It had been five days since 'The Event'. Sherlock was pacing his bedroom in agony. This must be what death feels like, he thought. He always did have a dramatic streak. He couldn't focus, he couldn't organize his Mind Palace, and sleeping was out of the question. How embarrassing. The world's only consulting detective reduced to this. Preposterous. 

Many times during the night that week, Sherlock had heard John walk up to the door of his bedroom and just wait. God knows what that was about. Clearly he was averse to discuss the matter, and it would hardly-

thunk

Sherlock froze. He turned his head toward the door. Intruders could hardly have entered so quietly. He was about to reach for his cane when...

"Sherlock?"

John spoke in barely a whisper. If Sherlock hadn't been awake, he wouldn't have even heard it. His voice had a curious shaky sound to it, as if he was.....scared? Sherlock stood facing the door, his heart threatening to blow a hole in his chest. After a few seconds, John spoke again.

"May I come in?"

Sherlock's thought that at this moment he might rather face Moriarty one again than open the door. But he took a quick step forward, and opened the door. 

____________

John was crouched against the wall, his head in his hands. He looked up, surprised, and Sherlock inhaled sharply. 

John's face was full of uncertainty and fear, and his hair was disheveled and unkempt. Sherlock had only ever seen him like this once, and he didn't like to think back to that.

"What's wrong?"

In that moment, countless emotions crossed John's face. Pain, sorrow, fear, anxiety, and something like....hope?

"Sherlock, I'm-"

John's voice hitched. This was unnatural. John straightened his shoulders, made a fist with his hands, cleared his throat, and continued:

"I'm sorry. I didn't think before I spoke, and I think I've ruined everything. It's unlike you to be so....open, and I think I've just about ruined the chance of you ever being open about your feelings again."

This speech was delivered in a rushed, nervous tone, and John refused to make eye contact during its duration. Clearly he was averse to this topic. What else could explain it? Fidgeting, lack of eye contact....it couldn't mean anything else, surely. 

Could it?

"I have said many times before, John, that if you wish to strike a conversation, you arrive with a purpose. As my...confession was so alarming for you, I fail to see what point there is in having this discussion."

"Right. Sorry."

"Now if that is all, it is currently one in the morning, and I would assume that you have work tomorrow. Goodnight."

"Now, hang on a mo', Sherlock. You can't just leave a conversation 'cause you don't want to talk about it. Don't give me that look, I'm right. I needed quite a bit of courage to say that, and I'll be damned if you leave without sorting this bloody business out."

"Barracks vocabulary, John?"

John grinned nervously.

"Yeah, well if it gets me through this then I'll bloody well use it."

"Proceed, then"

John's face reverted to a steely expression. His hands clenched and unclenched, and he tilted his head lightly to the side before continuing.

"This isn't easy, ok? So no deducing me while I talk, 'cause I need to get through this without your eyes roving over my face. You are, and always will be, my closest friend. I don't think I was myself in those three years when you...you know...died. I can't imagine life without you. It is, however, a pretty big jump from best mates to boyfriends. I'm still not gay. I'm probably not bisexual either. I don't know what it'll be like, or what it'll do to us, but...it might be worth....a shot."

Sherlock breath hitched in his chest. His heart stopped, and for a second he thought he was having a heart attack. He kept his voice even, though, when he finally replied:

"What might be worth a shot, John?"

"Us. In a...relationship. With each other. Together."

At that precise moment, Sherlock keeled over, and the world went black.

____________

When Sherlock awoke, John was sprinkling water on his face, anxiously looking at him. As soon as he realized that Sherlock was coming to, he blurted out:

"Oh my god, Sherlock, I didn't think you would do that. You ok?"

When Sherlock answered, his voice was full of with hope.

"I am, as always, in your care, John."

John smiled then, and Sherlock decided to create a new shelf in his Mind Palace that was dedicated solely to John's smiles. This one was Smile No. 1, and it would most likely remain his favorite till the day he died. He watched as, slowly, John lowered his face, and once there was less than half-a-centimeter of air between them, he closed his eyes and waited. He could feel John's breath on his nose, and after what seemed like an eon of breathing, it happened. 

John kissed him. 
John kissed him with the lightness of a feather, and the force of an ocean. 

After all that time, John kissed him, and it was perfect.

Beautiful, even. 

John broke off the kiss then, and Sherlock saw him lovingly smile at him. Sherlock smiled back, his face reflecting John's in perfect contentment. 

All was right in 221B Baker St.