quixotic chaotic

And John thinks he finally, really, truly, understands.

Feels himself snarling, knows what comes after this, knows it only too well, can see it in the beady, hungry eyes of these stupid, pathetic excuses for homo sapiens.

John wasn’t the only one affected by their time apart. He wasn’t the only one targeted by a psychopath.

Sherlock is thrumming, bouncing on the balls of his feet, energy flooding him unlike he’s felt in weeks, a month or more, fuse lit and he is once again a burning rocket, set for take-off, for orbit, for escape.

This really does feel like starting over, like a replay, a second go at their first days and weeks together.

John is radiant, happy, quietly effulgent. A star resting at the centre of Sherlock’s solar system.

Actions speak louder than words.

Sherlock's back is warm through the fabric of his hoodie, warm and solid and real under John’s palm, an anchor in the storm.

You don't know what he can be like— He can fake any emotion, make you feel for him.

He’d look at you and tell you your whole life story. Put the wind up everybody – we hated him.

This isn’t what he wanted. This isn’t anywhere near what he’d wanted.

You wouldn’t think a touching reunion would be so much to ask for.

I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

Once his plans are completed, once Sherlock has fixed this, then John will finally speak to him again.