A/N: First things first: DID YOU LIKE THE ENDING OF THE LAST CHAPTER? (I have been accused of teasing- or drawing things out to an extreme extent, but I'm trying to write the characters as how I imagine they would respond to this situation).
Next, this chapter - I will admit it's probably my worst chapter so far :( I really apologize, but the muse was tormenting me.
I also think that in the next couple of chapters the rating is going to be bumped up to an M. Thanks to all who have read/reviewed/favourited/alerted - it means a lot to me! Enjoy! :)

For a few blinding moments neither Sherlock or John realised that they were kissing. John could hear a rushing noise as all the blood in his body projected up towards his head, making his knees feel as though they could give way underneath him. He let his hand drop as he relinquished his grip from the front of Sherlock's dressing gown and pulled away from Sherlock. For the longest of minutes there was utter silence as they reeled from what had just happened.

"Uuuh, uuh, uum..." Sherlock scrambled in an unusual second of dumbfounded shock; he seemed unable to make his brain process the situation and his mouth opened and closed rather forlornly.

"I'm – I'm sorry." John managed to make his brain work before Sherlock had come back to coherency. He had taken a step back from Sherlock in nervous apprehension and was now resisting the urge to run from the flat and keep running until he couldn't get any further away. "I didn't – I- I don't want to make you uncomfortable." John dropped his gaze to the floor as his insides had begun to writhe as though they were rats in a cage.

'Oh god, Christ – why? What the hell did I have to do that for?' John cursed himself, wishing that he could dissolve into the floor – the heat of his face alone would probably be enough to deliquesce the membranes of his cells and reduce him to a puddle of liquid on the floor. The proceeding few moments were the longest that Sherlock and John had ever experienced all through their lives... John was sure that the heightened sense of tension had not been this drawn out when he had been shot! The effort that John was having to displace on keeping his breathing steady and not descending into hyperventilation was all he could endure under the pressure. Sherlock, on the other hand, was frantically trying to reign in his neural impulses – which seemed to be misfiring in all different directions, making him unable to gather in all of his scrambled thoughts.

"No, no – you didn't." Sherlock finally managed to pull his thoughts into comprehensible English but his voice was weak and high as he drew in a breath. "Are – are you sure?" He repeated, he had drawn up to his full height but also seemed to be receding into himself. John swallowed:

"I'm sure if you are..." He mumbled, steeling himself and raising his gaze from the floor up to look at Sherlock – his heart did a triple spin as he got as high as Sherlock's chin, so he settled his eyes on a point over Sherlock's left shoulder. Sherlock seemed flummoxed by this reply also. John could see out of the corner of his eye Sherlock was staring down at him very intently, with his eyebrows knit together, almost disbelievingly. He seemed to be drawing on all of his powers of observation and deduction to try and establish whether John was telling the truth or not, but the countenance of his face made it clear that his face had resumed the appearance of his younger self. John let his eyes flash quickly across to Sherlock's face and felt a thrill of fear chase through him. John wasn't sure whether it was the close proximity, or because of the confused contortion across Sherlock's face, or because he was seeing Sherlock in a completely new light, but Sherlock looked different... It was almost indefinable – just a new glow that his aura was giving off, or the bright spark which had been ignited in his clear eyes. John felt another rush of heat travel through his veins, he could hear his pulse thundering in his ears and was sure that his face had flushed as red as it was possible for the pigmentation of his skin to go. Concentrating his eyes on the floor once more and trying very hard to unstick his feet, as they seemed to have become rooted to the spot, John was trying to make some kind of movement to end the awkwardness.

"You've – you've gone bright red." Sherlock stated rather obviously, tripping over his words.

"Well, yeah." John answered,his left eyebrow cocking high up on his forehead and staring at Sherlock who appeared to be floundering out of his depth.

"I'm a little lost as to what to say next..." Sherlock admitted after a while, sounding outwardly composed, but his eyes were portraying a different story.;

"Yeah... I, um, I'm not quite sure what to say either." John mumbled. He was paying very close detail to every one of Sherlock's movements as his demeanour had taken a drastic leap once again; when Sherlock repeated his uncertainty to John he had appeared to be drawing in on himself but now there seemed to be a massive internal conflict raging through Sherlock's mind. At first it had been visibly obvious to see that he was writhing in inner turmoil, his face had transfigured between dumbfounded confusion and utter disbelief; his eyes flashing between a deep vulnerability and a perturbed state – the rest of his body expanding and contracting with the fierce battle going on within him. John took a tiny step backwards, not giving in to the compelling urge to leave Sherlock to his rumination about what had just occurred, but the external signs of the oppugn had faded away and the only trace that anything was still going on was in the iris of his eyes, which had a stormy depth ranging from dark over clouding to the light calm in amidst the dissipation of every single one of the thoughts.

"At least – well," Sherlock started, but then stopped very abruptly. "I was going to say, at least we both know where we stand, but I don't know anything of the sort..."

"Neither do I really..." John answered in a rather sheepish manner,shuffling his feet around on the point he had been standing. Sherlock's arms were hanging loosely by his side as he stood transfixed less than a foot away for John, but the fingers of his left hand were twitching rather routinely as though his well trained fingers were arranging tunes out of thin air rather than on the neck of his violin. Sherlock looked completely overwhelmed by the events of the previous fifteen minutes, there was that look growing upon his face very similar to the one that proceeded his trips to his mind palace. "Do you... would you like me to go away for a little while?" John asked quietly, "Let you play your violin, or go to your mind palace, or smoke as many cigarettes as you possibly can without getting nicotine poisoning..." Sherlock made no movement or response to John's proposition, but John wanted to get away just as much as he thought Sherlock needed to also; so he began to edge away towards the door.

"No, stay..." Sherlock said abruptly, "I'll go." John stopped in his tracks, Sherlock had reanimated and was suddenly heading towards the door of the living room. "I'll go out." There was a determined tone in his voice that John didn't want to argue with; so he let Sherlock pass him, barely registering that the consulting detective didn't even glance at him as he brushed past and swept down the stairs. John could hear the swish of Sherlock's coat being pulled from the coat hook and then the door open and slam shut. John sat down heavily on the sofa and rested his head into his hand, running his fingers through his hair.

It was entirely possible that he had just messed up his entire friendship with Sherlock – he had wanted to prove to him that he was completely serious about having had feelings for him, but maybe grabbing him and kissing him wasn't the best way to prove that to him... It would have made more sense for him to talk about it, properly, openly – authentically, and gotten everything out into the open and then taken things from there, one step at a time. John couldn't express, he could hardly process the emotions and feelings that were coursing through him, but there was absolutely nothing he could do until Sherlock returned – possibly in a more clear mind himself.

Jesus Christ – an hour and a half ago he had been reminding himself that he never wanted Sherlock to find out about this; now he had admitted his feelings for Sherlock and shown them very candidly! The way his heart was pounding within him was finally beginning to slow down as he rested back on the sofa and sighed.

'No. Stop it – this is what you have dreamt about, what you have fantasized about: about Sherlock knowing that you like him, and him having similar feelings in return. Now you know both are true – you just have to wait until Sherlock comes back and talk to him about it. Don't hope, don't expect, and be prepared to move out if need be... don't be too pushy, or too demanding, or anything.' The little voice in the back of John's head was lecturing him on what was going to come next. 'Put your heart into what matters – into this friendship. And if that means sacrificing feelings to stick by a friend, then buck it up and shut up!'