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John trudged up the stairs, shoulders in a world-weary slump. It had been a shite day at the clinic, and after the fight this morning with Sherlock, he wasn't sure what to make of the anniversary plans. Reaching the door, he sighed and rested a heavy hand on the doorknob. Into battle, he thought, not wanting a fight but preparing for an onslaught.
As the door swung open, a delightful smell hit his nose, his eyes taking time to adjust to the flat's dim lighting. Soft violin music played through the air. Sherlock's silhouette was framed by the yellow street light filtering in through the window. He swayed gently to the music, and John drunk in the sight of him. Calm, at ease, all the rough corners of that morning softened away. Letting the feel of the flat consume him, he dropped his jacket onto the hook and deposited his wallet and keys onto the coffee table as he strode forward into the faint light cast by the candles littering the space.
John slide up behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms loosely around his waist, letting Sherlock lean into him.
"I thought we might celebrate with a little dinner from Angelo's." Sherlock's voice rumbled through John's chest. Relaxing into him in return, John realized that, once again, he could finally breathe.