Dear God, Watson remembers. Uncertainty still festers in his mind, but he can read the hesitation, the pent-up feeling in the hand at his neck, and it's all that he can do to keep from pressing Watson to his body and holding him there until he chases away those two years alone by attempting to meld their bodies together into one now. He draws a shaky breath when their foreheads touch, and he closes his eyes, his other hand seeking out Watson's arm and clutching it.

"Tibet, and everywhere in between." He exhales, a bit shakily, and he grips Watson tighter. "Watson, I would be more than willing to describe my activities of these past two years, if you would only permit me a little thing first. If you would -- If you wouldn't mind -- " He finds himself afraid to say it, afraid to suggest it, knowing that Watson may just push him away, may accuse him of being an invert and stomp out.

Fears be damned; he brings his mouth closer to Watson's, not touching yet, hovering, seeking permission, seeking confirmation that Watson is still his, in every sense of the word.