John gave out a soft sigh as he collapsed back on the couch. He tried to quickly adjust himself into a more comfortable position, still not used to this new couch. Hell, he wasn't used to any of the new furniture in the flat just yet.

John had just tucked Rosie into bed, which was always a bit more difficult when Sherlock wasn't there. He didn't understand how Rosie could drift off so easily when Sherlock told her a bedtime story. Just overhearing the stories made John want to start pulling out his own hair. But he wasn't one to complain when things worked out better than expected.

After several minutes of tossing and turning on the couch, he finally found a semi-comfortable position on his side, facing the fireplace, which had a small fire going, the flames softly crackling as it consumed the twigs inside.

Finally, after what felt like hours, John felt himself begin to fall asleep. But the victory was short-lived, as he heard the door to the building close, followed by quick footsteps up the stairs to the flat. Groaning, John sat up, any hope of sleep disappearing from his mind. As he leaned against the bag of couch the door opened to reveal Sherlock. "Hello, John," he greeted brightly. Despite the fact that the man had interrupted his chance to get a bit of sleep, John couldn't help but light up at the sight of his friend. Until he noticed the unusual smell that hadn't been present seconds before.

He let out a low sigh and extended his arm outwards, palm up. "Give," he demanded, his dark green eyes moving up to meet Sherlock's harsh blue ones.

The taller man blinked once, then said, "I can't say I have any idea what you're talking about."

"C'mon," John sighed. "You can't fool me, and you know it."

"Actually, I can fool you. Done it before, and I could do it again." The older mangave a stern look-one like he'd given Rosie for making a mess-and the detective caved. "Fine," he huffed, reaching into one of the pockets of his coat and pulling out a pack of cigarettes, reluctantly giving it to John. "It was worth a shot," he muttered under his breath as he moved into the kitchen.

John stood up, walking over to the fireplace and tossing the pack in, watching as the flames crept over the cardboard packaging.

"You know," Sherlock called as John settled into red chair, "the market is still open, and it's the first day of strawberry season. We could walk down if you want."

John smiled. He remembered years ago-before Mary, before Sherlock's supposed death, before even Moriarty-when him and Sherlock had discovered how much the both loved strawberries. They had made it a tradition to go down to the market on the first day of strawberry season and get enough of the small fruits for them to gorge themselves on throughout the week. Of course, they hadn't really had the chance to since Sherlock had come back to the land of the living, what with the wedding and Rosie and Mary's death and everything with Eurus. God it had been too long since their last strawberry run.

But then his smile faltered a bit as a thought crossed his mind.

"What about Rosie? What if she wakes up?" he asked.

Sherlock walked out of the kitchen and sat across from John in his black chair. One of his classic shit-eating grins broke out across his face.

"Isn't that what Mrs. Hudson is for?"

John met Sherlock's grin with one of his own. "Let me grab my jacket, then we'll go," he said, standing up and going to his room, careful to be quiet so as not to wake his daughter.

"Let's go," he said as he came down the last few steps.

Sherlock led the way out the door and down the stairs, but stopped so that John could knock on the landlady's door.

"Yes?" the woman called as she opened the door. She looked at the two standing outside her room. "Oh, what are you boys up to?"

"We were just headed out for a bit. I was wondering if you could keep an eye on Rosie for me. You know, just in case she wakes up."

"Of course." Mrs. Hudson smiled. "You boys have fun." A bit of a laugh crept into her voice as she added, "But not too much fun."

John rolled his eyes as the two of them stepped out the front door of the building.

"You know," he started, "you'd think she'd have given up on the whole us-being-a-couple thing by now." He gave a little laugh, but was met with silence from his friend.

John paused for a moment, waiting to see if Sherlock would say anything. When he didn't, he let his mind begin to wander. His kept his eyes cast downwards, trained on Sherlock's movements so that he could still follow him.

He thought back to that first day he had spent with Sherlock. He remembered going to the flat for the first time, and he remembered when Mrs. Hudson had asked if they would need two rooms. He was never quite sure why, but some part of him had wanted to say, "No." Had wanted to say, "One will be just fine." John had spent many nights lying in bed, trying to sort through what had made him feel like he would say that. He had never really found himself attracted to men before, so he wondered what it was about Sherlock that drew him in. Why him? Why this strange man who seemed to know nearly everything about everyone. Anytime anyone brought up him and Sherlock as a couple, he would immediately brush past it in conversation, but the thoughts would plague his mind. Why would he ever feel attraction to Sherlock Holmes of all people?

"John?" Sherlock's voice brought him back to the present, and from his tone it was clear it wasn't his first attempt to get John's attention. He quickly snapped his head up to look at Sherlock.

"Sorry," he chuckled. "What'd you say?"

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked. His tone was a bit softer, the way it always was when he was clearly concerned about John. It pulled a bit at his heart, but John swallowed it back. "You've been oddly quiet thus far. By now you've usually made some kind of snide remark about something or other."

"Oh." John hadn't realized he ever did that, but he shouldn't be surprised Sherlock would have. "Just a bit tired, I guess," he lied. "I was nearly asleep before you came home."

"Mmhmm," Sherlock hummed, but it was clear he didn't believe him.

When Sherlock didn't say anything else, John let himself slip back into his own thoughts.

His mind drifted to that first cab ride him and Sherlock had, where he spelled out exactly how he could know everything about John despite just meeting him. It had impressed him so much that he could figure all of that out almost exactly, and he didn't have any trouble expressing that to him. Even though he didn't voice it out loud anymore to him, he was always awed when Sherlock solved cases in just a few minutes.

He mentally walked through that entire night-every word, every movement burned into his mind even after so many years.

Just as he was thinking back to all the small details that Sherlock had picked up from examining Jennifer Wilson's body, Sherlock once again brought him back to the present.

"John!"

"Hmm?" John hummed, looking up to see that they had stopped outside of the little market him and Sherlock frequented. "Sorry, I'm just really out of it tonight."

"I'd noticed," Sherlock commented just as the store owner, a nice old man in his seventies, walked out, prepared to lock the doors.

"Hello, Sherlock. John," he greeted, his Northern accent thick and rough with age. "What are you doing here?"

"We were hoping to buy a package of strawberries," John explained.

The old man sighed. "I'm sorry, boys, I was just closing up."

"Come on, Carlton," Sherlock pleaded. "Not even one? It won't even take two minutes."

The man looked at the dark-haired man for a moment before opening the door. "Just one," he said. "And it's on me."

"Nonsense," Sherlock said, stuffing some money into the man's hand. "Keep the change," he added before the two disappeared into the store.

They quickly raced to the far end of the shop where the produce was located, grabbing a package of fresh strawberries and running back to the front of the store.

"Thank you, Carlton," John said with smile before him and Sherlock began their walk back home, picking the strawberries out of the plastic packaging and eating them.

John suddenly went to reach for another strawberry from the container, but was met only with air.

"Guess that's that, then," he said, throwing away the container as they passed by a rubbish bin.

They continued on in silence, a light air between the two of them.

John took a moment to look over at Sherlock. It had been a while since they had just spent some time together, without any kind of stress. No case, no murderous sisters, no small child even.

They were only a block or two away from the flat, when Sherlock finally ended the silence. "Do you remember our first case together?" he asked, and the question caught John off guard.

"Uh, of course I do," he answered. "I could never forget that."

He looked up at Sherlock. The taller man, who had been looking at JOhnm, turned away when he realized the doctor was looking at him. He took that time to look at Sherlock-really look at him, which he hadn't done in a long time. He remembered when he had first met the detective, he continuously found himself staring at him, attempting to take in every detail of him, trying to find something to point to any possible emotions. But now it was something entirely different. He wasn't gauging Sherlock for a sign of humanity-he was trying to observe what Sherlock might be thinking about at that moment.

There was a bit of a chuckle in Sherlock's voice as he said, "Do you remember how you were convinced you needed your cane?"

He turned his to look at John, and the shorter man quickly turned his head back towards their current path.

"Yeah," he answered, a smile creeping onto his face. "And then we tried to chase after that damned cab, and you just let me leave it at Angelo's." At that, Sherlock laughed, the true kind of laugh that only John ever seemed to be able to pull from him. He kind of hated to admit that it was his favorite sound in the whole world. It meant Sherlock was alive and happy.

"Honestly, I still can't believe you actually walked around with that thing at all!"

"Oh, shut up, you cock," John teased, but he joined Sherlock anyways.

They both began to slow down, stopping by a lamp post to calm down.

"I hate you," John said, but it was clear to both of them that he was absolutely not serious.

"You couldn't hate me if you tried, John Watson," Sherlock stated.

The couple's laughing slowly calmed down until they were just standing there, each leaning against one side of the pole.

"John," Sherlock finally said.

"Hm?"

There was a bit of a pause before he said, "Race you back to the building." John felt the material of Sherlock's coat brush against his back before he pushed himself off the pole and turned, finding Sherlock already running down the pavement.

He gave a small chuckle and muttered, "Complete and utter cock," before quickly following after.

John was struggling to control his breathing, trying to force one foot in front of the other. He may not have a bum knee, but he was quite far along in age and he definitely wasn't pumping as much adrenaline as he had been when he and Sherlock chased a cab all around London.

He finally turned around the corner leading to his and Sherlock's flat to see Sherlock disappear through the door. But he didn't stop running, not until he passed through the door himself, falling against the wall next to Sherlock. Just like that first case, he thought to himself.

"I win," Sherlock mocked, turning to look down at the doctor.

"You're an ass, you know that?" he responded.

John watched as another grin split across Sherlock's face. "When am I not?" he asked.

They stayed like that for a few moments, the only sounds being the two trying to catch their breaths.

Suddenly a bit of a more tense feel hung in the air as Sherlock said, "Do you remember when I pulled you out of that bonfire?"

A lump suddenly formed in John's throat. That night had been one of the worst of his life. The smell of the fire raging just outside the heap of junk that he had been trapped in, the way the smoke had clogged his lungs, the feeling of utter helplessness when he realized what was happening. He knew he was lucky to have survived. And he knew he owed his survival to Sherlock. Always Sherlock.

"Yeah," he answered.

Sherlock's voice was paper thin as he said, "That's one of the few times I've ever truly been scared."

John looked over at Sherlock, who had turned his face to the opposite wall. There was a bit of a haunted look in his eyes, and John couldn't help but notice that they were shining just the tiniest bit, as if he were about to cry.

He took a deep breath before continuing. "When Mary showed me that message, I was so afraid that something would happen to you, and that it would be all my fault."

"Sherlock-"

"No, I'm serious. For the entire ride to you, I was afraid that we would be just barely too late, or that it would all be a trick and I still wouldn't be able to save you. And if that had happened, it would be all my fault. Because I didn't come back sooner, or I didn't figure things out faster. I really thought I would lose you, John." There was a short pause before he added, very quietly, "I thought I would lose the person I love most in the world."

John stayed still. He was absolutely dumbfounded. He doesn't really mean, some part of him said. He just means that you're his best friend. That's nothing new.

But some other part of his brain said, What if he really means it?

"I felt the same way," John whispered, and he watched as Sherlock's head whipped around to face him. He quickly dropped his eyes down to the floor. "After you faked your death. I blamed myself. I thought if I had just stayed with you, that it wouldn't have happened. I spent so long wondering what I could've done differently so that you could still be safe. That's part of why I had to leave the flat. Every second I was in there, I was reminded of you. It hurt to think that I had to stay there without you. It was like trying to live without part of myself."

John felt Sherlock's hand touch his, carefully. When he didn't move it away, Sherlock entwined their fingers. "I'm sorry, John," he said. "I wish I-" John might've been going crazy. Sherlock almost sounded unsure of what he was saying. "I didn't want to leave you. But I didn't have any other choice."

"I know," John whispered.

They stayed like that, just savoring this moment together. It almost felt like a weight had been lifted off John, and something in him knew that a weight had been lifted off Sherlock, too.

Suddenly Sherlock moved so he was standing in front of John. "John?" he said, gently lifting on hand to John's face. He brushed the back of it across his cheek, curling it down until he was cupping his cheek. "Can I-"

"Yes," John whispered.

John closed his eyes as Sherlock's lips connected with his. It felt so strange. They had been with each other so long they knew each other better than they even knew themselves, but John had never thought that it would lead her. To Sherlock bloody Holmes kissing him, tasting of an intoxicating mix of strawberries and tobacco. John had never thought things would happen like this, but he definitely wasn't against it. Not when Sherlock's hands moved so they were holding the back of his head. Not when his own hands were on Sherlock's hips, his fingers lightly digging into the material of his coat. His head was buzzing with thoughts, none of which he could bother to try and understand.

At least, not until he heard crying from upstairs.

The two pulled away from each other, trying to catch their breaths. They were looking at each other, trying to figure what exactly had just happened and if it was real.

It was Sherlock who spoke first. "I'll should go put Rosie back to sleep," he said.

"Right," John responded.

"We can talk more after?" the taller man asked, his voice hopeful.

"Yeah. You're room?"

Sherlock smiled. "Sounds like a plan." And with that, he disappeared up the stairs.

John, meanwhile, began to smile like an idiot. Something about that kiss had felt so right. He couldn't believe it had really happened. But they lingering taste of Sherlock on his lips told him that it had. He couldn't just make up something that hypnotizing.

John quickly darted up the stairs to the flat. He was going to enjoy this, however long it lasted.