at the emptiness he was feeling, before John slid inside him.

The doctor wasn't of an above average length, but he was impressively thick, stretching Sherlock in a way that was pleasurable and painful simultaneously. He had long since lost control of his own body, and he was writhing on the mattress, sounds that would later embarrass him passing easily through his lips as his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth bit into his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Through it all, John started a steady pace, refusing to speed up even when inarticulate pleas started pouring out of his newfound lover. Sherlock was experiencing something he'd never felt before, and for once, only one thought was going through his mind—so close, so close, so close… And then white light was bursting behind his eyes as he came with a loud cry, followed quickly by several sobs as his body went through convulsions, raw pleasure zinging through his veins and shocking him with previously unexplored sensation.

He barely noticed when John finished inside of him, oblivious to the hot semen leaking from between his legs. He was lost in a haze of post-coital pleasure, and it was because of that, and the dreamy, disconnected look on his face, that John, who'd said his name four times by that point, began to worry.

Had Sherlock retreated to his mind palace to escape what was happening? It only occurred to John after, when lust had quit riding him with a merciless vengeance, that Sherlock likely thought, due to his behavior, that sex was a condition of him being allowed back into John's life. John had thought he was willing, but he wasn't answering him…

Easing out, John wondered if trying to hold him would make things better or worse. On the one hand, it might ground him, help him come back from wherever it was he'd gone. On the other hand, Sherlock might be wishing John gone, and his rejection would probably irrevocably damage their relationship, if John did try to take him into his arms. He'd already blurred the lines of consent enough; he needed to know what Sherlock was thinking and feeling.

"Sherlock." Finally, he seemed to get through, if the spark of recognition in those silvery-blue-green eyes was a reliable indicator.

"Yes, John?" He was still floating, but the worry in John's voice was making the pleasant mist he'd descended into dissipate rapidly, and he forced himself back, concerned. Had he done something wrong? Did John regret being with him, and was now going to be even angrier with him?

"Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I? Please, tell me you wanted this. Only if you really did want this. Don't lie, but please, please have wanted this as much as I did."

Sherlock heard his John in that voice, and felt a wave of relief crashing over him. They were going to be okay, if John by some miracle truly still cared about him after everything he'd put him through. He knew, now, that he'd risked the affection of the man he loved in order to save his life, and had a better understanding of how easily he might have lost him anyway. The idea that he might actually be able to fix things was a miracle.

"That was amazing." Smiling at the ceiling, Sherlock felt John still beside him, study him intently. He allowed it, knowing that John, though not as good at reading people as he was, needed to examine Sherlock and find some sign of reassurance. While Sherlock was fine with that, he'd read somewhere that cuddling was common after sex, unless it was a casual thing, and wondered why John was hesitating to do so. He hoped this wasn't mean to be casual, but he realized he couldn't really have expectations. For all he knew, their encounter had been exclusively fueled by John's relief and anger, and that it might never happen again.

Nervous now, he let the smile slip, biting his lip again. It wasn't a mistake, having been with John, whatever else happened. But he was hoping now, hoping that he could somehow make it a regular thing. Having had the experience of being with John, he didn't want to go without repeats. If he had to, he would, but he knew now that John wanted him, at least almost as much as Sherlock wanted him.

"John? Are you okay?" Turning onto his side to stare at his lover(?) Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow, taking his turn to examine John's face. The doctor didn't seem regretful, just nervous and still a little upset, and Sherlock relaxed a little, then a little more when John answered him.

"Yeah, I'm good. That was the best shag I've ever had, to be honest. But I… You do know that this wasn't a requirement, right? That I didn't expect this, that it was never a condition of me forgiving you?"

John was a little stunned when Sherlock, who had grown tired of supporting himself, scooted closer and collapsed with his head on John's good shoulder, snuggling in. It was a very good sensation, and he instantly decided that he wanted this often. If at all possible, he would happily make it a nightly occurrence. He might even sleep occasionally.

"John, apply my methods. Did you get the impression, at any point in all of this, that I was not enjoying every minute of it? I thought you were experienced; surely you could tell how badly I wanted you?"

"I… Sometimes what the body and mind want are two very different things. I need to know that you're totally okay with everything that just happened."

"I'm very okay with it. Are you… are you still angry with me, John? Don't forget what started this; it was what I did that made you so angry."

John laughed a little, wondering if it would ever be possible for him to feel angry again. He decided it would be, next time Sherlock did something idiotic and risked his life for the Work, but that he wouldn't mind it if they could resolve things as they had that day, all the time.

"Sherlock, I haven't forgiven you yet, but I think being angry at you just now is impossible for me. Now that I'm a little calmer, maybe you should explain. Start from the beginning, if you will, and go through it slowly."

"Well, I bet you're curious how I survived. Here's how it worked…"