Author's Note: Typical me, the first thing I write for the Sherlock fandom is angsty and sad. *Rolls eyes*. I think I have problems, or, at least, an unhealthy obsession with angst.

Okay, so, I don't really know where this came from, but hey. If we can't write sad things as a result of the Reichenbach Fall, then what was the point of all of our heartache? (MY FEELS.)

Please review this fic guys, because I'd like to see if you think I should continue writing for this fandom. Also, MERRY CHRISTMAS, or whatever other holiday you celebrate! (I know this isn't a Christmassy fic in the slightest, but... oh well...)

~Rainbow Fruit Loop xx

~Forbidden to Say It~

The day that Sherlock chooses to come back - the day he chooses to throw John's already unstable world into a mess of confusion and chaos, emotional unbalance and pain - is just an ordinary day.

(It's a Tuesday, in fact.)

In the long, uncomfortable nights subsequent to Sherlock's fall, John dreamt about their impossible reunion. He has always imagined that it would be raining on that day; a bitter, gloomy kind of rain that whispers dark secrets of despair and longing and hopeless desperation.

The rain isn't a happy rain, no, but the frosty water from the heavens mingles with the salty tears dripping down his face; veiling the emotions that are threatening to overpower him. Creating a mask of which to hide behind is all well and good, but Sherlock once told him that, in the end, disguise is merely a self portrait.

(John doesn't know what that makes him.)

The greater part of this desperate dream is a monochromatic blur, talking and sobbing and begging forgiveness, and it's almost as though John's watching everything happen through a layer of frosted glass, where everything is muted, dull, emotionless.

(Too boring. Not real.)

But then the sky lights up in vivid shades of happiness - pinks and reds and oranges - and, as the frosted glass shatters, John can see everything, can feel everything, and it's as though the world has been set on fire. It's a magical sensation that makes his heart thud painfully against his chest, and it always takes John a few seconds to realise why.

But then he realises that Sherlock's lips are on his own, hot and hard and rough, and cold and gentle and soft all at the same time. There's the desperate slick of skin-on-skin, wet tongues and white teeth, and a rainy kind of sweat. Sherlock's moaning John's name into his lips, 'John, John, John…', his tongue doing wonderfully warm things that makes John's body shudder.

(It's real now. Desperately real. Painfully real.)

John's fingers are lost in a mess of unruly curls which haven't changed at all, soft and silken and everything that he imagined. Sherlock smells like he always did; expensive shampoo, tea, and something that John can't quite put his finger on, but it's an intoxicating scent that he wants to fill his lungs.

There are cool, slim fingers at his waist, on his naked skin, oh, those fingers are feeling so very alive on his skin. They're tracing rough patterns now, and John doesn't want it to ever end. Sherlock's fingers are scratching gently at his lower stomach with a desperate air of now, now, now, and John doesn't know whether now is too early or too late.

(Because Sherlock left him; didn't want him, and surely John can't forgive everything already.)

But then everything seems too far away to John - they need to be closer, closer, closer. Bodies press tightly, hip bones pressing deliciously until John can't remember where he is. It's still raining and they're both drenched; heavy coats and slippery skin, dripping curls and eyes that look like they've been crying.

(Perhaps they have, but no one wants to admit it.)

Small puffs of hot breath caress John's skin as Sherlock pulls back, resting his forehead against John's.

"I'm so sorry, John." he murmurs, voice deep, husky and utterly sexy. "I'm so sorry."

(But is it all a lie? Sherlock's always been very good at not telling him the truth when it matters.)

But John kisses him again anyway, gentle and soft, but he's filled with a sudden feeling of fear, because he's had this dream before, many times before, and he knows that something bad is about to happen. Because Sherlock's about to say 'I love you', and the Gods up above seem determined to never let those words pass by Sherlock's beautiful lips.

"I lo-"

And then Sherlock's falling, falling so very far down, because, suddenly, they're on top of a building and John doesn't know how they got there.

(Perhaps they were always on the building. Perhaps it was always meant to end like this.)

He's screaming Sherlock's name as loudly as he can, 'Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!', but his voice is refusing to cooperate. John watches as his loved one's body plummets to the earth, body flailing and limbs twisting before landing with a nauseating crack that echoes in John's head like a melody might.

(Moonlight Sonata.)

There's blood on the pavement, a dark crimson liquid that surely can't belong to his Sherlock, because Sherlock can't be dead, not again, and everything seems far too familiar.

It's then that John remembers that his delightful dreams of love always turn into nightmares at the end, because John's not supposed to have a happy ending.

(That's how it's always been.)

It's at this point that John usually awakes from this dream, covered in sweat, tears streaming down his face. He's breathing heavily, heart thudding painfully against his rib cage, and it takes him a few minutes to calm down.

He can't decide whether he likes these dreams or not, because, although they end with pain and tears and hurt, just for a few minutes, John believes that his dream is reality, that they're Sherlock's lips kissing his, that it's Sherlock's body pressed against his.

But, upon reflection, his mind's image of Sherlock is a poor imitation of the real Sherlock, an echo of a stunning man so beautiful that it hurt.

(A shadow.)

But this time is different.

It's three o'clock in the morning when John awakes from his dream with a strangled cry of 'Sherlock!'. He's crying, of course, and his fingers are trembling as he presses them to his lips.

The thing that he hates about this dream is the fact that it's so vivid. He can always remember every single detail when he wakes - the soft touches, the murmur of his name from Sherlock's lips, the feeling of Sherlock falling from his arms... - and by the time he stops crying, he can't remember whether he's crying because Sherlock died, or because he kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock kissed back, but it wasn't real.

(Perhaps that's for the best.)

Usually, after one of the nightmares, which, dreadfully, are escalating in their frequency, John looks at the gun he's got hidden in the drawer and wonders if it would hurt. He knows that it's the coward's way out, but he's got no one to be brave for anymore.

(What's the point in being the hero when you don't have anyone to save?)

He sits, trembling in his bed, entwined around a thin cotton sheet for what seems like hours before hauling himself up and staggering into the living room to make a cup of tea.

And that's when he sees him.

A mess of dark, uncontrollable curls, flawless alabaster skin that John last saw covered in scarlet smudges, and a scratchy woollen coat that probably cost more than John's entire wardrobe.

John blinks.

He thinks about turning back around and going back to sleep, because it seems as though he's finally lost it. Because Sherlock is dead, and that's the painful reality.

(Maybe he's gone mad. He knew it was coming.)

John scrubs a hand across his face.

But Sherlock's still there, huddled up in a ball on John's chair, face peaceful and accepting, eyes closed. He's probably lost in his own dream world, and John wonders briefly what Sherlock dreams about. Does he ever dream of the man he left behind? The blogger who he'd be lost without? The wounded soldier whose life he set on fire?

(Probably not, because Sherlock dreams of flying.)

John blinks again, and scratches at his nose.

His mind has gone unhelpfully blank, and he can't think of any possible reason for Sherlock Holmes - the man he watched throw himself off a building - to be asleep in his armchair after three fucking years.

So he ignores Sherlock, and pads into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Tea is reliable. Tea doesn't leave you without an explanation, only to appear three years later and fall asleep in your chair. You can depend on tea.

(Though, tea isn't always the answer to everything.)

Instead of making tea, however, John slumps against the bench, his face in his hands. His fingers are trembling again, and his dodgy leg has given up on him. Breathing is getting harder and harder, and John doesn't understand what his emotions are doing.

Is he ecstatic? Ecstatic that his faith in Sherlock wasn't a waste of time? Ecstatic because he trusted Sherlock, and the consulting detective didn't let him down? Or livid? Livid because he's been through so much unnecessary pain; pain that could have so easily been avoided?

(A bit of both; a whirlwind of emotions far too strong to survive without a few aspirin.)

A temporary lapse in character causes John to reach out and punch the wall. Hard. He's angry. How dare Sherlock show up after all these years? What is he doing? Does he want John to forgive him, because then life can go back to normal? John's been through too much to simply forgive and forget.

(Maybe he would have back in the days. But not here. Not now.)

But, if Sherlock's been alive all of this time, which, clearly is the case, then why has he waited three years to tell John the truth?

The word 'forgotten' is reverberating in John's head, and it makes him want to sob. Forgotten by the man he treasured more than life itself; such a fitting twist to John's pathetic life.

(Forgotten like a favourite toy on Christmas day.)

Finally, though, when John has calmed down enough, he makes his way back into the living room that suddenly seems just that much brighter.

He stops at his chair, and watches the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest; the chest that he thought had stopped moving such a long time ago. It's a nice feeling, beneath all of the confusion and hurt, to see that his best friend came back. Back where he belongs.

John settles down into the chair across from his visitor and spends the next twenty minutes studying his best friend's face.

(Beautiful. Serene. Quiet.)

He doesn't quite know why he doesn't punch Sherlock in the face - he wants to, God, he wants to, but he can't bring himself to disturb the beauty before him.

Parted plump pink lips that look incredibly kissable; a smudge of pale pastel on milky white skin. Dark curls that are just a little bit fluffy, resting gently on the long arch of Sherlock's beautiful neck. Thick eyelashes brushing against slightly pink-tainted cheeks, fluttering gently as Sherlock stirs.

He's waking up.

(And this time, it's for real.)

John's heart goes mad. It's beating, beating, beating, and John realises that, yes, he's frustrated and hurt and angry, but he's also excited.

"Sherlock." John's shaky voice sounds too loud in the small room, but it doesn't matter because Sherlock's eyes flutter open and immediately focus on John.

John stands up, and moves half a step towards his best friend, his eyes wide as Sherlock moves.

It's a bit of a shock to be gazing into the striking blue eyes that he'd thought he'd lost, but, even after three years, there's still the spark of happiness and exhilaration, anticipation and hopeless love.

"John…" Sherlock's voice is deep and husky with sleep, and just a little bit sexy, and John's mind flicks back to the nightmare he's just experienced.

But this is different, he promises himself, I'm awake now.

(He has to be awake now, because, otherwise, it'd be just too much to cope with.)

John is silent as Sherlock stands up and adjusts his coat, the careful swish of the fabric sounding just like home.

There's silence for a few minutes, both men taking in the sight of the other. Sherlock looks just as gorgeous as he always did, and John can just imagine what he must look like - pale and tired, old and wary.

(He's living in reality, and reality does that to people. Reality changes people. Perhaps for the best, perhaps not.)

John doesn't know what to do. What does he want? A warm hug that speaks too many words 'I'm sorry, please forgive me, I didn't want to hurt you,' or a gentle kiss to breathe fragile life back into his aching body?

(But then John remembers that it was only the Sherlock from his dreams who craved his touch. Not this Sherlock. Not the real Sherlock.)

No, this Sherlock despises any type of physical contact, craves only the Work, and has made it very clear that he doesn't have a heart to give John. Falling in love; what a dangerous disadvantage.

"John?"

"It's really you, Sherlock… You're… you're alive." John finally stammers, cursing himself for the exceedingly obvious deduction. "You didn't… I mean, you didn't really…"

Because the sound of Sherlock's voice has suddenly made John realise that everything is real - this isn't just another one of his bittersweet dreams; it's reality. He's awake and breathing, and so is Sherlock.

(He must have done something right in three years. Perhaps the Gods up above have forgiven him for shooting that one man when he didn't mean to.)

"Yes, John." Sherlock murmurs, and John can hear the unspoken 'You're still alive too' hovering, guilty, in the air.

John nods softly. He's breathing heavily, too heavily, in fact, and his twitching fingers curl into clenched fists by his side. His nails dig into his palms, leaving red, crescent moon-shaped marks.

He doesn't know why he's so angry, not really. Because in his dream-turned-nightmares, he's always calm and controlled, forgiving and gentle.

(But those were dreams. Life's harder than dreams.)

"…Are you all right?" Sherlock hedges finally, an expression of cautious hesitancy on his face.

It's such an obvious, Sherlock-type question, and it makes John want to burst out laughing.

(Anything to disguise the tears threatening to spill over.)

"Am I all right? Am I all right? Why don't you take a guess, Sherlock." John replies, a little bit more acidly than he would have liked.

But then he remembers that Sherlock forced him to watch the most horrifying thing that he can ever imagine, and John realises he has little sympathy for the man in front of him.

"I watched you throw yourself off a goddamned building, Sherlock. I watched you die. Of course I'm bloody well not fucking okay."

"Look, John, there's absolutely no need to be melodramatic. I can give you a perfectly satisfactory explanation as to what-" Sherlock starts, but John cuts him off by shaking his head.

(Shutupshutupshutup.)

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up. I'm not going to even comment on your 'melodramatic' remark, because, surely even you can tell how much I'm hurting. No… no. Just… Just tell me why." John demands, his voice breaking slightly. He clears his throat.

"I was just about to, but you interrupted." Sherlock states, eyebrows furrowing when John shakes his head again.

(Sherlock's not listening.)

"No. Not how. I don't care about that. What I want to know is why. Why you didn't… Why you didn't tell me." John's sentences are coming out a bit stilted, and he wonders why he can't form a proper sentence. Because, after all, he's been through this moment too many times in his head.

"Why I didn't tell you that I was going to throw myself off a building?" Sherlock wonders, his eyes narrowing as John's lips twitch in response. "Surely you know the answer to that. You would still have been a target, had I told you. It's difficult to fake genuine emotion, John. I had to convince them that you thought I was gone."

(John could have tried.)

John's heart is beating at a thousand miles a second, and he's had to clamp down on his lower lip to stop himself from crying. It's all just too much.

"Well done; you managed it." John snaps, unable to help himself. He doesn't quite know who 'them' is, but he's had enough time to think of endless theories. "I've certainly had enough 'genuine emotion' to last me a life time, thank you."

"I didn't want them to kill you. I didn't want to see you die." Sherlock murmurs. "I'm a selfish man, John. I didn't want you to leave me."

"I would have preferred to have died." John snarls, when, really, he should be saying thank you. Thank you for giving up everything you worked hard to achieve for me. Thank you for saving my life by risking your own. Thank you for coming back to me.

"I did it for you, John." Sherlock hums again, stepping forwards and wincing as John flinches back. "It was all for you."

(John doesn't believe him. John can't believe him.)

"Just… don't."

There's an uncomfortable silence as John wipes pathetically at his eyes, refusing to start crying because, goddamnit, it's been three years and he can't let Sherlock see what a wreck he's become.

"I want to punch you in the face." John finally announces, sinking back into Sherlock's chair and clasping his hands together. "I want to make you feel a fraction of the pain you've made me feel." He looks down at his fingers, and remembers the time when they were that close - lives forever entwining, forgotten hearts embracing.

(If only they had admitted it.)

The corners of Sherlock's turn upwards in a sad smile, and he pulls John's chair forwards so that the two men are sitting knee-to-knee, and sinks back down.

He's silent as John tries to explain everything that he's feeling.

"I thought, for the first few days, that maybe you'd jumped because of what I'd said to you." John admits softly, head hanging low as he scratches the back of his neck. "It's human nature to blame yourself when things go wrong."

"What did you say?" Sherlock enquires quietly, knees brushing against John's; scratchy polyester grazing faded cotton. "I can't recall you saying anything cruel. And I remember our entire exchange."

(Obviously not.)

"In our last face-to-face conversation, I told you that you were a nothing more than a machine." John whispers. "I was consumed with guilt because I thought it was all my fault. I thought that maybe you thought that I hated you."

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, his face horrified, but John interrupts.

"I realised later that you probably didn't care enough about me to be hurt by the insult, and that made things a little bit easier. So I started hoping that maybe everything was just a lie. I mean, you couldn't just be gone. Every time I made tea, I made a cup for you, just in case you walked through the door.

"But then a few weeks passed, and you weren't coming back, and your tea just kept growing cold. I think that was when I actually started to think 'Oh, Christ, has he really gone?' I couldn't believe that you'd actually left me, because I'd put so much faith, so much trust in you, so I couldn't believe that you'd actually betrayed me."

It's only now that John realises that Sherlock's unconsciously rubbing soothing circles into his knee.

It's a strange feeling, John notices. It's merely friendship; a comforting touch in a time of grief and anguish, but the action is causing John's heart rate to speed up. The touch is tender and warm, and John wants more. He wants those violinist's fingers on his body, all over his body, in his hair, on his chest, at his throat.

But he has to remember that was all a dream, the love, the lust, the passion; a nightmare that should be forgotten because it just hurts too much now.

(A dream.)

"And then it hit me hard that you were gone and never coming back. It was hard to adjust to life like this… alone and tired." John's voice wavers. "I couldn't bear to leave Baker Street, because the thought of another couple,"

But we weren't a couple, John thinks quietly, not a proper couple.

"coming here and being happy, sitting in my chair with a cup of tea, or…" John trails off, hoping that he's made his point.

(He has, and Sherlock understands.)

"I just couldn't do it."

Sherlock makes a sympathetic noise at the back of his throat, and it startles John for a second.

(But, now, there's someone else breathing.)

"Mycroft offered me money, of course, but I didn't take it. I couldn't take it. I didn't want any part of you to be here, reminding me of everything I had lost. I got rid of all of your stuff, but I couldn't… I mean, I didn't… I didn't go into your room."

Sherlock raises a quizzical eyebrow, and John can barely suppress the wave of heat threatening to shade his cheeks pink.

(Pink was one of his happy colours.)

"I wanted your room to be left alone, because when it just got too much, when I didn't think I could cope with the pain, I went inside and cried into your pillow." John admits shamefully, feeling slightly embarrassed for reasons he doesn't understand.

Sherlock's gaze is full of emotion, John realises, when he glances up from where his hands have, at some point that John can't quite remember, entwined with Sherlock's.

He doesn't quite understand what he sees in the sharp eyes, because it's a mix of hurt and guilt and pain and grief and, if John isn't wrong, which he thinks he very much is, smouldering desire.

(Burning. Passionate.)

"I'm just… so confused, Sherlock. I'm so happy, so sad, so angry. I don't know whether I want to laugh or to cry." John finishes with a shrug, painfully swallowing the lump of emotion stuck in his throat.

(That much emotion is hard to swallow. A bitter pill.)

"I'm so sorry, John." Sherlock says after a few minutes, his fingers clutching at John's wrist. "Please, forgive me. I know that it will take time, but I want more than anything to have the opportunity to gain your trust again."

I didn't think he agreed with apologies, John thinks idly, his mind wandering to focus on the cool fingers pressed firmly against his skin. I didn't think he cared enough.

John hopes that Sherlock can't feel his pulse, because this much physical contact is doing awful, wonderful things to his body.

"I'll answer anything you ask me, and I'll answer it honestly. I am sorry, John. I didn't want to do it, but I had no choice." Sherlock states, the deep baritones of his voice making John want to close his eyes and listen. He always thought that Sherlock had a heavenly voice.

(Angelic. Celestial. Divine.)

"…Did you ever think about me?" John finally asks, blue-grey eyes lifting to gaze into Sherlock's.

"Every minute of every day." Sherlock answers almost instantly, his answer surprising John. "You were all I thought about."

"Did you miss me…?" John hints, unconsciously licking his lips.

(Please.)

"Yes. Too much, I think."

It only just occurs to John how close their heads are, just how close their lips are. Oh, Sherlock's beautiful heart shaped lips. John's always wondered what they taste like, how soft they are, and what Sherlock can do with them.

(What Sherlock's willing to do with them.)

It's all just too much to cope with, so John drags his eyes back up to Sherlock's, pulls away slightly, and does his best to ignore the strange, empty throbbing in his heart.

"When you were… away… was there ever any…? I mean, did you ever…?"

Sherlock eyes him curiously.

(Always with the curious eyes. Sherlock's pretending not to understand.)

John licks his lips again, and shrugs. "Uh, never mind. It doesn't matter."

He doesn't quite know why he feels the need to know. It's so completely unrelated to the situation at hand that it makes John want to laugh. But the thought of Sherlock needing someone else, loving someone who wasn't him…

(He just needs to know.)

"You want to know if I engaged in some form of romantic or sexual activity whilst I was away." Sherlock ponders. "Why?"

"How did you…?" John questions, before shaking his head. It's been so long since he last witnessed a fraction of Sherlock's incredible brain power, but he can't say he's surprised.

"Your eyes keep darting down to watch my mouth, probably unconsciously, possibly not. Your eyes are dark, emotional, yes, but there's something else there. Something I don't… Something I haven't had much experience with. Your hesitancy to finish the question implies that it's something you're reluctant to ask, yet need to know. What else could it possibly be?" Sherlock finishes, his voice husky.

(Don't made it sound seductive.)

John wonders how Sherlock manages to sound sexy whilst talking a load of nonsense about questions that even he doesn't know how to answer.

They're close again, so very close, and John can feel Sherlock's warm breath ghosting along his cheeks. He doesn't know what to think of this sudden change in attitude. Did Sherlock miss him that much over the past three years?

(Or is it simply guilt?)

John shifts his position on Sherlock's chair slightly, causing noses to brush. Sherlock's watching his mouth, John realises with a jolt, so he licks his lips to watch Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock's eyes snap upwards, and John melts into them; blue-grey fusing with stunning silver. His eyes are dark and full of confusion, hesitance and longing.

"So… was there… anyone else?" John whispers, not dropping eye contact. He's finding it a bit hard to breathe, and it's scary how close this moment is to his nightmare.

(But this can't be a nightmare. This is reality.)

Sherlock's eyes are even more beautiful up close, John finds himself thinking. They're shimmering and bright, and have tiny, tiny flecks of ice blue and emerald green scattered around the iris.

"No, John." Sherlock sounds a bit breathless himself. "There never was, and there never will be."

John didn't think it was possible for him to love the man in front of him any more than he already does, but, as his heart clenches at Sherlock's words, he knows that he is capable of so much more.

(Love can't be a dangerous disadvantage. It feels too good.)

"Why did you wait three years to come back?" John whispers. "You don't know how much I hurt… how much I longed for you to come back. Why wait all this time…?"

"I was scared." Sherlock answers, pressing his forehead to John's in a gentle attempt to get closer.

John suspects that there's more to it than that, something more technical and Sherlock-like, but he waits for Sherlock's explanation.

"I was scared that you would hate me. That you would have moved on and forgotten about me. That you wouldn't want me to come back. Of course, I had to destroy Moriarty's web, and that took a needlessly long amount of time, but I couldn't face the fact that you might have liked it better with me dead and gone. Of course, I don't know what you feel now, but-"

John's had enough of listening, of feeling, of wondering what if? He's had enough of that for three years - thinking about what could have been, but never would be. They've blurred and distorted the boundaries between pure friendship and beautiful love for too long now, and John's sick of it. Merely glimpsing at the life that he desires isn't enough now - he wants to reach out and grab his happiness with both hands.

He thinks that maybe the world does light up in shades of happiness, just a little bit, as he interrupts Sherlock mid-sentence by leaning forward and connecting lips.

(Pink. Red. Orange.)

It's just a small kiss; an innocent kiss; a gentle pressure on untouched lips, but when John pulls away, Sherlock's mouth follows him blindly; inexperienced passion lacing his touch.

Before John knows what's happening, there are shy fingers teasing the back of his skull, softly stroking through the fine hair at the nape of his neck. John's fingers are gripping tightly at Sherlock's slender waist, assuring himself that this is real.

Sherlock's sharp hip bones jut out at angles that, as a doctor, John should be absolutely appalled at, but, now as - what are they now? Boyfriends? Lovers? Fuck buddies? Whatever they are, whatever they will be - John just wants more.

(More of Sherlock, more of this emotion he can't quite put his finger on.)

Sherlock's impossibly long legs are wrapped around his waist, clinging to him as though he's the centre of the universe; his gravity. Sherlock's all but sitting in his lap, and John falls back against the back of the chair, giving himself entirely to Sherlock's touch.

Muted murmurs are being emitted, and John can't decide whether it's him groaning, or Sherlock. He's wanted more than anything to reduce Sherlock to a moaning, whimpering pile of long limbs and warmth, and, now, it seems as though this desire isn't too far away.

Sherlock's tongue is licking gently at the corner of John's lips, silently demanding entrance in the arrogant way that only Sherlock can manage. John eagerly lets him in, and tongues touch, pressing firmly against each other as Sherlock traces the shape of his mouth.

(So warm. So gentle.)

Sherlock shifts, and John can't help but to whimper as he presses their hips together, softly at first, and then grinding in a way that makes parts of John's body burn. The fingers at his neck have gone, and John feels them inching up his inner thighs.

John's body is screaming Oh, God, yes, but his mind is screaming No, not like this.

(No, it can't be like this.)

"God, Sherlock, nngh…" John breaks off to gasp into Sherlock's mouth, fingers gripping tightly and leaving bruises in Sherlock's pale skin. He pulls his head back abruptly, but Sherlock isn't discouraged. His mouth moves down John's naked chest - what happened to his shirt? When was it discarded? - slow and tormenting, his tongue flickering out across his nipples and making John squirm.

"No, Sherlock, please, not like this…" John moans, fingers moving to pull Sherlock's inquisitive hands away from his crotch. "I don't want it… like this. Please… stop."

(It can't be like this.)

Sherlock stops, and pulls away, eyebrows furrowing. His pupils are blown wide with arousal, his cheeks pink, his lips parted around heavy breaths. It's such a stunning sight to see Sherlock unwound, and it takes all of John's willpower to stop himself from ripping off Sherlock's clothing, and taking him right there.

(Beauty has a name.)

"I… I'm sorry, John." Sherlock murmurs, eyes cast downwards. "I believe I must have interpreted the signals incorrectly. I thought that your kiss meant more, but I see that I was mistaken. Companionship; a kiss to show me that you forgive me, nothing else, I see. I do appreciate that this… sex business isn't my area of expertise, so I apologise."

It almost kills John to hear Sherlock broken - like he thinks that the kiss meant nothing. How can Sherlock not see? How can he not realise that he's the most beautiful person in the world, inside and out, and that John would have to be mad to not want this?

(And John's definitely not mad.)

John tilts Sherlock's chin up, and kisses him again - gently letting him know that everything is fine. It's soft this time, but the passion they shared before is still burning in his body, threatening to spill over and overpower him.

"No, Sherlock." John whispers between kisses, his traitorous body responding to Sherlock's lips. "This is how I feel, how I've always felt, how I'll always feel." His lips move to Sherlock's jaw now, trailing kisses up and down.

"I just… I don't want this to be your way of saying sorry. I don't want this to be a quick hand job to relieve stress. I want… God, I want you. But if this is going to happen, then I want us to be sure of ourselves. I want thought to go into it. I want to be ready."

At this statement, Sherlock glances down at John's crotch, and raises an incredulous eyebrow, completely missing the point of John's impromptu declaration.

(He's pretending like he doesn't understand again.)

John chuckles quietly, and pulls Sherlock into a hug. "I'm not saying that I don't want this now; that I don't want you now, but I want to make sure that my emotions are steady. I have no idea what's happening inside my head at the moment, and I just want to make sure that we're both emotionally ready as well as physically. I want our first time… I want it to mean something."

Sherlock nods against his shoulder, and John breathes a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"No problem, John. You're worth waiting for."

(John's waited long enough; now it's Sherlock's turn.)

There's silence for a few minutes, and John's head feels a bit woozy. He thinks for a second that maybe he's getting a bit too old for intense make-out sessions, but this is a dangerous type of head-spin; the type that makes him think that something bad is going to happen.

He's never been a fan of the 'head stuffed with cotton wool' feeling, so he grips tightly at Sherlock's upper arms, head resting lightly on Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock, I feel… My head… It's spinning… I think I'm going to…"

The last thing John sees before the world loses meaning is Sherlock's anxious face; an area of light and warmth in a world of darkness.

(I love you.)

When John wakes up in his bed, he's gasping and coughing and sweating all over. His heart is beating at one hundred miles a minute, and it's becoming increasingly hard to breathe. He's making a strange hacking noise that surely can't be healthy, but that's not what scares him.

He's alone, and it takes him less than a second to realise why.

It's not because Sherlock's fallen asleep on the couch in the living room, or because he's popped out for some milk and bread, or even because he's using the bathroom.

It's because none of it was real.

(Again.)

John can't see because of the streaming down his face. He's curled his knees up to his chest, his fingers gripping desperately at his upper arms. His head is pounding, and, when the desire to scream overpowers him, he doesn't hold it in.

(Screaming helps. Screaming always helps.)

He doesn't stop screaming, and the loud sobs racking through his body are making it hard to breathe.

Oh my God, I'm losing my mind. John thinks to himself, slightly hysterical now. It wasn't Sherlock who died this time; it was me. Oh God, oh God, oh God. This isn't happening. Oh God. I'm losing my mind.

(Perhaps he's already lost it. Perhaps he lost it a while back. It's been three years.)

And, as he always does, John glances towards the gun he's got hidden in his drawer, and wonders if it would hurt.

This time, though, he doesn't care. Perhaps pain will be a nice way to escape this agony.

(He doesn't have anyone to be brave for anymore.)

With trembling fingers, John pushes himself up out of bed, and staggers over to his drawer. He opens it, and pushes away the old t-shirts and boxers in his way.

Nothing can hurt more than losing you again, Sherlock.

(The harsh bang of the gun fades into the background; lost in London's continuous racket. White noise)

(Nothing.)

A thousand miles away, two men are standing in an inhospitable, stark room. It's dark. It's cold. It's winter where they are.

(It's different.)

The younger man - the one with the uncontrollable dark curls and the pretty face - is handing the older man - the one with the harsh features and the umbrella - a cluster of papers.

"I trust this is satisfactory?" the younger man enquires brusquely; rude rivalry scrawled across his features.

(They're not friends.)

The young one's voice is deep and rich; heavenly to listen to - liquid toffee.

The older one shakes his head sadly. "You seem desperate to get back to a certain doctor."

This one's voice is tight and aristocratic; obviously displeasing, though, at the same time, a strange type of affection lurks beneath the surface.

(He's proud of his brother.)

"It's been three years, Mycroft." the dark-haired man states, his face blank. "Surely you can't begrudge me of my 'desperation', as you so put it."

The one called Mycroft smirks; his lips turning upwards into a grim smile. "You can leave, Sherlock. Though, remember what I told you. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage."

The other man - Sherlock, the posh man called him - rolls his eyes. "And here you are. Alone."

(But the older one doesn't think he's alone. Not really.)

Mycroft stands and watches after his brother; thankful that Moriarty's web has been destroyed, though regretful for the same reasons.

(Sherlock's walking away now.)

And the other man - the stunningly pretty one - walks off with a smile on his face.

For you see, this man named Sherlock has been waiting three long years to go back home to the man who he adores. The man who thinks he's dead. The man who, despite everything, he's fallen for.

(John.)

Because, before he left, he didn't get the chance to tell him something.

(I love you.)