UNDER CONSTRUCTION

There are seventeen steps to the second floor of 221B Baker Street. The sixth is squeaky and the eleventh is one clumsy fall away from a solid re-nailing being necessary rather than merely recommendable, but neither John nor Mrs. Hudson appear to have bothered to fix it in the three years since Sherlock last mounted the stairs.

Seventy-two minutes ago, Sherlock sent a text message, the first of its kind in thirty-seven months, two weeks, three days and nine hours. It consisted of a total of six words, thirty-four characters.

I owe you a thousand apologies. SH

The remnants of John’s phone are scattered across the landing. Sherlock smirks, but feels something twist inside of him at the same time. He reaches for the doorknob.

The door swings open before he gets to it. John is behind it.

Where Sherlock goes from here is entirely dependent on what John does next, and Sherlock is not at all sure what that is going to be. John’s jaw is working in a way Sherlock cannot quite read, and Sherlock calculates that there’s about a 67% chance that he is about to be slugged across the face very, very hard.

“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes,” John snarls at last and seizes the lapels of Sherlock’s coat.

Sherlock screws his face up preparing for the blow but makes no effort to avoid it, which is how he is caught completely off-guard when John mashes his mouth to his.

This movement takes approximately 0.43 seconds, after which Sherlock’s eyes fly open for a brief period of 1.24 seconds. It takes him 2.36 seconds to bring his hands up and grip John’s elbows as tightly as he can, and John sighs at the exact same moment. Neither of them move at all for a rather long spell: 5.78 seconds, to be exact. All in all, their first kiss lasts 9.81 seconds, and Sherlock counts every one.

;3;

(Based on this).

“It’s not even a 2, Sherlock. I’m going back to bed.”

He goes because it’s labeled “-e.”

Arthur doesn’t get very many texts from dead people.

He’s early, of course, because when you’re possibly going to be shot at any moment, you arrive a lot of places early. Surveillance to look for and such. He gets a booth, orders coffee and toast, and folds his hands in front of himself to wait. 

Maybe he’s off his game. He doesn’t even hear the chimes of the front door when a familiar figure slides into the other side of the booth. The silence is long, deafening, all-encompassing, as they stare at each other. Eames actually dares to crack a smile, and Arthur sets his jaw and glares. Tries to fight back the urge to roll his eyes. Fails. 

He’s gotten what he needed.

Arthur lifts a hand to catch the eye of the waitress, nodding and mouthing the words, “check, please.”

“Fuck, Arthur, aren’t you even glad to see me? We were nigh inseparable for a good while there. It’s been a long time. Haven’t you missed me?” Still with that playboy smile, the one Arthur wants to slap off his face, but he looks every inch a man who’s been run ragged for the last few years. 

“Screw you, Eames. This isn’t a romance film. This is reality. You vanished. You left. That was two years ago, two years ago, and you expect to just elbow your way into my life like you were away visiting your family for the weekend, are you fucking kidding me?-”

“Arthur, I left to protect you.” 

The following silence is broken by the waitress laying down the check, and Arthur functions on base instincts enough to smile and thank her, before his expression hardens again as he looks at his former partner. 

“I left to protect you. I… wrecked a job, bad, they were coming for me- for you. They would’ve used you to get to me.” Arthur just lets out a hollow laugh, grabbing up his coat and moving to get out of the booth. Then, Eames’ hand circles around his wrist, gripping hard, halting any further movement from him. “Please. Just… coffee. Something. Please.” 

Arthur yanks his hand away, keeping quiet, trying to prevent this from becoming a scene in a hole in the wall diner how cliche could we possibly get?! but he slowly settles back into the booth. 

“Fine. One condition.”

“Arthur, I… anything. Anything.”

“You never make that decision for me again. Ever.”