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John is slumped on the cold tile of the floor, breathing deeply in relief. He sucks each breath in slowly and traps it in his lungs for as long as he can stand, and then let the newly stripped carbon dioxide spill out. He does this many times as Sherlock stares at the door Moriarty had left through. Then John rubs his hand across his forehead, starting to breathe normally now. Sherlock's eyes snap to the shorter man, then back at the door. He returns his gun to its hiding place and crouches down beside John. "You going to get up?"
John glares at Sherlock before grabbing onto the wall to pull himself up. "Sorry for being a bit shaky, but I almost died."
He looks at the brunet as he stands and dusts his hands on his coat. "So forgive me if I'm a bit jittery."
Sherlock rolls his eyes at John. "You've been in war, John. You've done things like this every other hour, so why are you so afraid now?"
John doesn't answer, but looks pointedly at one of the exits and starts walking in the aforementioned direction. Sherlock stands, catches up with him, walks out with him to catch a cab. It's raining by the time they get home, and the pitter - patter is the only noise on the silent ride home. Or rather, three blocks away from home. Sherlock insists on precautionary measures - they take a very roundabout route so that what would normally be a twenty minute return turns into a forty - five minute one.
They stand outside the door for a few moments while John fumbles with his key. Sherlock sighs pointedly and looks at his watch - less wrist. John doesn't react, except to puff out a quiet breath of air. He gets the door open and just stands there, leaning on the door frame. Sherlock finds it particularly annoying. Why isn't he moving? Why is he just standing there when they could have been out of the rain by now? "John --" Sherlock starts, stepping through to the warmth inside when he's suddenly being wrapped around by a pair of strong arms. John's arms. Sherlock is speechless for once. He looks at the door frame opposite him blankly, then at the light hair belonging to the man whose face is currently buried in between his neck and shoulder. He doesn't understand at first, but then he remembers all the things he's been noticing John do lately: getting tongue - tied around Sherlock, touching Sherlock more often, pupils blown so wide that his irises are almost invisible when he's with Sherlock.
The dots all connect and Sherlock breaths out quietly in understanding. It's at that same exact moment that Sherlock feels John's hot breath on his neck disappear as something else replaces it; John's lips. Sherlock is stock still. He cares about John, but not like this. John is just a very valuable means to an end to him. But he honestly has no idea of how to react to this. He's never been kissed before. And John just leaves them there, his lips pressed against Sherlock's neck like he isn't sure of what to do next. Though Sherlock is most definitely sure that John has given his here-today-gone-tomorrow girlfriends hickeys.
They stand like that for about three more seconds before John is pulling away and walking up the stairs like nothing happened. Sherlock follows him and tosses his coat on a chair, itching for his violin. As soon as his fingertips touch the case, John's calling, "Why the hell is there … you know what? Never mind. I don't even want to know," from the kitchen. Sherlock doesn't bother to reply, merely continues taking his violin out of the case and tuning it out of habit, even though it’s already perfectly tuned. Sherlock slides the bow absently across the strings of the violin as he stares out the window. He notices a woman dash hurriedly into a cab, hunching over to get out of the rain. Probably on her way back from a meeting, judging by the way she anxiously fixes her hair and makeup and then slides a ring back onto her finger.
Sherlock blinks and then turns back to the brightness of the main room, seeing John standing there. His flatmate has put two cups of tea on the table and is sitting down in his usual chair. "So."
Sherlock stares at him and starts playing a low, quick melody he's making up on the fly by answer.
John raises an eyebrow, then goes on: "So I kissed you."
Sherlock turns around again. He honestly doesn't want to go through with this conversation. "Touching your lips to anyone's body is generally known as a kiss, yes," he says in his rushed way. It strikes John, as it does almost every time Sherlock speaks, that the reason Sherlock speaks so fast is that he's anxious to get all the ideas out of his head before they can clog it up.
John rubs a hand across his eyes. "Do you- want to kiss more?"
Sherlock doesn't make eye contact for a good six seconds before cautiously looking at John. "Not particularly," he says, quietly, for once.
John looks away, clearing his throat. "I - oh," he says, deflated. He grabs his coat from the hanger and bangs out the door, trying the escape the hole he'd dug.
Sherlock turns to the window again and watches John sprint out the front door, across the street, turn left and just keep on running. Sherlock drags a lot note out of his violin before turning away to the world he feels safe in, the world of symphonies and music and careful notations.