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John sat in the armchair, gazing into the fire as he clutched his cup of tea. Three years, he thought to himself, three years since he left me. Apart from the flickering light of the flames the flat was dark, but John didn't mind. It suited the occasion- the anniversary of his closest friend's death.

Every year John would venture into the heart of the flat, empty and dark, and he'd light a fire in the hearth. Tea would be made, and he would sit in his favorite chair and reminisce about the past he shared with one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a genius detective and a rather eccentric man. John missed his company dearly. Sometimes, he felt as though Sherlock hadn't gone. He'd catch the scent of his cologne, the flash of an ice blue eye, a deep-voiced chuckle. The sorrow had been getting harder to bear of late, and it was beginning to consume him. He had begun creeping downstairs in the middle of the night and sleeping beneath Sherlock's cold sheets, waking up from dreams of his company to find himself alone once more.

His newest woman had left him, with good reason- he could hardly remember her name, or what she looked like. Janine? Janet? Jennifer? She could have been a Carol for all he knew, but it didn't matter anymore. He may have called her by the wrong name, he couldn't recall, but she had ended their relationship and he had, once again, crawled back to 221B. Mrs. Hudson always let him in when he came back, his room upstairs untouched as though it had been waiting for his return.

He always found his way back to 221B. It was his home, his true home. He belonged there.

And so did Sherlock.

The mug was warm in his hand. He drank deep, letting the tea scald his throat. It was painful, but it drew his thoughts back to the present.

"Here's to you, Sherlock. I believe in you. I always will."

He raised his cup in salute as tears filled his eyes. He fought to blink them away, his vision blurring and distorting the room beneath them. When they were finally gone, he looked up and stopped abruptly. The cup fell from his shaking hand, splashing hot tea across the carpet. The door was open, and in the golden light filtering from the hall a familiar silhouette was visible. Unruly curls crowned the tall spectre, a long coat hung halfway down its legs. Its shadow stretched across the carpet toward him as the figure entered the room slowly.

"N...no... I s-saw you, bleeding, you- this can't..."

"John..."

That familiar baritone, so low it sounded like a growl at times...

The firelight washed over Sherlock, turning his pale eyes orange as he looked down at John. He knelt before the shaking form of his companion, taking one of John's hands in his. It was warm; it was trembling.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to come back. I've been keeping an eye on you, making sure you were safe... I had to die, John. Moriarty's men... they were going to kill you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft, and Molly, and I couldn't-"

John went limp, his hand slipping out of Sherlock's grasp.

He had fainted.

When John woke he was laying in Sherlock's bed with only the light of a small table lamp illuminating the room. He could see him, sitting on the floor, thumbing through a book as though nothing had happened.

"YOU!"

He tried to stand, but his legs buckled beneath him.

'You were DEAD! I saw you, I saw you fall, and I- I was at your funeral, I-"

"I know, John. I saw you there."

John glared at him.

"I wept for you! I suffered! Mrs. Hudson suffered! Mycroft suffered! Poor Molly, I thought she was going to fall over dead! You left us here, alone, without any explanation, and three years later you just waltz into the apartment like nothing happened?! Where do you get off, Sherlock?! What made you think this is okay?!"

Sherlock rose and laid his book down. In one swift movement he took John by the hands and sat him down on the bed, sitting beside him and gazing into his eyes.

"John. When I say that there was no other way to keep you all safe, know that I mean it. I needed to die, convincingly. Molly helped. I underestimated her, you know. She has nerves of steel. Apparently she's also a fantastic actress. I never wanted to hurt any of you, which is why I disappeared. They had to believe I was dead in order for you to survive. Moriarty- he shot himself so that no one could call his assassins off. The only way was for me to fall. Do you understand?"

John looked at him, at the curve of his features, at the brightness of his eyes, and he couldn't take it.

He let go of Sherlock's hand and threw his arms around him.

"If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll kill you myself. Dammit, Sherlock, I was in hell without you!"

John clutched him close, and felt Sherlock's arms tighten around him. More tears came unbidden, spilling down the pale curve of Sherlock's neck. John buried his face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder and weeped freely.

Sherlock ran his hands down John's back in an attempt to console him. He had lost weight; he could feel every vertebrae down his spine. As John sobbed against him, he drank in his scent. He smelled of fire and sweat, the result of his firelight vigil. For three years Sherlock guarded him, silently, hidden in the shadows, and he had always felt something heavy inside of himself. Here, holding John, he felt it dissipate. He hadn't realized how much he missed his partner, his friend; he hadn't known how much he needed him.

"John. I need you."

John looked up, his face flushed and stained with tears. He composed himself quietly before meeting the cold gaze of his friend.

His eyes were not cold.

THey were burning.

John had only seen this sort of light in Sherlock's eyes when he was playing Moriarty's game- it was a type of hunger usually reserved for the most dangerous and puzzling of cases. It was a look of excitement, of a type of lust.

And now, it was focused entirely on him.

John scooted back a bit to take in the other man a little better. Sherlock was wearing a black button down shirt and slacks, with the top few buttons near his neck undone. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and his hair was its usual messy self. He looked almost elven, his eyes large and bright, his face narrow with high-sculpted cheekbones. He was beautiful. Beneath his gaze John felt small, insignificant. Plain even. He was older than Sherlock, far shorter, with a round face and large nose. His time in the Army left him strong and physically cut, but Sherlock... No one could compare. He was perfect.

"Need me? What do- what do you mean? You've obviously been fine without me, I don't understand why you've had this change of heart, but-"

Sherlock pressed a finger to John's lips, silencing him.

"Don't tell me you've never thought about it, John. I saw the daggers in your eyes when you looked at Irene, I've felt your heart hammering away in your chest. Do you want me to say it aloud?"

"Say- say what? I don't understand the- the question. What-"

Sherlock took John's face in his hands and lifted it towards him, locking eyes with the doctor.

"Doctor John Watson. I, Sherlock Holmes, love you. I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you. Without you I am lost, adrift on a sea of nothingness. You are my light, my world, and being unable to speak with you these last three years has been hellish. Irene may have been The Woman, John, but you? You are The Man, the only one. I love you, John."

John stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth slightly agape. Every relationship he had since returning to London had failed, because Sherlock was always his first priority. He had often tried to explain it away with buzzwords like "duty" and "caretaker", but... it wasn't exactly true.

He had despised Irene, had felt the bile rising when she kissed Sherlock. His vision had gone red when they flirted, and he admitted to himself in the three-year void that he was happy she was dead. He was very possessive of Sherlock, and he was the only thing that mattered. There was nothing that existed in his world without the consulting detective, and now?

Now he knew the source of his attachment.

"Sherlock, I..."

"I know, John, I know, you're not-"

"Sherlock, no. I..."

John took a deep breath before he continued.

"I love you too. I always have Sherlock, I... I've known for a while. When I saw you up there, on the roof, I... My heart stopped. You stood on the brink, and you called me, and when I reached for you... Seeing that, I... I never forgave myself. The last thing I said to you, before... before everything, I called you a machine and I stormed out. If you hadn't have called, I wouldn't... I wouldn't have been able to live with myself. I would have joined you. Sherlock, I have KILLED for you! I love you more than I ever thought I could love someone. No one has ever lived up to your memory. I've tried to move on, to bury it, but I just... I can't. There is you, Sherlock, and there is only you. There will only be you, until the end of my days."

The two men sat in silence, looking at one another with longing in their eyes. Their admissions hung in the air, filling them with warmth and purpose.

Sherlock broke the stillness, moving towards John with unimaginable speed. He brushed his lips against John's ear as he began to pull off his jeans. The doctor, taken by surprise, began to pull away.

"Three years, John, unable to touch you, and the years when we lived together... I will not wait another second."

John melted into him then, undoing the buttons of Sherlock's top with shaking hands. The black fabric fell away, revealing Sherlock's pale skin. His body was pristine, toned and defined, marred only by a few scars here and there. He seemed to glow in the electric light, a pallid angel bringing the greatest gift to John- the gift of love, the gift of Sherlock. John watched as Sherlock slipped his delicate shoulders out of the shirt and let it fall to the floor. He leaned forward to undo the man's belt, but he fumbled with it uselessly. His hands still refused to cooperate; he was far too nervous.

Sherlock assisted him, unbuckling the leather so John could access the small black button holding up his slacks. Three times he attempted, and finally he slipped the plastic free from its hoop. He pushed them down, his fingertips trailing down Sherlock's white legs, until Sherlock could step out of them. He wore no undergarments. Bared before John he seemed a god, and with his recent return from the afterlife John didn't feel the comparison was too far off. Sherlock was... Sherlock was something more than human. He was extraordinary.

Bare before John, Sherlock felt incredible. There was something burning inside of him, something more than pure chemical reaction. There was a fire in his heart, warming him, urging him forward. It was John's turn, after all, and Sherlock had always wondered what he looked like beneath his jumpers.

He leaned over the doctor, taking his jumper by the hem and lifting it carefully over his head. For once John wore nothing underneath. His skin was a healthy shade of pink, and scars covered his muscular torso. Beneath the wool John was surprisingly well-built. He was obviously slightly underweight, but his muscles were still well-defined. Though his face appeared gaunt, one look at his torso told Sherlock he was still as strong as ever. Sherlock crawled into the bed and got so close to John's skin that his breath sent the microscopic hairs of his body stirring. He traced every line with his fingertips, memorizing them, taking a mental note of the weapon that caused each one. They told the tale of his time in Afghanistan, though some... some were from his time with Sherlock.

He crept downward, still dangerously close to John as he reached the denim of his loose-fitting jeans. With deft fingers he undid the button and slowly brought the zipper down.

"The red ones, John?"

Sherlock smirked as John lifted his hips. He gently tugged the jeans off, followed by John's socks, and playfully snapped the band of John's red boxer-briefs. Watson flushed.

"...They're my favorite, I- Well, I didn't expect any of this to happen, did I?"

He smiled at Sherlock, but the detective could tell John was extremely self-conscious now. Slowly, carefully, he removed John's silly underwear. When he was entirely bare, Sherlock laid beside him and draped one long arm over his waist. He was warm.

"Have you ever- you know, with anyone?"

"John, I have not. I... I haven't been able to bring myself to. I have had the opportunity-"

"Oh, yes, the ladies love you. Practically throw themselves at you, even the ones who are supposed to be above all that."

"John, please. I know. I've... I've hurt people, but I just don't understand this, the game people play, it seems as if they're trying to outwit their potential partners and I find it silly. That's- that's not what I meant, though. I couldn't, because they weren't- they weren't you."

John turned his head and their eyes locked, and in that moment Sherlock seemed vulnerable and small. He was opening up in a way John had never seen him do before, not since the fall. It meant the world to the doctor, and Sherlock could see it written across his face. It made him feel... good.

With one graceful move he was on top of John, pressing his lips against the doctor's, drawing him into a deep kiss. John's lips tasted of chamomile tea and sugar, and Sherlock relished the sensation. He was soft, and wet, and pleasant. John kissed back, inhaling deeply, catching a whiff of Sherlock's aftershave. He had cleaned himself up for this meeting, just for John. Their tongues met, and Sherlock let a low, guttural moan escape his throat. It was a sound of hunger, of lust, of need. John's body responded.

John placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's smooth neck and pulled him close, gripping him with a passion he hadn't felt in years. The detective gripped Johns hair as they kissed, finally breaking away to catch his breath. He panted as he rested his forehead against John's, his fingers running through his partner's sandy blonde hair. His knees had tightened around John's hips, and he could feel the doctor's excitement pressing against his skin.

"You're awfully at attention, Doctor Watson. I do think you're enjoying this."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, is that so? It would appear I'm not the only one, then."

They chuckled awkwardly, unsure of how to continue. Both had very dominant personalities; who, then would lead them? John gazed up at Sherlock for what seemed like an eternity before sitting up. Sherlock knelt over his lap, resting his sculpted buttocks against John's legs.

"Come closer, John."

The doctor leaned in, his eyes focused entirely on Sherlock's face.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

John licked his lips and tasted the detective. His tongue tingled.

Sherlock ran a hand down the length of John's torso possessively, pressing his fingertips tightly into John's rugged flesh. He moved forward, his lips close to John's ear.

"You are mine, John. Now and forever. You belong to me. I will not share you with the nameless women you're used to. You are mine, and mine alone. Say it."

When Sherlock spoke, John could feel the vibration from his impossibly deep voice. It was a beautiful sensation.

"I am yours, Sherlock. Now and forever, I belong to you. I. Am. Yours."

Sherlock drew back and began to kiss a trail down the inside of John's leg. When he came to the scar from the bullet, he began to lap at it, gently, before closing his lips around it.

"You healed my leg when we had our first adventure," John whispered breathlessly.

"You healed my world," Sherlock replied with a small grin.

Sherlock inched his way back up John's body, resting a hand on his solid member. John shivered at his touch; it had been quite awhile since he had been intimate with anyone. He welcomed it.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I want you to-"

He glanced down at himself, and turned his gaze upward to John once more. John, who knew his glances better than anyone, understood immediately.

"Of course, Sherlock. Lay back."

Sherlock lay down beside him, watching as John got to his knees and took the detective's former position. He brushed the hair from Sherlock's face with a small smile before leaning down and wrapping his lips around the man's erection.

Immediately he gripped the sheets, leaning his head back against the soft pillows. Every inch of him seemed to tingle and he felt entirely weightless as John kissed and licked and bobbed his head. Sherlock fought to keep his eyes open as the waves of pleasure threatened to pull him under. John's mouth was warm, and wet, and soft, just as it was when they kissed, but this... running along his length was John's tongue, winding little messages into him. Ever the puzzle-lover, Sherlock was pleasantly aware as John wrote cursive against him in the silken caress of his mouth. He arched his hips, pressing into his partner's throat as Watson picked up speed. His eyes began to roll back as his thighs began to tremble.

"No..."

John turned his eyes up, clearly hearing Sherlock speak, clearly unable to make out the word.

Sherlock shook his head.

"John, no. Stop. I don't want to... finish."

John's mouth stilled and he lifted his head, his soft lips catching every curve of Sherlock's manhood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as Sherlock motioned for him to draw closer.

Sherlock pounced on him, knocking him backwards as he sought his lips once more. He kissed John, pressing his body as close as it would get to the man's, wrapping his arms around him and basking in his nudity. John's erection was pressed against Sherlock's navel, a tremor flooding through it every now and again as their lips caressed one another's.

"John, I want you to lie on your stomach."

John looked at him, clearly apprehensive.

"Sherlock, I don't know if I can, you know, do that, I mean, this is a first for me as well, and-"

"John," he said, silencing his protest, "you deserve a break for a change. Let yourself surrender for once, let yourself relax."

John had always had trust issues. Sherlock had been the only one he trusted, and yet... In a way, he'd betrayed him. Sure, it had been for his safety, but he couldn't help feeling a little hurt. Could he trust Sherlock with this? He sat in silence for a few moments, letting his eyes dance around Sherlock's naked form, before he made his choice.

"I... I trust you, Sherlock."

As Sherlock climbed off of him, he leaned down and kissed the tip of John's second head. THe doctor flushed.

"You're in good hands, John. I promise."

John lay down on his stomach, his head resting against a pillow that smelled strongly of Sherlock. He closed his eyes, picturing his partner covered in tiny beads of sweat, his curls matted to his head, his muscles tightening...

Sherlock crawled over John, resting his pelvis against John's buttocks and leaning over his neck. He brushed his lips against it, kissing it over and over, biting gently on occasion. John's tension beneath him loosened as he moaned softly. His flesh broke out into goosebumps from Sherlock's stimulation.

"Your neck... Is it sensitive, John?"

Sherlock's whisper was smooth, the hot air from his breath sending John's hair on end.

"God yes. I..." He moaned again, softly, before continuing. "It's very... I love it when..."

"Kissing, John? Is the biting okay?"

"If I asked you to keep going, would you?"

"Of course, John."

"Then for the love of god, Sherlock, don't you dare stop."

Sherlock buried his face in the small of John's neck, kissing from his pulsing carotid to the top of his shoulder. He bit there, letting his teeth linger before pulling away, letting his lips caress the red marks left by his teeth. John was trembling all over.

As he moved down John's body Sherlock lowered his head, letting his mildly damp curls trail down the untouched flesh of John's muscular back. The veteran arched his back, strove to be closer to Sherlock's silken locks. Sherlock pushed him down gently as he came to his rear, gathering himself to climb atop the prone John. Watson shifted his weight, waiting anxiously.

Sherlock parted John with trembling hands and began rubbing something cold against his skin. He started at the sensation, gasping at the drastic temperature change.

"Sherlock, what-"

"It'll make this easier. Stay with me, John."

He planted a kiss on the small of John's back and entered him slowly, the tightness pressing against his member as he pressed deeper into his partner. John bit his lip but raised no protest; he was strong. He had survived many dangerous things in his life; making love would not kill him. He relaxed again, letting himself join with Sherlock Holmes, the only man he had ever loved.

Sherlock began to drive deeper, pulling back and entering again, building a rhythm as he melted into John. He leaned close over John and kissed every inch of him that he could find. His teeth grazed the veteran's flesh, his nails gripped his muscular backside, and he lowered his head as the pleasure came. Beneath him John was rising, attempting to reposition them both. Sherlock let him.

John got to his knees before Sherlock, spreading his thighs as Sherlock pressed inside him. One of the detective's hands wrapped around him and gripped his erect member, moving his wrist as he caressed and massaged it. John moan and pushed his hips backward, forcing Sherlock deeper inside of him. The taller man growed deeply and began to pick up speed, slamming his pelvis into John with surprising force. His hand kept pace.

His legs began to tremble, and Sherlock could feel the spasms rippling through his cock. John was close. He wanted to follow.

Sherlock began to shiver as he focused on John's pleasure, allowing it to flood him with warmth. They were the only people who existed, the scarred veteran and the resurrected detective, and in this moment they were one. John was tight, he was giving, he was so warm. His muscles clenched against Sherlock's hard member, and he panted as his ecstasy drew near. Sherlock drew himself out of John and forced himself in one final time as the tingling sensation raced through his body. Sherlock clenched John tighter as their muscles tightened together, spilling their seed in unison. They cried out as the pleasure took them, lost in the sensation of one another as they collapsed, exhausted, on the bed.

John buried his face in Sherlock's smooth chest, smelling his sweat and his sex as tey lay holding one another in the aftermath of their passion.

"Sherlock... That was..."

"Indescribable."

John chuckled weakly.

"Essentially, yeah. I can't... I can't believe you're back. Here. With me. We're naked, Sherlock. Naked in your bed. Us. Together."

"As we should have been long ago, John."

"Sherlock... When I wake up, will you still be here? With me?"

Sherlock turned John's head to his and kissed his lips gently.

"I will never leave you again, John. I swear."