Author's Note: I did it. I finally finished this. And even if no one is ever going to read it, I'm proud of it. I needed this closure. If you're reading this, however, I thank you for doing so and sincerely hope you enjoy.
I feel like my writing style has changed a lot throughout the years I've worked on this story, and that I've somehow unlearned to write a convincing Sherlock - he does feel very out of character in this chapter. I want to pin that on the fact that I have fallen off the Johnlock ship a while ago (because I really, really liked Mary) and that it literally took me years to write "Domestic" (so it's only natural my writing is different now than it was back when I started).
Anyhow, I hope you can overlook that and the fact that Sherlock just doesn't really seem like Sherlock anymore and also any typos or grammar mistakes you find (one just never finds every last mistake when self-betaing. At least, I don't.) and will still enjoy reading this.

A Bit of a Domestic, Chapter eight: A Bit of a Domestic

The ride was silent except for John's occasional sighs. After a while, Clara couldn't take it any longer. She cleared her throat and shot him a sideways glance.

Then, carefully, she said, "I thought you looked forward to leaving for Australia?"

"I was," the doctor responded in a low voice, "I really was. But…" He trailed off.

"But?" Clara pressed. "Did you expect Sherlock to show up like a knight in shining armour to rescue the princess? To come and snatch you away before you could leave?"

John huffed. "I'm not delusional. But I at least hoped he'd try to call me or send a text or something - anything, really. I would have liked to know he still cares about me. Even just a little." The heartbreak was evident in his voice as it began to tremble slightly. His fingers dug into the seat and he bit down harshly on his lower lip to keep from crying. He'd done enough of that over the past week and frankly, he was annoying himself with all the feeling sorry for himself he'd been doing.

"I miss him," he whispered anyway, couldn't stop himself from admitting it.

"I know, darling," Clara answered in a soothing voice, "And I'm sure he misses you, too."

. . .

Sherlock stared out of the tinted window to his right, his left leg nervously twitching up and down. Mycroft glanced at him, from his face to his leg and back to his face again, frowning.

"What are you going to tell him?" he asked, knowing that winning John back this time would probably not be an easy task for his younger brother.

The detective exhaled audibly, but kept silent. The storm inside of him had picked up the pace once again, but this time, it wasn't roaring with anger and self-loathing, rather, it was spreading anxiety and excitement through his nervous system. He'd win John back. He'd make him listen and he'd actually apologise this time. He'd make it right. He had to.

Turning his gaze to his brother he sucked in a deep breath before whispering, "Everything."

. . .

Clara parked the car in front of the airport to let John out. "You go on ahead, I'll just quickly search for parking. I'll meet you in the front hall by the coffee place."

She smiled at him reassuringly as he took a deep breath and unfastened his seat belt.

"Right," he nodded and opened the door, got out and closed it behind him. She pressed a button next to the steering wheel to open the boot. As she heard the sound of it slamming shut a few seconds later, she turned the ignition again in search for an empty parking place.

With his bag in hand, John entered the reception hall and looked around for 'that coffee place' he was supposed to wait at. Part of him expected Sherlock to show up and - what? Get down on his knees and beg him to not leave, to come back home? He snorted at his own thoughts. Yeah, right.

Regardless, his heart sank a little when he sat down in a chair at the small cafe and looked around, not seeing anyone remotely looking like his best friend.

By the time Clara arrived and took a seat opposite from him at the table, John's coffee was half empty and the one he ordered for her probably cold. She looked stressed out.

"You alright?" he heard himself ask, half spaced out while thinking on the journey that lay ahead of him and what it entailed. Leaving London, Sherlock, his family and friends behind, without nary a word to anyone - he still felt cowardly for running away like this. But on the other hand, he was sure to get better sooner the farther he was away from Sherlock, right? Right?

They sighed in unison, him because of the gloominess that had taken a hold of his heart and her because of the annoyance that was the parking area in front of the airport. At least, something like that John thought he heard her say, not really listening to her words.

"Hey, Watson!" she suddenly exclaimed, smacking her hand flat on the table. He twitched, surprised at the sudden noise and the forcefulness in her voice and blinked at her, for the first time actually registering her words.

"Moping isn't going to solve anything, you know," Clara continued admonishingly, "if you don't want to go through with this you can just say so and we find a different solution."

John considered her words for a moment, lowering his gaze to his cup and staring at it in deep thought. His heart still ached at the thought of Sherlock, not caring for him enough to even try and stop him, or just once asking how he was or if he would come back home. Then, he looked back up at his sister-in-law and shook his head.

"No, I'll pull this off. I'm sure once I'm there I'll get over him in no time. I won't have time to drown in self-pity anyway."

She shot him a reassuring smile and nodded. "That's right, it's a busy life over there, or so I heard. Harry and I will be sure to come visit once you've settled in."

"I'll be expecting you in a week then?" John jokingly retorted, coaxing a soft giggle from the older woman. He was trying hard to suppress the bitter taste of the words that actually sat on the tip of his tongue, ready to jump out and admit to all the fears and second thoughts whirling around inside of him, so as to not worry Clara, who had done so much for him already, even more than he'd ever expected or thought he deserved.

"Right," she laughed, "Are you looking forward to your journey a bit more now, then?"

Despite his insides still feeling tangled and twisted with hurt and rejection, the good doctor offered a smile in return and gave her a nod of his head by way of answering. A bit.

. . .

Mycroft's phone buzzed as they were pulling up to the curb in front of the airport's reception hall. He picked up and listened for a few seconds before he answered, "That is understood. Eagle's Nest is a go."

With that, he hung up and put the device away inside his jacket before opening the door and stepping out of the car.

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look over the hood of the vehicle after he had climbed out of it himself. "I don't need you for this, Mycroft. Leave."

"Oh, I beg to differ, brother dear. You may think you've put on your big boy pants earlier, but who will be there when you'll eventually break down?" The words cut right into Sherlock's heart, but the eyes fixed on him spoke a different language. There was pity in them, and a hint of… sadness?

"Well, I'm certainly glad you think so highly of me," Sherlock spat, frowning. He didn't need his brothers pity.

Mycroft opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it. It wasn't the right time to reprimand his little brother, nor the right place. Observing him, he noticed Sherlock's sullen look, and the way his eyes gleamed with fear and regret and suddenly, he was scared for him, scared to see him cry again. So he did the only sensible thing he could think of, nodded at Sherlock and said, "It will be alright."

The detective clenched his fists in defiance against the fear that was trying to well back up in him, not allowing himself to fall back into self-loathing and gloom. Biting the insides of his cheeks, he reminded himself what he was here for. He was going to find John and apologise to him. And no matter what happened next, he would make sure their relationship wouldn't break any further. He would give them a chance to mend it. And it would be mended. Maybe not today or tomorrow. Maybe not in a week. But eventually.

Taking a deep breath and feeling invigorated with resolve starting to surge through his veins, he put up the collar of his coat, turned around without another word and walked towards the main entrance, slipping past travelers on their way outside, all the while looking around for a familiar dark blonde head.

"His flight leaves in two hours," Mycroft called out to his brother - good luck unspokenly travelling along with his words - before he opened the door of the car again and got back in. Heaving a sigh, he tapped the handle of his umbrella against the partition to signal his driver to go.

. . .

Looking around the crowded airport lobby for anyone looking even remotely like John, Sherlock felt increasingly lost and overwhelmed. As soon as he'd stepped foot into the building, his resolve had crumbled and his first instinct had been to turn around and flee. But he couldn't do that to himself and, more importantly, to John. But would John even want him to - what actually was it that he was going to do here?

He felt like sighing, but swallowed instead. Setting one insecure foot in front of the other, he began walking towards the shops, turning his head every which way to see if he couldn't find his blond friend.

And then, suddenly, he saw him, sitting with the woman who had visited him a while ago to pick up John's belongings - Clara. A coffee mug in his hand and a small smile on his face as he talked to her about something. She laughed and reached out to squeeze his wrist before picking up her own cup and taking a sip.

Sherlock was just standing there, about five meters away, torn between fight or flight. Never in his life had he felt so small, so insecure, so lost.

He took a deep, shaky breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to gather up all the courage he could muster and slowly, but steadily, started moving towards his goal.

. . .

Their conversation died quite abruptly as a tall shadow loomed over them and a pair of long legs, clad in dress trousers, framed by a long, dark coat, entered John's peripheral vision.

The smile on his face froze as he swallowed hard and turned his head to look up at the person standing right in front of their table, looking at them wordlessly.

"Sherlock," the doctor regarded the taller man, successfully trying to keep his tone neutral.

The younger man nodded in acknowledgement, but said nothing. John felt his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed around the lump that had suddenly formed there.

Clara cleared her throat and pushed herself back with her chair, then slowly got up. She nodded at John and regarded Sherlock with a look the doctor couldn't quite read before saying, "I'll leave you to it, then."

To what, she did not specify, before she turned around and headed for the bathroom.

John followed her with his eyes for a moment before looking back up at his friend and motioning for him to sit in her chair. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Sherlock took off his coat and sat.

"So," John started, but trailed off. He wanted to say so many things, ask so many questions, but at the same time, didn't really feel like talking - not to Sherlock anyway.

For a long moment, no reply was forthcoming, Sherlock only staring blankly at John, and the good doctor trying hard to suppress the fidgeting his fingers so desperately wanted to do. The tips of his fingers twitched and he pulled his hands off the table to grab at his knees, hard, anything to try and ground himself and, perhaps even more importantly, hide the physical display of his uneasiness from Sherlock - give him one less thing to deduce, to draw conclusions, to… oh, who was he kidding, the genius probably had seen it already, anyway. He sighed soundlessly.

"John," Sherlock said then, fixing his eyes on the other man's, no longer staring through him, but rather, right into his soul. The blond swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly feeling tight and parched. Was he only imagining it or had Sherlock's usually deep, clear baritone cracked?

"John," he all but whispered now, but didn't continue in any meaningful way. Instead, Sherlock started chewing on his bottom lip as if nervous - something John had never seen him do before. It surprised him, and, despite him trying to fight it, made his heart reach out to his friend. He at the same time wanted and didn't want to get up and tell him that it was okay, that they were still friends. He managed to restrain himself, just looking back at Sherlock, waiting.

"Why are you here?" John eventually asked after a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, no longer able to bear the anticipation.

"I miss you." It was a simple statement, spoken in a broken, strangled voice, and when the words reached John's ears, he had to suppress a sob. Not that he actually felt like he was going to cry right then and there, but the admission was more than he had ever hoped to hear. John felt his heart leap in his chest, a sudden happiness surging through him. It was as though Sherlock had offered a piece of his own heart when he said that he missed him, granted John a look inside the mystery that the younger still often was - even to him, who had lived with the detective for what felt like forever.

But as quickly as the moment had come, it passed, and John was bitterly reminded why they sat here and that he would need more than a simple admission like this to make him stay. There was not a single doubt in the good doctor's mind that making him come home was Sherlock's intention by coming here, not after those words.

Clearing his throat, John managed to finally answer, "Of course you do. There's no one left for you to experiment on, no one to do your cleaning and shopping and cooking for you, now, is there?" He surprised himself with how indifferent he was capable of sounding right then.

Sherlock's eyes went wide for the briefest of moments, and if John had blinked, he'd have missed it. Faintly, the younger shook his head. "It's not that."

Taking a deep breath, John looked the other deep in his grey-green eyes. "Then what is it?" He had to know, had to hear the words before he could allow himself to hold on to that faint glimmer of hope that was trying its hardest to bubble up inside of him.

Silence. Between them, even around them the busy airport seemed to quiet down. Time came to a halt as they simply looked at each other, one waiting, one trying to find his voice.

Suddenly, the world came back into motion, people rushed by, talked, laughed, hugged their loved ones goodbye or hello, and John felt as though he was drowning in it and the rush of words spilling from the younger man's lips and the feelings pouring down on him like raindrops in a storm. "I need you to come home. I feel… lost without you. You're good to me, good for me. And I know I've not always been good for you, but I want to try and be better. I need to fix this, fix us, because even when I often disregard your feelings, I still cherish you. I can't promise I'll ever be able to feel about you the way you want me to, if I can ever love you like that, but I want to try. I want to be good for you, there for you, the same way you have always been there for me all this time. I know I certainly do not deserve it, but please, John, please, give me just this one last chance. Be my friend again."

Closing his eyes for a brief moment and inhaling a deep breath, John at first didn't even realise that a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. He'd waited for this for what felt like an eternity.

The blond fixed his eyes on his friend, took in the desperation reflecting from Sherlock's gaze. Slowly, he opened his mouth to speak. "That's all I ever wanted. I'll always be your friend." You obnoxious, tactless, insufferable, fascinating, wonderful, brilliant brat.

The relief washing over the younger man was clearly visible, his taut shoulders relaxed, a breathless sigh left his lips and his facial expression softened.

Then, "I just need some time."

. . .

The door opens, then closes quietly. A floorboard creaks. The violin falls silent, the last few notes still resonating on the air. A cup and saucer fall to the floor with a sickening sound, tea spilling over fluffy pink slippers. Mrs Hudson takes a sharp breath, then staggeringly releases it. She clutches her hands over her heart and smiles in a way that speaks of tears and I'm so glad you're back and then she glances to the tall figure by the window.

"John." It's Sherlock who speaks first. Then, suddenly, with a flourish, he turns around and strides across the living room. He spreads his arms and before John understands what's happening, his nose collides with his best friend's collarbone. He drops his bag and returns the hug, inhales the familiar scent lingering somewhere between skin and shirt. He smiles.

"I've missed you, too."

Now, there are three things I'd like to say to close this:

One - How did you like the tense switch for the last bit? I worried about that part a lot, but I somehow wanted it to stand out, to show that John indeed came back and that something had changed.
Two - I know, I know, they didn't actually end up together with kisses and wild sex (even though that's what I had originally planned for this story), but I found it to be much more believeable if they reunited like this. After all, John took that trip to Australia because he wanted to get over Sherlock, not fall even harder for him, and, well, Sherlock is Sherlock. For him to go and hug John like that is a huge thing in and of itself in my opinion, and it shows more about how much John actually means to Sherlock than it would seem. Maybe that's just my conception of their relationship, though. I'm open for differing opinions and criticism any time!
Three - thank you so much for reading. And thank you for giving this story another chance if you're a returning reader. I'm looking forward to hearing your opinions.