After they’ve finished arguing—after John has yelled, and Sherlock has explained, and then yelled a bit when John still wasn’t happy—and after John has yelled some more—silence falls. They look at each other across the room. John knows he is glaring and Sherlock—well, he would be glaring except that... it takes John a moment to realise that he looks confused. Well, whatever is bothering him, Sherlock can work it out himself with that bloody great brain of his; he doesn’t bloody well need John, he’s proved that much over the last eighteen months.
Not one phone call, not one note—
All at once, Sherlock is no longer on the other side of the room. In the space of two seconds Sherlock moves from his corner to the space directly in front of John.
John sighs. “What is it now?”
“John.”
“More excuses?” (They are, John reluctantly admits, pretty good excuses, but he doesn’t want to think about that now, because Sherlock left him, all alone, for a year and a half, and it’s not fair that he gets to have a good excuse for doing that.)
“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I—”
And suddenly, John finds himself engulfed. Sherlock’s body is rigid against John’s and his arms are like vices around John’s shoulders.
“Um, Sherlock—” John’s voice squeaks embarrassingly on that last syllable— “What are you doing?”
“I believe,” Sherlock says, “that this is the appropriate response when one is reunited with someone whom one has—whom one has missed a great deal.”
“Oh.” That doesn’t come out right. Something seems to be stuck in his throat. “Well that’s—” John swallows. “Oh, bloody hell.” His arms loop around Sherlock’s waist and he squeezes tightly for a moment before letting them drop.
Sherlock seems to take this as a sign to step away, which is good, because breathing had become difficult there for a bit, but at the same time—
They look at each other again, and then both of them seem to need to look in the other direction instead. Oh god, John hopes his face isn’t turning red. “Um, right. Well—yes, I think we should—”
“Yes. Yes, definitely,” Sherlock agrees.
“Okay, I’ll just—shall I—I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Good idea.”
“Right then.” John turns towards the kitchen. But somehow, after he’s taken one step, he finds himself turning back, and suddenly he’s standing in front of Sherlock again, and his arms are going around Sherlock again, and—
“God,” John breathes against Sherlock’s chest. “God, I’m glad to have you back.”
This time, Sherlock’s arms around his shoulders aren’t quite so stiff.
Appropriate Reaction (Sherlock/John)
Not one phone call, not one note—
All at once, Sherlock is no longer on the other side of the room. In the space of two seconds Sherlock moves from his corner to the space directly in front of John.
John sighs. “What is it now?”
“John.”
“More excuses?” (They are, John reluctantly admits, pretty good excuses, but he doesn’t want to think about that now, because Sherlock left him, all alone, for a year and a half, and it’s not fair that he gets to have a good excuse for doing that.)
“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I—”
And suddenly, John finds himself engulfed. Sherlock’s body is rigid against John’s and his arms are like vices around John’s shoulders.
“Um, Sherlock—” John’s voice squeaks embarrassingly on that last syllable— “What are you doing?”
“I believe,” Sherlock says, “that this is the appropriate response when one is reunited with someone whom one has—whom one has missed a great deal.”
“Oh.” That doesn’t come out right. Something seems to be stuck in his throat. “Well that’s—” John swallows. “Oh, bloody hell.” His arms loop around Sherlock’s waist and he squeezes tightly for a moment before letting them drop.
Sherlock seems to take this as a sign to step away, which is good, because breathing had become difficult there for a bit, but at the same time—
They look at each other again, and then both of them seem to need to look in the other direction instead. Oh god, John hopes his face isn’t turning red. “Um, right. Well—yes, I think we should—”
“Yes. Yes, definitely,” Sherlock agrees.
“Okay, I’ll just—shall I—I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Good idea.”
“Right then.” John turns towards the kitchen. But somehow, after he’s taken one step, he finds himself turning back, and suddenly he’s standing in front of Sherlock again, and his arms are going around Sherlock again, and—
“God,” John breathes against Sherlock’s chest. “God, I’m glad to have you back.”
This time, Sherlock’s arms around his shoulders aren’t quite so stiff.
“Likewise,” Sherlock says.