John ascended the stairs as a melancholy version of the piece Sherlock had performed on his wedding night drifted down to greet him, but he was only vaguely aware of a violin being played. Instead, he was entirely preoccupied with the intense swirling in the pit of his stomach, unsure if it was fear or anticipation.

He conjured up a mental image of Sherlock and felt a sudden surge of heat, his mind flooding with visions of Sherlock sprawling upon the bed, of Sherlock's wiry fingers round him, of himself... pressing hot against Sherlock's thigh as he claimed a kiss against the walls of this very hallway. The music stopped abruptly as he began to push open the door.

Sherlock scanned him as he entered the room and before John could say a word he had discarded the violin and was leading him to a chair. "Bess? For God's sake, say that she is not hurt."

Shocked, John barely had the chance to blurt out, "She's with..." before he realized Sherlock had answered his own question, "With Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock visibly relaxed. "I must admit, this is sooner than I had anticipated. I was concerned Mary had made another desperate move. That she had threatened her."

"Threatened me, actually."

The back of John's legs were butted up against Sherlock's chair, but he remained standing, drawing himself to his full height and speaking in earnest. "Sherlock, I don't want to escape this life. When you spoke of the thrill of the chase, I wanted it so badly, wanted that back. I couldn't stand not having had it for so long. I'm so sorry... I had I no right to come at you like that." He gently pulled Sherlock's head down and tenderly kissed him on the bridge of his nose, the very spot where he had once launched his forehead.

"It was nothing, John. A mere scratch. Quite superficial."

"And the... with Mary." John shook his head and brought a hand up to briefly cover his eyes before running it down his face. "God, both times with Mary," he muttered, lips pursed. "I hope all these wounds," John traced his hands along the scars on Sherlock's back and chest before resting them over his heart, "can be healed."

"It was worth a wound. It was worth many wounds. It was worth my time in exile to know the depth your loyalty. It was worth relinquishing my body to her to know the physicality of your love." Sherlock's clear, hard eyes dimmed for a moment, his firm lips shaking... a great heart as well as great brain, plain to see in that moment of revelation. "Now, that's entirely enough sentiment. Please assume forgiveness for any way in which you could have possibly wronged me. There are far better things to do with our time."

Sherlock fixed his eyes on John's as he placed his finger gently over John's lips and slowly dragged it down his body: chin, neck, chest, stomach, cock. John groaned and leaned his forehead on Sherlock's arm. "This is so right," he whispered, as he reached for Sherlock's belt. "Just us. Except for the location. Need something more... horizontal. This room is wrong."

"But expedient." Sherlock pushed him backwards into the chair and straddled him, nimble fingers reaching into John's pants and running along his length, before he released his grip and freed himself. John quickly removed his trousers, nearly ripping the fabric in his haste. Sherlock wrapped his hand around the both of them and simply held them together for a moment, bracing himself on the back of his chair with his other arm as they took in the stillness of the flat and the quiet of their breathing. He began to move his wrist. In a whisper, he outlined his intentions. "John.... John, I want to feel you... I want to be surrounded by you."