John Watson plopped himself down into his favourite chair with a book, sighing heavily. Subconsciously, he glanced across the room at the other armchair that he could never bring himself to remove from the sitting room. No. No. He had to stop thinking about—about him.

John opened the novel at his marked page, and began reading. At first, it was easy enough, but then he remembered it was Agatha Christie, and everything about him came to mind in a flood of memories—giggling at crime scenes, waltzing through London like they were in a ballroom, shooting people, getting cabs, more crime scenes, deductions, more dancing—too strong for anything close to comfort, especially after three years.

The words on the page grew blurry as John had to blink away the moisture that was collecting in his eyes because soldiers, no, people don't cry unless something terrible has happened. He was nearly crying because of a mere reminder. Did it count if he was still in mourning? Could he be after three years?

The doorbell at Baker Street shook him out of his thoughts, and John scrubbed a hand down his face before standing and stumbling over to the bathroom mirror. His eyes and cheeks were a bit red, like he was tired, but nothing that looked like he might have nearly cried a few minutes ago. His breath was shaky as he limped the rest of the way down the stairs and unlocked the door, opening it.

"Sorry for the wait, what can I—"

And then his air was gone. The world had fallen into a vacuum. There was no oxygen, not right now, not when he was here.

John's eyes filled again, but this time, he didn't stop the tears. He had a reason to cry now.

Happiness.

John closed the door, dropping his head to it, trying to breathe, trying to get a grip because everything that lived through for the past three years was now made unnecessary. Pointless now, because John was right.

He had lived, and he was back.

Blinking, John's lungs filled with oxygen. The relief surprised him.

He opened the door and stood there, watching the man who was never dead.

And finally, he spoke, the voice making John's eyes flutter shut. It had been too long. "Hello, John."

The embrace was real—solid and warm—and John breathed it in.

—

Six weeks later, John felt better than anything. He was back to solving crimes with Sherlock, and they'd ripped through several this week alone, despite the fact that it was barely half-ten on Tuesday morning. Making up for lost time, he supposed.

It was alarming how much everything stayed the same. John could've sworn on his life that things would be different, but they lapsed back into their usual (as of three years ago) routines like nothing had ever happened, like nothing had changed between them. It set a crawl under John's skin, enough to feel, but not enough to have the inspire the drive to change it.

"Did you eat?" He shouted from the kitchen. Sherlock was experimenting in his bedroom, but there was no response.

"Sherlock?" He said, walking to the door, "Did you—"

"I heard you, John."

"Well, did you?"

Again, there was no response. "Don't make me go get your brother."

"Oh, don't threaten me with the British Government, John, it's not fair."

"I think we're a bit past 'fair', don't you think? You need to eat."

Sherlock looked up at him, pouting and annoyed. "Fine. But it has to be one the chocolate biscuits that Mrs. Hudson sent up. Oh, and tea."

John sighed because that was as close as Sherlock was going to get to eating any food today, and put the kettle on.

—

A month after that, Sherlock was allowed (thanks, Lestrade) to investigate a double serial murder-suicide that didn't add up in Sussex or somewhere, and at the crime scene, he introduced John as his 'partner'. Not his coworker, his friend, or even his accomplice. His partner. Bloody hell, that was corporate-sounding, but accurate.

If only John could figure out which end of 'partner' Sherlock meant.

—

A bit after that, John found himself smiling more often, and whatever was causing this, Sherlock seemed to have gotten the same bug. The world was better for it, really. John was too passionate, Sherlock too closed-off. They were complementary to each other, counterbalances. Black and white. Hot and cold. Fire and ice. 'It shouldn't work, but it does' type scenario.

And one night, Sherlock suggested something that John would never believe.

"John, let's have dinner."

"What?" It's not like John could help his response.

"Dinner, John. Let's go to Angelo's."

"Ange—what?"

"Three minutes and twenty-six seconds, John. That's when the cab will arrive. To take us to dinner. At Angelo's."

John spluttered. "You—you're actually—eating willingly?"

Sherlock huffed a sigh. "You're missing the point, John. I want us. To eat. Together."

John could only frown in surprise.

The detective rolled his eyes. "Come now, John, I know you have intellectual capabilities that far surpass that of a—"

"Are you trying to take me to dinner?"

Sherlock froze and unfroze again so quickly, just the barest stutter of movement, that if it had been anyone other than John observing Sherlock, it could've been passed off at a simple twitch. But this was John after all. He knew Sherlock better than either of them could say, and that twitch wasn't the only thing that was different. Now there was the barest dusting of pink on the tips of Sherlock's ears and down his neck.

John knew that flush. That was Sherlock's "I am having real human emotions" flush.

There was a moment of tense silence as John thought over what was going on with Sherlock and Sherlock watched him, clearly on edge in the corner of John's eye. John felt his lips twitch up at that, just a bit.

"Yeah, alright."

The curly dark brown hair bounced when Sherlock turned his face towards John. "What?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I'll go to dinner with you." As subdued as Sherlock's tells were, John knew them, could see them shining in his eyes. There was wonder there. Understanding. Gratitude. Happiness. Definitely happiness.

Those brilliant, brilliant eyes, John thought as his smile grew.

This was a new beginning for them. This was the start of something that was going to be worth the prelude. This was the weighted word, the exposition to the rest of everything.

This was 'hello.'