Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

SHERLOCK P.O.V.

"You're going to lose him, you know."

I lowered the violin I had been plucking and glared up at my unwelcome and uninvited brother.

"Mycroft, could your observations possibly be any less helpful?" I demanded. "Either make your statements in some way meaningful or, preferably, remain silent. In fact, please don't feel obliged to remain here at all – I'll be sure to pass on your regards to John as soon as he returns, and congratulate him on his exceptionally well timed absence."

"Are you being deliberately obtuse, or are you really this blinkered, Sherlock?"

I bristled. "Either be clear or be gone, Mycroft," I snapped, my patience, always minimal, abruptly running out.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," he sighed, in an inappropriately long-suffering manner, shaking his head for good measure. "Where is the good Doctor, anyway?"

"As if you didn't know," I retorted in disgust. "Really, your minions are woefully inadequate when it comes to subterfuge – it's painfully obvious that you have us both under observation, although what you hope to gain from sticking your over-large nose into our business is beyond me."

"Very well," Mycroft replied, clearly realising I was not going to rise to his bait. "John is currently out on his third date with Jane, who he met in a queue at the Chinese takeaway down the road. This would be the fourth woman he's been out with since moving in to your flat, and indications thus far would seem to suggest that the relationship will become intimate either tonight, or in the very near future." He paused, regarding me caustically. I raised my eyebrows, wondering where on earth he was going with this stream of irrelevant information.

"Sherlock, don't you see?" he demanded, leaning forward in his chair. "John is looking for something and sooner or later he's going to find it. It wasn't Sarah, Rachel or Alice and it may not be Jane, but eventually he will find a woman who is willing to put up with his dashing off whenever you text him, who will accept the part of himself he is offering, and give him what he needs in return – and at that point, my dear brother, he will be gone, married and settled and you will be alone again, without the one person who complements and completes you."

Long after Mycroft had finally departed, I lay on the sofa, gazing up at the ceiling and pondering on what he had said. Much as I hated to admit that Mycroft could be right about anything at all, it was clear to me that he did have a point.

I did not want to go back to working alone – everything went so much better when John was with me; he kept the more annoying specimens of humanity at bay, he was absolutely loyal to me and completely reliable, not to mention surprisingly handy in dangerous situations. His intelligence, obviously, was not in my league, and his deductions, if you could call them that, were almost inevitably wrong. However, his wrongness often seemed to clear the way for my own insights, and he was refreshingly appreciative of my abilities. Really, he was the perfect partner for me, in every way.

Unfortunately, as my irritating brother had pointed out, John himself obviously had needs which were not being met within the bounds of our existing relationship. He was seeking to fulfil these needs elsewhere and therein lay the risk... As Mycroft had so annoyingly made clear, eventually some Joan, Ruth or Mary was going to come along and take John away from me – the strictures of traditional relationships would prevail and he would end up married and, inevitably, move out of my flat and, to an unacceptable level, out of my life.

So, having acknowledged the potential problem, I turned my tremendous brain power to determine the solution. Did John actually want to get married, settle down, have a family? On balance, I thought not... he revelled in the excitement and danger our current lifestyle provided and this was not in accordance with the traditional domestic setting. He was tolerant of children, but did not seem particularly comfortable with them and had never expressed any interest in adding to the global over-population problem.

Therefore, it was presumably a more basic drive which forced him to spend time with a stream of tedious and uninteresting women, whose company he could not possibly prefer to mine.

Deduction: John wanted sex and took a traditional approach to obtaining it.

Supplementary deduction: Possible additional need for more generalised physical affection.

Summary: To avert the potential crisis of John getting married, these additional requirements must be included in his relationship with me, thus making third party involvement unnecessary in John's life.

Conclusion: I need to make John Watson fall in love with me.

Artwork for this chapter:

Jealous Sherlock by Zenyr

Chapter Text

JOHN P.O.V.

"And don't come back!"

I flinched slightly at the slamming of the door, before lowering my 'Apology' flowers and stepping back, my shoulders sagging a little. Oh well, Mrs Hudson was sure to be glad of the blooms. She had certainly seemed to enjoy the earlier offerings refused by Sarah, Rachel and Alice: no reason why Jane's rejected bouquet wouldn't go down equally well with my long-suffering landlady.

I sighed as I turned away and began the short walk home. I'd really had higher hopes for my relationship with Jane. She had seemed so much more understanding of my situation with, as she now chose to phrase it, 'The Evil Demon Flat Mate from Hell'. Probably it had been a mistake to mention that the emergency which had called me away from the previous evening's date had turned out to be Sherlock getting his finger stuck in a bottle.

"Why the hell didn't you just smash the bottle?"

"Don't be ridiculous John, that would have completely invalidated the experiment."

"Couldn't you just have waited till I got home, or asked Mrs Hudson?"

"Mrs Hudson has no medical training – what if she had injured my finger? This is my texting finger John."

Yes, on reflection it would have been better to be a little more vague with my explanation to Jane, or perhaps just make up something dangerous and/or life-threatening. I sighed again. At this rate, I was never going to get laid.

I had just stepped through the front door when my phone chimed with an incoming text - 'Scotland Yard. Come at once, if convenient. SH.' I glanced longingly at the kettle, then sighed and turned around...

As I approached Lestrade's office, I could hear raised voices coming from inside – Sally Donovan's being the most strident. She was clearly working off some aggression in her rant, the words gradually becoming clearer as I neared the open doorway,

"... why we're all standing around here waiting for some madman to honour us with his guesswork, when it's perfectly likely that he's the psycho behind the crime in the first place. He belongs in a nuthouse, not taking up the time of real, hard-working police officers, he's just a freak!"

I caught sight of Sherlock as I reached the threshold and was startled to see a look of hurt on his face – not an expression I had ever seen on him before, and one which caused my hackles to rise. He lowered his head as soon as he saw me, raising it seconds later with that familiar arrogant smirk firmly back in place, and directed pointedly at Donovan. His mouth opened, no doubt to deliver some cutting, and well-deserved, put-down but I beat him to it. "What's going on here?" I barked, channelling my inner sergeant major to quiet the room and draw all eyes in my direction.

Silence.

"Would it be correct to assume that you," I pointed sharply at Lestrade, who was wearily propped against the corner of his desk, "asked Sherlock to come here to assist you with some problem which your real, hard-working police officers," my sarcasm was more than apparent as my jabbing finger indicated Donovan, then Anderson, "were unable to resolve?"

Lestrade failed to respond, which I took as a slightly shell-shocked affirmative.

"As the Detective in charge of this unit," I continued, my stare hardening, "are you not responsible for the behaviour and conduct of those under your command?" More blank faces; even Sherlock looked somewhat taken aback by my reaction. "This being the case, I trust that you will be demanding an appropriate apology from your subordinate," I paused to glare at Donovan, "for the shocking rudeness directed towards the consultant you invited, and on whose unpaid assistance you so frequently rely."

More silence. Donovan and Anderson appeared to have frozen over and Lestrade wasn't much better; they were so used to me being the quiet, good-natured John who follows Sherlock around and does his bidding. They'd never really met John, the Soldier. Clearly the introduction was long overdue. I'd never liked the way they behaved around Sherlock, feeling they took him for granted and treated him appallingly, but he had never seemed remotely bothered by it, so I had let it go – until now.

"Sherlock," I caught his attention.

"Yes, John?" he replied with alacrity, a strange look in his eye – was that triumph?

"Are we done here?" I asked, not wanting to over-step my bounds if he still had work he wanted to do.

"Yes John," he responded again, moving towards me. "I'll text you," he threw back over his shoulder to Lestrade, who seemed to be coming round slightly.

"Er, thank you, Sherlock," he muttered.

I caught his eye before turning to follow Sherlock out of the room and he nodded slightly, looking rather shame-faced. I deduced that Donovan at least would be receiving some instruction on what constituted acceptable behaviour, and not before time.

Sherlock was unusually quiet as we rode down in the lift, and avoided my eyes. As we settled into a taxi, I touched his arm. "Are you all right?" I asked him, a little concerned by his uncharacteristic behaviour.

"I'm fine," he replied, still gazing out of the window. He seemed to be struggling with something. Suddenly he turned to me. "That thing you did," he said, glancing down and swallowing, before fixing me with his gaze again, "no one has ever done that for me before."

"Stood up for you, you mean?" I attempted to clarify.

"Been on my side," he said in a low voice, ducking his head down once more.

I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so I said nothing, looking away as we passed Hyde Park Corner, until I felt Sherlock's fingers curl into my own, where they lay on my knee. I jumped in surprise, turning to face him, but he was looking at our hands and seemed nervous. He tightened his fingers around mine briefly, patted my hand a couple of times, then withdrew, turning back to face the window.

This had been a very odd morning.

Artwork:

Very Odd Morning by br0-Harry

Chapter Text

SHERLOCK P.O.V.

"Ludicrous!" I exclaimed, leaning away from the laptop in disgust.

"What's the matter?" asked John, peering at me from over his paper. "Does someone want to employ you to find their cat?"

I opened my mouth, then realised this wasn't really a topic I could raise with him, and closed it again. "It's nothing," I replied, glaring at the screen in disgust. Really, considering that people were wandering around falling in love with each other all over the place, you'd think there'd be some better guidelines readily available on how to make it happen.

The latest site advised: Don't flirt with his close friends. Did that mean you were supposed to flirt with people who were just acquaintances, or that flirting as a whole was a bad thing? I decided to take the latter assumption as a preliminary model, having no time to devote to the study of flirting at the moment.

It was unusual for me to be embarking on a field of study with so little prior understanding, but I determined to apply myself to the topic thoroughly. I glanced up at John, sitting solidly in what had unmistakably become his chair, before determinedly re-focusing on the laptop.

Obviously there were certain necessary steps which had been immediately apparent, the primary one being to take out the opposition - Jane simply had to go. She had proved somewhat more tenacious than the others but had eventually succumbed to the inevitable realisation that she was never going to come first with John as long as I was around. Thankfully, she did have at least a little pride, so the increasingly ridiculous excuses had managed to shake her off... as soon as I saw John headed to the florists, I knew it was over.

It was vital that I moved ahead with my plan and took John firmly off the market before some other pathetic specimen threw herself into his path. If he took up with someone like Molly, who had no self-esteem to speak of, I wasn't sure how I would ever get rid of her.

Fortunately, I had been able to put into practice one of the recommended procedures that very same day. The website had advised: Let him feel manly! Let him comfort you through a hard time. Allow him to think he made you feel better.

I had initially dismissed this proposal as being too difficult to make convincing, as it was so alien to my essential character, but further reflection indicated that it was exactly what I needed to do – John was already physically protective of me, he had proved this in the most profound manner within days of our first meeting. I needed to make him emotionally protective also, as this would tie in with the traditional role of a romantic partner – especially as his experience was limited to heterosexual relationships, where the other party was weaker than himself.

The perfect opportunity arose when I saw him approaching Lestrade's office – it was the work of a moment to set the tedious Sally off on one of her predictable diatribes, and I was easily able to time my adoption of a hurt expression to coincide with John's appearance in the doorway. The results had been most satisfactory – John's outrage on my behalf had been surprising in its vigour; really, the task I had set myself seemed less challenging all the time, he was clearly deeply invested in our relationship already. The latter part of the procedure had been slightly more difficult, and I had struggled slightly to find the right words, but it seemed to go reasonably well. John had appeared somewhat startled by my taking his hand, but this was no doubt due to my customary lack of affectionate gestures.

During the intervening week I had made every effort to rectify this former deficit – after all, it was too early to deduce with any certainty whether the primary motivation for John's former interest in women was purely for sex, or whether a lack of general affection in his every day life had driven him to these lengths. I was well aware that many people enjoyed physical contact, having fended off some of the more determined 'huggers' over the years. While I knew that John was not a demonstrative man with his colleagues, I had no definitive data on his preferred behaviour in a romantic setting – it was unfortunate that I had not gathered some information on this topic previously, but it had never seemed likely that spending time with one of his vacuous females would be of any benefit.

Too late to worry about that now – a quick check of my watch showed that it was ninety minutes since last contact; I rose to my feet and made my way to the kitchen, pausing to rest a hand on John's shoulder and peer at his newspaper en route. I filled the kettle, then returned to my seat.

"Were you going to make tea?" he asked, regarding me doubtfully.

"Tea?" I queried – strange idea, when did I ever make tea? That did lead nicely on to my next topic, however. "Yes, it is tea-time isn't it?" I smiled. "You must be hungry, let's go out!"

John looked slightly bemused. "It's a little early for dinner, Sherlock," he pointed out, indicating the clock as if I would be unaware of what time it was.

I jumped to my feet and took the opportunity to grab both of John's hands to pull him up also – further physical affection was not, strictly speaking, due as yet, but it seemed sensible to take the chance when it presented itself.

"Perfect," I said, releasing his hands to grip his upper arms. "There's a French restaurant we need to go to, but it's quite smart – by the time we've showered and changed we'll be just in time for our reservation."

"Our reservation?" echoed John, looking at me oddly.

"Of course," I confirmed – really, John was not usually this slow on the uptake. "Come along man – you can have the first shower; or, I suppose we could save time by..."

"I'm going, I'm going," he interrupted, looking increasingly edgy as he pulled away from me and moved towards the bathroom with an impressive turn of speed.

The restaurant was nice, although the lighting was a little dim which made it hard to maintain my usual occupation of making deductions about the other diners. Instead I focused on practicing another of the techniques I had researched, which was described as 'toffee eyes'; the idea being to 'lock eyes' with the target, then, when you need to look away, turn just your head at first, holding their gaze for as long as possible, as though your eyes are attached by warm toffee. It sounded extremely odd, but statistics do show that romantically involved couples spend a disproportionate amount of time staring at each other, so presumably the theory has some scientific basis.

By the time we were finishing our desserts, I felt happy with progress thus far; John had seemed to enjoy his meal and I had asked him several irrelevant questions which kept him chatting for some time. Taking note of activity among the other couples surrounding us, I reached over and brushed my hand against his cheek, as if smoothing away a stray eyelash. To my surprise, he froze, leaning back in his chair, then looked slowly around us with a somewhat dazed expression.

"Sherlock," he queried, his voice sounding slightly unsteady.

"Sherlock, is this a date?"

Chapter Text

JOHN P.O.V.

The last week had been one of the most bizarre of my life, and having spent my formative years with an alcoholic, lesbian, drama-queen sister, that was really saying something.

Ever since I had defended Sherlock in front of Lestrade and Co., his behaviour had become increasingly odd. It was as if a switch had been flicked in his brain and I had suddenly gone from being his good friend and colleague to some sort of personal security blanket. He could barely go an hour or two without touching me in some way and was being weirdly solicitous, winding his own scarf around my neck before we went out, even disposing of one of his more noxious experiments, when I complained the fumes were giving me a headache.

Never a respecter of personal space or privacy, he was now constantly standing just that bit too close, reading over my shoulder, or leaning against me on the sofa. When he wasn't touching, he was just plain staring, regarding me as if I was a particularly interesting puzzle, which he hadn't yet managed to crack. It was clear that my verbal defence of him had really struck a chord - somewhere in his massive brain I had been re-categorised and it seemed he didn't quite know what to do with me.

I considered trying to talk to him about inappropriate behaviour, but just the thought of how to open that awkward conversation was enough to deter me. Instead, I acted in accordance with my gender and made a firm decision to ignore the problem until it went away – hopefully he would resolve whatever mental issues my loyalty had caused him and we could go back to normal and move away from these disturbing insinuations about communal showers.

All these thoughts swirled through my brain as Sherlock's hand brushed my cheek in the restaurant. I looked around… we were surrounded by couples. We were not sitting in the window as a cover while Sherlock kept an eye on something in the street. He did not appear to be observing any of the other patrons or any of the staff – indeed he had hardly dragged his gaze away from me the whole time, barely even turning his head to order our food. He had actually eaten a meal, which I should have realised sooner meant he wasn't in the middle of a case. His actions over the last week – the touching, the personal space invasion, the consideration, it was as if my perceptions were shaken up in a snow globe and when the flakes settled, the picture had completely changed…

"Is this a date?" I asked him.

He looked hurt. "Well there are two of us," he pointed out, "and we are out together," he added next, before presenting me with the most woebegone expression I had ever seen. "Are you not having fun?"

He gazed at me with his big eyes, which actually seemed to have acquired a sheen, he looked so devastated. I felt as if I'd run over his puppy, then backed up and hit it again.

I opened my mouth, couldn't think of a thing to say, and closed it again. That seemed to be working for me, so I repeated it. Maybe a couple of times. Eventually I managed to choke out a rather pitiful, "But you said you were married to your work!"

"We had barely met when I told you that, John," he muttered, dropping his gaze for possibly the first time of the evening. "How could I have known at that point what you would come to mean to me?"

What I would come to mean to him? Oh, Dear Lord! I was not equipped to deal with this conversation while sitting at a quiet table in the middle of a romantic restaurant.

"Can we go home now?" I asked him, a bit desperately, wondering how on earth I was going to handle this.

"Absolutely!" he exclaimed, beaming and waving for the bill, the gleam in his eye making me more than a little nervous.

The walk home was extremely uncomfortable. Once, in my mid-teens, I had walked in to our dining room to find the girl I had been crushing on for weeks sitting at the table looking flushed. It was a few moments before I realised that my sister was under the table, and she hadn't gone down there to look for her contact lens. Yeah, this walk was way more uncomfortable than that.

As we left the restaurant, with me moving quickly to escape the hand Sherlock persisted in resting on my lower back, I felt a sudden attack of panic that he was going to try to hold my hand, or do something equally inappropriate. I quickly pulled on my gloves , then plunged my hands deeply into my pockets, setting off at a brisk pace, but his long legs caught up with me in just a couple of strides.

He quirked a brow at my defensive posture, then thrust his arm through mine and pulled me firmly against his side. I put my head down, praying that we wouldn't meet anyone I knew, and trying to surreptitiously pinch myself to make sure this wasn't some bizarre alternate reality that my subconscious had dreamed up after too much late night cheese. No such luck – I was indeed being towed along at break-neck speed by my mad genius flat-mate, who seemed to have just discovered emotions for the first time in his life and had no idea what to do with them.

Once we reached the flat, I hesitated for a moment, then remembered that I was English and made a bee-line for the kettle. I did pause to contemplate something stronger, which I most definitely felt in need of, but decided against it on the basis that I would need all my wits about me in order to deal with Sherlock's latest insanity.

As I moved to the sink, kettle in hand, I saw Sherlock hanging up his coat with the customary dramatic swirl, before turning and, there's no other word for it, prowling towards me. I took the long way round the table to plug the kettle back in, but he was still following, so I went round again, ostensibly looking for clean mugs. The situation was clearly becoming ridiculous and after one more lap he subsided with a huff, leaning against the opposite side of the kitchen and regarding me contemplatively.

"Tea?" I offered, in as close to my normal voice as I could manage, which wouldn't have fooled anybody.

"If we must," he replied ungraciously. He was still staring, but at least stationary and with a solid obstacle between us.

I tried to get my thoughts together, before putting his tea down in front of him and leaning back against the worktop, cradling my own mug.

"Sherlock," I began, then my mind went unhelpfully blank. I tried again. "Look, I know what happened last week, with the whole 'being on your side' thing seems to have..." I paused, trying to think of a kinder way to phrase driven you completely round the twist, before settling for, "affected you."

He raised his eyebrows slightly, but said nothing.

I ploughed on. "Obviously, you're not used to having much in the way of friends and I think, perhaps, the realisation that you do now, in fact, have somebody willing to stick up for you, has caused some..." Insanity? Derangement? Psychosis? "...confusion."

He certainly looked confused now, so perhaps I was on the right track. "If you're not used to feelings of friendship and loyalty, then you might be misinterpreting them as something else. After all, affection comes in many forms and, if you don't have much experience, you could easily get a few wires crossed and mix them up a bit."

I waffled to a halt, but then his face cleared in understanding – I was on a roll! "Don't you think you should take a little time to consider what I've said, before you do anything else? Let's try and get back to normal for a bit, eh?"

He was positively beaming at me now and I relaxed a little, sipping my tea and hoping that the worst was over and we could put this incident behind us and never, ever speak of it again.

"That was fantastic, John," he declared, in a strange moment of role-reversal. "Well reasoned, logically deduced and demonstrating yet again what a true friend you are, not wanting me to rush into a course of action I might come to regret."

I finished my tea and moved to the sink to rinse out my mug, sighing with relief and trying to let the strain of the evening wash away with the dirty water.

"There's just one thing you've overlooked."

I glanced up in alarm as his voice drew nearer – he was prowling again and this time I had nowhere to go, as he backed me against the worktop.

"Your deductions," he said, his right arm shooting out to prevent my attempted sideways sliding motion, "however well reasoned," he continued, his left arm coming up to keep me in place, "are, as usual," he leaned forward, his eyes exerting some sort of hypnotic influence over me, "completely..." his gaze dropped to my mouth, "...and utterly..." his lips were only an inch from mine by this point and I could feel his breath wafting over my face, "...wrong," he finished, and closed the inch.

Artwork for this chapter:

Date Night by SkyWing

Date Night by 0redwolf0

Chapter Text

SHERLOCK P.O.V.

"Let me go!" I demanded, struggling in frustration. This was not at all how I had envisaged the evening would turn out. By this point, John should be adjusting to our new relationship, and perhaps discussing the specifics of our physical progress - not holding me face down on the table with my arms twisted up behind my back in an undignified hold which, despite my expertise in various martial arts, I found myself embarrassingly unable to break.

It had seemed that John was exactly where I wanted him when I embraced him against the worktop five minutes earlier. He appeared dazed and almost hypnotised, staring up at me as if frozen while I lowered my head slowly towards him.

Then, at the last moment, just as my lips brushed his, he suddenly seemed to remember that he was a soldier. Three seconds later I was face down and fuming, while he held me in position with maddening ease.

"Let me up, what are you doing?"

"What am I doing? What am I doing?" John was clearly becoming hysterical, although his grip never loosened. "I'll tell you what I'm NOT doing," he insisted forcefully. "I'm not acting like a bloody nutter and chasing my flat-mate round the kitchen table." The pressure on my arms increased for a moment. "I'm not suddenly changing my whole personality and expecting everyone to understand what's going on." He paused for breath. "And I am absolutely not, never have been, and yes it's all fine, everyone else can do what they bloody well like, but Sherlock," he leaned forward slightly, "I am not gay."

With that, he stepped back, releasing his hold on me but still breathing heavily and, I saw as I turned to face him, glaring.

I rubbed my wrists pointedly. "Was that really necessary?" I asked, looking down my nose at him. "Is it not possible for us to have a reasonable discussion, without resorting to violence?"

"Violence!" he exclaimed. Really, this new policy of repeating everything I said was already tedious. "Violence!" Now his voice was rising and repeating. "That was self-defence!"

"Self-defence?" Good grief, now I was doing it. "Why would you need to defend yourself against me? Surely you know by now that I would never hurt you, John?" I reached out a hand to him, but he flinched away and I froze. Did he really think I was going to attack him? I let my hand fall slowly, feeling lost... and suddenly very alone.

He sighed and shook his head, his posture relaxing slightly. "Sit!" he instructed, pointing into the living room. I thought it best to humour him, as he was clearly still very agitated, so I moved to the sofa and sat down, leaving plenty of room for him to join me.

He rolled his eyes, then sat down in the adjacent armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and gazing at me steadily.

"Right then, Sherlock," he started. "If my conclusions are so completely and utterly wrong, why don't you enlighten me?" He raised his eyebrows enquiringly. "Because, quite frankly, I have no bloody clue what's going on - unless you're conducting some experiment to see how long it takes you to give me a heart attack." He sat back in his chair with an expectant expression.

Fine. It would be nice if, for once, people could work things out for themselves without having to have every little thing spelled out for them, but John was still outstandingly the best (indeed, only) candidate to be my partner, so I would have to be patient with him.

"Firstly, John," I started, "I must apologise." He smiled grimly. "It was unreasonable of me to assume that, on this one occasion, you would arrive at the correct solution independently." His smile vanished.

"I will therefore explain the situation to you, if you are amenable?" John appeared to be gritting his teeth, but he nodded without saying anything.

I thought for a moment. "I need you, John." That seemed to cover the essentials – I looked up at him hopefully.

"Go on," he said, making a 'keep going' motion with his hand. "You need me for what?"

"Everything!" I exclaimed, waving my arms around a bit for emphasis. "You help me with my work, you put up with my experiments, you buy milk." He frowned. OK, perhaps best not to linger on that one. "No one else makes me laugh or surprises me, but you do it all the time." I was a little surprised myself by how easy it was to come up with this list, which I had not had chance to prepare in advance. "When everyone else says weird, you say brilliant. When people say freak, you shut them up. You treat me like a human being."

His face softened. "Sherlock, you're describing a good friend, and that is exactly what I am." He paused. "I don't understand what has changed, why you suddenly decided we needed to go out on a date?"

I hung my head a little. "It's not enough, John," I told him, looking down at my feet. "I don't want you going out on dates with other people. I don't want you thinking about someone else when you're with me." I paused, glancing up at him. He was looking a little shell-shocked, but I pressed on. "I want you all to myself. I want you with me whenever I need you. I want you by my side, I want you…" I shrugged. "I just want you."

"You want me?"

I nodded.

"You mean you want me?"

It seemed we were back to the repetition thing, but I decided to go with it, and nodded again.

"You mean, like, er, sex, etc?" John was bright red in the face, but seemed determined to get the facts absolutely clear this time.

"Well, I thought we could work up to that a bit, as it's all new to me, but essentially... yes, that's the idea." I sat back, satisfied that my explanation was as comprehensive as possible. John still looked somewhat stunned. "Problem?" I asked him.

He dropped his head into his hands and started muttering to himself. I made out a few words, which seemed to be of a religious nature, but nothing definite. After a couple of minutes, he looked up.

"Yes, Sherlock, there is a problem," he stated firmly. "A bloody big problem, which I would have thought would have been obvious, even without my mentioning it only half an hour ago." He stared at me. I stared back. "I'm not gay, Sherlock!"

"So?" I asked him. "Neither am I."

He looked at me blankly. "What? But you just said…" He was spluttering now.

"As I understand it," I attempted to clarify for him, "a gay, or homosexual, person is one who is sexually attracted to members of the same sex." I raised my eyebrows for confirmation. He nodded.

"Very well then," I continued. "I am not, and never have been, attracted to other men, so I clearly do not fit into this category – I only want you."

"But I am a man, Sherlock," he practically wailed.

"Why does that matter?" I asked him. "You are John and I am Sherlock. Everything else is just…" I searched for the word, "...friction."

He stared at me for a long moment, then stood up. "I can't deal with this tonight," he told me abruptly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know this can't have been easy for you, but I just…" he trailed off. "I need to go to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

I sat on the sofa for a long time.

Chapter Text

JOHN P.O.V.

I woke up gradually, and with the distinct feeling that something was wrong. Stretching a little to ease my shoulder, I rolled on to my side, when suddenly the events of the previous evening came back to me in a rush. I groaned, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands before blinking them open in the dim light. Still half asleep, it took me a moment to realise that I was looking straight into the large slanted eyes of my completely mental flat-mate, with whom I was virtually nose to nose.

I shrieked in a manner unbefitting a soldier and propelled myself forcibly backwards, banging the back of my head on the bedside table as I scrambled away and leapt unsteadily to my feet.

"Sherlock!" I cried out. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" For a frightening moment I wondered if the night had ended very differently from how I remembered it and I had somehow blocked out later events which would result in my bed now coming equipped with a Sherlock...

"Don't panic, John," he told me, rolling onto his back and doing that eerie mind-reading thing he does. "Nothing happened."

"Then what... why... what..." I waved my arm to indicate his presence, throwing in a few more random enquiries for good measure.

"I brought you a cup of tea," he said plaintively, sitting up and indicating a mug of treacle-like substance which was lurking on the dresser. I reached towards it tentatively.

"It's cold now," he added. I dropped my hand.

"That still doesn't tell me why you're on my bed Sherlock," I protested, feeling that it was far too early to be dealing with this kind of thing.

"Well, I was going to wake you," he explained, "to tell you about the tea." He pointed again at the evil-looking brew. "Actually, I'm not sure I did it right – it doesn't look the same as when you or Mrs Hudson make it." He wrinkled his forehead. "How far up are you supposed to fill the cup with the tea bags?"

"Sherlock," I warned him, raising my eyebrows.

"Right." He nodded. "Sorry. So I was going to wake you, but then you were asleep." Good grief, he called this an explanation?

"So then I thought you must be tired, and I shouldn't wake you," he carried on. "But I didn't want to leave, in case you woke up, then I could..."

"...tell me about the tea," I finished for him, sighing in exasperation.

"Exactly." He smiled, obviously pleased that I had caught on at last. "But then I was a bit tired, so I thought I might as well lie down, as I was waiting here anyway and there was plenty of room on the bed, due to you being quite small."

I rolled my eyes – charming.

"You look nice when you're asleep, you know," he continued. "I like watching you." He looked a little surprised at himself. "Although, I'm not sure why."

Right, this nonsense had gone on for long enough. "Up you get, Sherlock," I instructed. "I'm awake; your mission is accomplished. Now you can leave me to get ready for the day."

I had a feeling it was going to be a long one.

When I finally steeled myself to go downstairs, I was greeted by the rather anti-climactic sight of an empty flat. Wishing there was some way I could just turn the clock back and avoid the awkwardness which would inevitably form the majority of my day, I settled into my chair with a cup of tea and attempted to get my thoughts into some semblance of order.

Clearly, my best friend was as mad as a hatter – that much was obvious. I had gathered, from our one-time conversation at Angelo's, that he was effectively asexual. He was just not interested, and frankly rather scornful of the rest of humanity grubbing around in our sordid little ways, with our emotions causing such disruption all over the place. Indeed, if what he had suggested last night was true, then he had no prior experience to speak of and could even be a virgin, for all I knew. So why now and, for goodness sake, why me?

I had really been confident that I'd 'cracked it' last night, when I deduced that he was so unused to feeling any emotions at all, he was confusing platonic affection with feelings of a more romantic nature, but Sherlock had been adamant that this was not the case and his actions certainly seemed to bear him out... I still couldn't believe that cold, brilliant, analytical Sherlock had actually almost kissed me - let alone that I had nearly been shocked enough to let him.

For a moment, I considered my own feelings... it was certainly true that I admired and respected Sherlock as a unique individual. He was a genius; the most amazing man I had ever met, yet simultaneously a high-maintenance idiot, who would risk his life just to prove he was clever - as if anyone ever doubted that anyway. I felt protective of him, I realised, yet at the same time often exasperated. He was unquestionably the most important person in my life... but that didn't mean I wanted to sleep with him!

The downstairs door banged and I heard him dashing up the stairs - didn't he ever walk anywhere? The living room door flew open and he bounded in, bearing a rather greasy looking paper bag in triumph.

"John!" he exclaimed, grinning at me. "You're up."

For a man who had supposedly had his romantic dreams dashed the night before, he certainly seemed very chipper. I began to wonder if he'd found a new addiction and had actually been as high as a kite for the last week and not responsible for his actions. Then I couldn't decide whether that would be good news or not, bearing in mind his history with drugs. The whole situation was very confusing.

"I've bought you half a bacon butty, John," he announced proudly. "You know, for breakfast," he added, looking vaguely towards the kitchen. "Shall I make tea?"

"Absolutely not," I said firmly, remembering the hideous concoction I had removed from my dresser earlier – there had actually been seven teabags still in there, lurking below the murky liquid and squashed into the bottom of the mug. I shuddered. "I'll make tea – you find the ketchup, if there's any left after you used it to wind up Anderson during the last drugs bust."

He sniggered. "That was funny though. You should have seen his face when he opened the bread bin."

I rolled my eyes. Honestly, he was like a child at times. Something struck me about his description of breakfast. "You bought me half a sandwich?" I queried, raising my eyebrows at him. "Been giving all your cash to the homeless network again?"

"No, no," he replied, shaking his head and whipping the ketchup bottle out of the wine rack with a flourish. "The other half is for me – I thought we could share breakfast. That's more romantic, isn't it?"

I stared at him blankly. "More romantic?" I echoed, hoping I'd just imagined that last bit.

He looked worried. "Is it not?" he queried. "You can have it all, if you'd rather?" He thrust the bag at me. "I don't really know what I'm doing here, John. You'll have to be patient with me."

"No, that's OK," I replied, pushing the bag back to him. "Suddenly, I'm not all that hungry."

After breakfast, he steepled his fingers together and regarded me over the top of them. "So, what do you want to do today, John?" he asked. "I have a few ideas, but if there's anything you want to suggest yourself, please go ahead and tell me. I'm quite happy to go along with your preference."

I looked at him. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" he replied, attempting to look nonchalant and, for once, failing dismally.

"You know perfectly well what I mean," I pointed out. "I mean the early morning…" what could I call it? It certainly hadn't been tea, "...beverage," I substituted. "The breakfast, the asking me what I want to do instead of just haring off and expecting me to follow." I fixed him with a level stare. "What's going on?"

"I would have thought it was perfectly obvious," he replied, raising his eyebrows at me. "I'm wooing you, John."

"Wooing me?"

"Of course." He frowned. "You're not going to start that repeating thing again, are you?" he enquired, looking concerned. "Because it's really annoying."

I obliged by not saying anything, just opening and closing my mouth a few times like a suddenly decanted goldfish. I mean, I'd known Sherlock could be thick-skinned, but this was a whole new level of imperviousness.

"Look, I know you said last night that you don't think of me that way," he carried on, "and obviously it's been a bit of a shock to you. But I think, if you just give it a chance, you'll see…"

"I'll see what, exactly?" I interrupted. "That all the women I've dated were just mistakes? That I've been doing it wrong all my adult life? That I don't know myself at all?" I was starting to get angry at his assumptions.

"No, no, John," he protested. "I'm certainly not suggesting that you've been secretly gay all these years, or anything like that." He shook his head. "I'm just asking that you don't discount the possibility of 'us' simply because it's different to what you're used to." He looked at me hopefully, then jumped to his feet and started pacing.

"Consider the evidence," he continued, before I could respond. "With whom do you spend ninety per cent of your free time?"

"You," I replied, somewhat begrudgingly. "Although that could change," I added darkly.

He chose to ignore that. "For whom do you drop everything if they need you?" He didn't wait for an answer this time. "Whose life have you saved on more than one occasion, and who provides you with the excitement and danger that you need to feel alive?"

"You, you and you," I agreed. "But Sherlock, as far as I'm concerned that is friendship - brotherly love, if you will." His eyes darkened at the mention of brothers, but he smiled when I said love. "There's nothing romantic, or sexual about it," I stressed emphatically.

"But there could be," he insisted, "if you would just consider it..."

I threw up my hands in despair. "This is hopeless, Sherlock! Reasoning with you is like trying to run through custard. I'm not getting anywhere at all."

He looked about to embark on another argument, so I quickly got up. "I need some air," I told him, leaving the room and then the building, almost running as I burst onto the street and tried to look as if I was going somewhere, rather than running away from something.

I wandered around rather aimlessly for a couple of hours before a large black car pulled up beside me, the door swinging open in pointed invitation. Well, I say 'invitation'; command would no doubt be nearer the mark. Lovely.

Bowing to the inevitable, I climbed in and greeted 'She Who Shall not be Named'. "Where to today?" I asked her, but she just smiled and kept tapping away on her BlackBerry. I considered asking for her number so I could text my queries in hope of an actual response, but in the end I couldn't be bothered. I rested my head back against the seat and sighed… just when I'd thought the day couldn't get any more complicated.

Mycroft was waiting on the second floor of an empty office block, swinging his umbrella back and forth, as usual.

"Ah, Doctor Watson," he greeted me. "How good of you to join me."

I snorted in response.

"No doubt you know why I arranged this little tête-à-tête?" he enquired in his upper crust tone.

"Not a clue," I responded mendaciously.

"I see," he drawled, leaning back on one heel and regarding me curiously. "It has come to my attention that my brother has formed a particular attachment to you," he stated, looking as if he could hardly believe it himself.

I said nothing, regarding him stonily. As if one Holmes brother poking about in my personal life wasn't enough, now they were both at it.

"I would like to know what your intentions are, with regard to my brother," he declared outrageously.

"My intentions?" I spluttered. "He's not some swooning virgin, Mycroft!"

He raised a brow pointedly. OK, it looked like maybe Sherlock was a virgin, but he certainly wasn't swooning... and I was getting away from the issue.

"My intentions are none of your damn business," I retorted. "I am Sherlock's friend and I will continue to be his friend. That's all you need to know."

"I see," he said again. "It seems I will have to be honest with you, John," he announced, with a slight shudder on the word honest, as if he found the concept a little distasteful.

"Sherlock, as you are no doubt aware," he continued, "has long considered himself to be a sociopath." I kept my expression carefully blank and, after a moment, he carried on. "He is not alone in this opinion – I believe Sergeant Donovan was one of several people who warned you about getting involved with him?"

"Well, you should know," I retorted sharply, "as one of the other people warning me was you."

"Hmm," he murmured. "Actually, that was more of an assessment than a warning," he explained. "I wanted to know what manner of man was going to be living with my brother." He looked me up and down. "Obviously, you met the requirements."

That left me with the rather uneasy question of what would have happened to me had I not been up to Mycroft's specification. I decided I didn't want to think about that.

"Since he became involved with you..."

I flinched slightly at the word involved.

"Sherlock's behaviour appears to have changed significantly," Mycroft continued. "It would seem he has adopted you as his conscience, and you are his conduit to a world which had previously eluded him."

"What are you saying?" I asked, losing patience with his long-winded approach.

"I'm saying that my brother needs you!" Mycroft snapped, then he drew a deep breath. "I apologise," he added. "That was uncalled for."

"It's OK," I said, relaxing slightly. "Makes you seem a bit more human, actually."

He smiled, and for the first time it actually looked genuine. "Shall we sit?" he asked, indicating a couple of leather sofas in the corner.

Once seated, he steepled his fingers together in a gesture eerily reminiscent of his brother. "I truly am sorry to be making you uncomfortable, John," he started. "I know that Sherlock has put you in a difficult position, and you must be feeling both confused and frustrated at this moment."

"You know?" I demanded. "How do you… no, don't tell me." As if he would anyway. "I think I'm happier in ignorance."

He gave me a small smile. "I know that Sherlock wants your relationship to become more than it is at present," he expanded. "That he has asked you to become his partner in every sense of the word."

Somehow, hearing Mycroft say it made it seem more real, and I still had no idea how to get my situation with Sherlock back to our former familiar, if quirky, friendship, without it being unbearably awkward. "So what do you think I should do about it?" I asked him, willing to accept any crumbs of advice at this point.

He paused, regarding me steadily. "I think you should consider it," he said.

I stared at him blankly; I couldn't go through all this again.

"Obviously, this would be something of a departure for you," he carried on, as if he was talking about a trip to the seaside instead of the suggested reversal of my sexual orientation. "But surely you could at least try it?" It was amazing how someone could look so sensible, and yet come out with such twaddle.

"Sherlock needs you, John," he continued. "With you by his side, he works better and more effectively. Think of all the good you can do together, the lives you could save…"

I gaped at him. "Are you telling me I should shag your brother for Queen and Country?"

Mycroft flinched - whether at the vulgarism, or at the thought of his brother shagging, I don't know.

"He is afraid now that he has driven you away and that you will leave him." That was interesting, perhaps Mycroft's information came direct for once – if Sherlock was talking to his brother, he must really be feeling desperate.

"I don't like to think what will happen to him if you do…" he looked grim. "His history of dealing with disappointment is worrying, to say the least."

Clearly he was referring to the drugs. "That's blackmail," I pointed out. He shrugged.

I sighed. "Look, Sherlock already dominates my life," I admitted reluctantly. "If I give him this too, there'll be nothing left of me." That was a little closer to the bone than I had wanted to go, but Mycroft just wasn't backing off.

"You're looking at this upside down," he told me. "You could be, and have been, happy with a variety of partners." I gave him a pointed look. "All right, women," he conceded, rolling his eyes a little. "Sherlock, however, in all of his life has never been attracted to anyone, of either sex… until he met you." He reached out and put his hand on my arm. "So you tell me John, with your military understanding of strengths and weaknesses, who has the power?"

He sat back and studied me while I digested that. "Personally, I don't see it," he said - somewhat rudely, I thought. He smiled apologetically. "Please don't be offended, John. I like you very much and you have my deepest respect." He paused. "But you are, at heart, an ordinary man." I couldn't argue with that. "Certainly braver than most," he continued. "Obviously very loyal, and of above average intelligence."

Not sure about that one, I thought – would an intelligent man keep finding himself in these awkward situations?

Mycroft was still talking. "But my brother is a genius," he mused. "And he can be charming when he wants to be. He's certainly had plenty of offers over the years, from both men and women." He seemed to be almost talking to himself by this point. "And yet he's never shown even the slightest interest in any of them." He looked at me curiously. "What makes you so special, John Watson?" he asked me. I hoped it was rhetorical, as I had no idea how to answer. "What is so different about you? What makes you so exceptional that you are the only person who can bring my brother to life in this way?"

"I don't know," was all I could find to say. "I haven't the slightest idea."

Mycroft rose abruptly and held out his hand. "I've said enough," he decided. "Whether or not you choose to give my brother a chance is up to you."

I rose also, and reached out to shake his hand. For a moment his grip tightened and he looked at me fiercely. "Sherlock is already a great man," he told me, "but I think one day, with you at his side, he could even be a good one."

Chapter Text

SHERLOCK P.O.V.

I watched from the window as John virtually erupted from the building and bolted off towards Park Road. Well... that certainly didn't go according to plan.

I found it difficult to understand John's preoccupation with the issue of gender. Despite having no practical experience in the area of physical intimacy, I was, of course, fully aware of the facts and methodology. If sexual activity comprised the rubbing together of body parts to produce feelings of pleasure and gratification, then what did gender matter? Surely friction was friction, the feeling was the same? Perhaps it was something to do with being in the army… if our relationship progressed as I hoped, it might be best to try to embrace him when I was sitting down, so that John was in the higher position. This would be more familiar to him and perhaps make him less uncomfortable, at least until the relationship was well established.

However, in order for that to be an issue, I had to get John past this sticking point. As he had chosen to ignore the evidence laid out for him, and seemed impervious to both logic and my attempt at more traditional wooing methods, I could see only one course of action left available. As much as it pained me, I picked up my phone and reluctantly typed out a message. Was there really no other way? It would seem not... 'Assistance required with retention project, SH'. I hit send.

In need of a distraction, I spent the next half hour deducing where Mrs Hudson had hidden my skull... finally noting that there appeared to be a row of six teapots on her top kitchen shelf, but only five were adorned with the hideous knitted cosies she insisted on using. Sure enough, the cosy of the naked teapot had been pressed into service as a skull cover, and there were only five teapots in total. Truly the woman was becoming more ingenious. I reclaimed my skull and substituted a large turnip from the over-flowing vegetable rack, making a mental note to keep my friend out of sight for a while.

Retreating upstairs, I looked out of the window, but there was no sign of John. I sighed. The object of this exercise was for me to provide more fully for John's needs, so that he would not have to pursue women and thus risk being lured into marriage and leaving me. I wanted him to stay with me - that was the whole purpose of the project. My own sexual needs were negligible, but I was perfectly willing to accommodate his in order to keep him as my partner. Indeed, I rationalised, it might actually be useful to gain personal knowledge of this area.

My only concern in this regard was whether I would be able to perform, sexually speaking, as the most apparent sign of arousal could not be faked unless I resorted to medicinal methods, which would be difficult to disguise over the long term. Obviously, I would be able to provide for John's needs - having restricted himself to women previously, he presumably had no requirement to be penetrated himself. However, although I had been careful not to lie to him, it was impossible not to realise that his understanding of my 'I want you', was different to mine.

"Will that be a problem?" I asked the skull. "He's going to know I've misled him if I do not become aroused." Nothing – usually talking to the skull was more helpful than this. I persevered. "Additionally, John is a very considerate person; he may feel it is necessary for his partner to also achieve a physical release, which could be a problem for me."

This was not working. I checked the skull for damage, but it seemed exactly as normal.

"Perhaps I am worrying too early?" I queried. "After all, even if John does agree to proceed, surely it's unlikely that he would want, or expect, to have sex straight away?"

Still nothing. I glared at the skull angrily. It was no use; now that I had got used to having John to talk to, the skull could not substitute for him. I dropped down onto the sofa in disgust. I might just as well have talked to the turnip.

I was still lying there, pondering other uses for the now redundant skull, when I heard John come in downstairs. No car had pulled up, so either he didn't want me to know he'd been with Mycroft and had asked the driver to drop him off at the corner, or he had elected to walk home to give himself some thinking time.

He was climbing the stairs unusually slowly, so was reluctant to face me again – impossible to determine at this point whether he had made a decision but was anxious about it, or whether he was just dreading another argument. As he appeared in the doorway, I sat up carefully, not wanting to appear threatening or aggressive.

"I've been talking to Mycroft," he told me. Wanted to walk home then – I studied his face for clues, but his expression was completely blank.

He came and sat next to me on the sofa, which I took as a promising sign. I smiled tentatively. "And how is my dear brother?" I asked him.

"He says that you need me," John replied, jumping in straight away with his typical straightforwardness. "He says that no-one else will do. He says that if you can't have me, you won't have anybody." He looked up at me, questioningly.

I took a deep breath. "I never thought I'd say these words," I paused, "but, Mycroft is completely correct."

John ducked his head down, appearing embarrassed. "He said I make you a better person," he added quietly.

That was a complicated issue, but there was a simple answer. "You do," I told him, and he lifted his head to meet my gaze.

We stared at each other, only inches apart, and for a moment I thought it was going to be that easy; but then he seemed to shake himself and sat back a little.

"I have a proposition for you, Sherlock," he told me.

My eyebrows shot up. "Indeed?" I enquired, watching him carefully.

"Well, more of a deal really," he continued. "The 'one-time offer', 'take it or leave it' kind of deal, to be specific." He looked at me. "Do you want to hear it?"

"Of course!" I replied, sitting up straighter and twisting in my seat so that I was completely facing him.

"If you agree to this deal," he warned me, "you have to abide by the rules, no cheating, reneging, arguing or otherwise trying to get out of it."

"Fine John, just tell me what it is."

"First, I just need to check that you haven't changed your mind, that you still want us to..." he seemed to be searching for the least embarrassing phrase, "...be a couple?" he finished.

"Yes, John - absolutely," I nodded. This was fascinating; I really had no idea what he was going to say – one of the many reasons why John was so perfect for me, he could actually surprise me from time to time.

"OK." He took a deep breath. "I am going to kiss you," he announced, looking daunted at the prospect. "If it feels right and is something we both enjoy... then fine, we can pursue a romantic relationship – although I will have certain additional stipulations should it come to that."

This sounded interesting; at least he wasn't automatically ruling out the possibility of success, which was encouraging. I noted that my pulse rate had increased slightly, although it was still much closer to normal than poor John's, whose heart was clearly racing.

"However," he added firmly, "if it feels awful, or weird, or just plain wrong - for either of us," he emphasised, holding my gaze, "then we will go back to the way we were and this whole strange week will be forgotten and never mentioned or referred to ever, ever again."

It was clear this was the outcome he expected – perhaps he was hoping that I would dislike the experience, as he was unaware that my enjoyment was irrelevant. I thought quickly. If I accepted this offer and it failed, I would be back to where we started, with John still looking for love elsewhere. On the other hand, it was clear that John had been pushed to his absolute limit - if I did not take this chance, he might well end up moving out anyway, just to avoid the awkwardness.

"I accept the deal, with one proviso," I replied swiftly.

"Which is?" he enquired, in an endearing attempt to be business like.

"You have to do your best," I stipulated. "You can't just peck me on the cheek then say 'Oh sorry, Sherlock, no good, remember you promised', you have to bring your best game." He raised his eyebrows at my word choice.

"Don't look at me like that," I warned him. "If you deliberately make it unpleasant, the deal is off. Pretend I'm that woman on the telly you always stop channel-hopping for, the one with the cheek-bones."

He flushed. "We could be here all day, with you complaining I'm not trying hard enough!" he pointed out. "The deal is one kiss and I give you my word that I will treat you as I would any of the women I have been involved with. You will just have to trust me." He cocked his head to one side. "Or, of course, we could forget the whole thing..."

"No, no," I denied, shaking my head emphatically. "I trust you, John, you know I do," I declared, with complete honesty. "It's just a lot of pressure, the rest of my life depending on a few moments." That gave me an idea. "Could there be a minimum time limit?" I requested eagerly. "I could set that tomato thing from the kitchen and you can't stop until it rings?" I made as if to jump up and fetch it.

"No!" John practically shouted, grabbing my arm to keep me in place. "You're over-thinking it, Sherlock," he told me. "Just relax." He patted my arm, then released me.

It was interesting; the more agitated I appeared, the calmer he became. Clearly I had been right to think he was more comfortable when being in charge of these types of situations, rather than having them thrust upon him – I certainly wouldn't be making that mistake again after the arm lock fiasco.

"Do we have a deal?" he asked me, finally. "And are you absolutely certain that this is what you want?"

"Yes, John," I confirmed, feeling that a bit of repetition might be useful, just this once. "We have a deal and this is what I want."

"Are you ready?" he asked me, obviously steeling himself.

"Yes," I said, leaning towards him slightly. "Wait! No..." This was no good – side by side on the sofa we were both twisted round uncomfortably and the angle was awkward. He looked taken aback as I slid to my knees and moved in front of him. I grabbed his hips and pulled him to the edge of the seat, so that our heads were level, with his legs on either side of my torso.

"Sherlock, what...?" he protested and I sat back on my heels to make him feel superior again.

"Look, John," I explained. "If this does not go well, it may be the only kiss I ever have..." I gave him my best wide-eyed stare. "I don't want to look back at it in years to come and remember a cricked neck."

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. "Fine," he said, then reached out and wrapped one hand round the back of my neck, pulling me forward slowly. I was careful to let him lead, and he paused when we were a few inches apart, his gaze flickering from my eyes to my mouth, before tilting my head to the side slightly. His other hand came up to cup my face, then I felt the first gentle brush of his lips against mine.

As he moved, and the hand on my neck slid up to gently tug the hair at the back of my head, I felt a strange sensation run through my body. It was very odd, and I wasn't sure I liked it, but suddenly I didn't think that performance would be a problem...

Artwork:

Hope by  br0-Harry

Chapter Text

JOHN P.O.V.

The first time I kissed Sherlock Holmes was just a 'warm-up', the barest brushing of my lips over his... more an announcement of intent really.

I was honour bound to kiss him 'properly' so, in accordance with my promise, I put all thoughts of deals, gender issues and consequences firmly out of my head and focused only on what I was doing, concentrating on the physical sensations and his reactions.

As I slid my left hand up into his surprisingly soft hair, I kissed him again, still chastely, but with a little more pressure this time. My hand twisted in his curls, tugging slightly and his lips parted a fraction in surprise – I took the opportunity to briefly touch the tip of my tongue to his lower lip.

I knew this was more or less completely new to him and I didn't want to startle or overwhelm him. I had also found his matter of fact statement that 'this might be the only kiss he ever had' strangely touching. Any fleeting thoughts I may have entertained about being overly forceful and deliberately putting him off, had fizzled out there and then, leaving an echo of shame in their wake.

Pressing forward once more, I took his lower lip between my own and sucked gently. His whole body shivered and I started to pull back to check he was OK, but his mouth followed me blindly and his hands moved to my upper arms; not grabbing, but holding on, as if to ensure I didn't stop.

I went for his top lip this time, again sucking very lightly, waiting to see what he would do. After a moment, he seemed to catch on and took my bottom lip in turn, then I felt the tentative touch of his tongue running delicately along the inner edge of my lip. It was my turn to shiver, I hadn't realised I was so sensitive.

Without conscious thought, my right hand slowly moved from cupping his cheek, sliding up along the length of his jaw, until my fingers were stroking the side of his neck and the delicate skin around his ear, my other hand taking a firmer grip in his hair - tugging again, as he seemed to like that last time.

He let out a small gasp and I turned my head to the side to fit our mouths together, running the tip of my tongue along the seam of his lips until he parted them. I paused, just licking delicately at the corners of his mouth, giving him time to adjust to the new sensation, until I felt his own tongue just barely touch mine before darting away, returning moments later to try again.

It was a heady feeling to be teaching this man something, to be the leader for once instead of forever chasing his coat-tails. It made me feel powerful and, I have to admit, I liked that feeling.

He became more assured, his tongue bolder as it traced my lips, and his hands began to move – one slipping under my arm and around my back, where he grabbed a fistful of my jumper, and the other rising up the side of my neck, stroking around my ear as I was doing to him, his long fingers pushing into my hair. Damn, that felt good.

I sucked on his bottom lip again, this time nibbling slightly with my teeth, and he drew in a surprised breath, before taking my top lip and copying my actions. I guessed it should come as no surprise that he was a quick learner.

We continued like this for a little while, parting briefly only to come together again. As his confidence grew, his naturally dominant personality started to reassert itself, his hand tightening in my hair as he leaned his body forward, attempting to control my movements and take over. There was no way I was going to allow that...

I suppose I could have pulled away at that point and declared the experiment over, but after everything he had put me through this last week I felt a need to re-establish myself as the leader in this one thing, if in no other areas of our lives.

Pressing back against him, I angled my head and pushed my tongue into his mouth, exploring him carefully and thoroughly, before pulling back slightly, knowing that he would imitate my actions. Indeed, as soon as my tongue withdrew, his followed, and I immediately started sucking on it, causing his body to jump in my arms and his heart to start thundering against my chest, where he was tight against me. After a few moments, I released his mouth, dropping my right hand from his neck to rest at his waist and kissing along his jaw line until I reached the pulse point just below his ear, which I sucked hard, letting him feel my teeth.

His moan was shockingly loud in the quiet of the flat and his head fell back against the support of my hand, which was still tangled in his hair. He was breathing heavily and to see him like this, with all his outward persona stripped away, was a revelation. I suddenly felt incredibly honoured to be the only person he trusted enough to lower his defences for, and Mycroft's words came back to me as I looked at him.

Sherlock truly was a genius, his incredible intellect placing him so far above the rest of us that he seemed almost other-worldly at times. He had credited me with treating him like a human being, but in truth I really viewed him as something set apart from us mere mortals; not necessarily better, but definitely different and essentially important. Perhaps that was why kissing him did not feel wrong in the way that I thought it should.

I had always been completely heterosexual, never feeling the remotest flicker of attraction towards another man, even in Afghanistan where options were limited and blind eyes were turned. However, as I raised Sherlock's head and pressed my lips to his once more, I started to understand what he had told me the night before. It wasn't that I was kissing another man, although there was nothing effeminate about Sherlock with his deep voice and tall, surprisingly strong body; it was that I was kissing Sherlock.

I, plain, boring, ordinary John Watson, with his bad shoulder and sporadically dodgy leg, was kissing the extraordinary and unique Sherlock Holmes who, with a modicum of effort, could probably have anybody he wanted – but he didn't want anyone else, he'd never wanted anyone else, he only wanted me. However much of a headache that had given me over the past twenty-four hours, I had to admit that it was hugely flattering.

He was kissing me in earnest now, his tongue exploring my mouth, and he was clearly recorded my every reaction, repeating anything which made me shiver, learning what I liked, learning probably more than I knew myself. I'd seen what he could do, how much information he was capable of absorbing in moments. To have all of that focus, all of that attention, concentrated solely on me was intoxicating.

As he pulled back slightly to stare at me intently for a moment, before pressing forward once again, I conceded to myself that this experiment was not going at all as I had thought it would.

I started to lose track of what I was doing and why, there was only the feeling and taste of Sherlock, his hand in my hair, his tongue in my mouth, his scent surrounding me, I felt as if I was drowning.

Unthinkingly, I pushed forward, wrapping my arm more tightly around him, and he overbalanced, falling backwards onto the carpet with a grunt which shocked me out of the lustful haze I had slipped into. His hold on my jumper reflexively tightened as he fell and I landed next to him, winded, before rolling onto my back. We lay side by side for a moment, breathing hard, then turned to look at each other.

"That," he said, pausing to catch his breath, "was amazing!"

I could only nod in agreement.

Chapter Text

SHERLOCK P.O.V.

I lay back on the carpet with my head turned to look at John, who was looking back at me with an expression I could only describe as 'dazed'. My mind felt strangely jumbled, which was very disconcerting.

"Is kissing always like that?" I demanded, which, very unusually for me, was not what I had intended to say at all.

He chuckled. "Not in my experience," he replied, still slightly breathless.

I rolled onto my side so that I was facing him and propped my head up on one hand. "So, would you say that it 'felt right and was something we both enjoyed'?" I asked, quoting his earlier requirement, this being the question I had meant to pose in the first place.

He looked at me blankly. Clearly his brain was slower to recover than mine, which was only to be expected.

I raised my eyebrows at him, allowing my gaze to drop pointedly down his body, before rising to his face again. If he was about to claim that he hadn't enjoyed kissing me, I would have to draw his attention to the very significant indication that he had, indeed, enjoyed it very much!

Involuntarily, my eyes dropped again... fascinating. My hand reached out without any decision being made on my part, but John grabbed my wrist almost as soon as I started moving.

"Sherlock!" he warned, in a strangled voice, raising my wrist to chest level between us and holding it there, as if he didn't quite know what to do with it.

I looked back up at him. He had turned his head and was staring straight up at the ceiling, his face flushed. Fearing another sexual identity crisis which would cause him to retreat from me again, I wriggled towards him, easing my wrist free and placing my hand against the side of his face. His expression tightened for a moment, then he sighed and turned his head into my palm.

I felt a momentary arrhythmia, which was odd, but I ignored it. John was clearly in need of some comfort and reassurance and if, as I assumed from the evidence, we were now a couple, it was undoubtedly my responsibility to provide it.

Applying a little gentle pressure, I turned his face towards me. His eyes were filled with confusion; could it be that he was doubting our agreement? I wanted to reason with him and point out that he was the one who had stipulated the terms of the deal and insisted on the 'no reneging' aspect, but I recalled that logic had not swayed him in our previous discussions.

My mind raced, flicking through all the occasions when he had reacted favourably towards me – his face when I told him he treated me like a human being, or that his might be the only kiss I ever had, his defence of me in Lestrade's office when he thought I was hurt. I deduced that he responded best to my perceived emotional needs, which was ridiculous really as these were actually minimal, but was in accordance with his caring nature.

Armed with this deduction, I stroked his face gently; allowing my thumb to sweep over his cheekbone in what I hoped was a tender manner. "Give me a chance, John," I murmured, holding his gaze and widening my eyes slightly. "Give us a chance. I promise I won't rush you into anything, no pressure, we can just take it slowly, nothing really has to change in our lives, except..." I broke off, looking down for a moment.

"Except what?" he asked, turning on to his side so we were facing each other fully and tucking his hand beneath his cheek, my own hand slipping from his face to rest on the carpet between us.

I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to be in a lower position to improve his confidence, but could find no real way to achieve this as he was lying on the floor. I lowered the hand which had been propping up my chin and mirrored his position, so that at least my head was level with his, rather than looking down at him – that would have to do, for now.

"Except," I continued, glancing up at him through my eyelashes, "would you mind not dating other people?" I paused, looking down again. "I hate it when you go out with women; I'm always afraid that one of them will turn out to be the one who takes you away from me." As this was, in fact, the true root and motivation of my recent actions, it was not difficult to make my voice sound husky - it even cracked a little on the last few words, which was an unexpected bonus.

His eyes widened in surprise. "You mean you're jealous?" he demanded, looking taken aback.

I squirmed a little, as such a ridiculous emotion was, of course, an anathema to me, but his meaning was close enough; I nodded, lowering my eyes again.

Silence. I peeked back up and he was staring at me; disbelief, affection and a hint of pride all at war in his expression. I felt his hand cover my own, lacing our fingers together, then pulling my hand up to rest on his cheek again.

"I don't really know what's happening to me, Sherlock," he explained. "I'm disoriented and I'm not sure what to do with all these feelings." He paused, his eyes searching my face, before releasing my hand and moving his own to graze my cheek, his fingers softly running through the hair behind my ear.

"It's going to take me a while to come to terms with this," he continued. "And I'm not sure about much right now." His hand suddenly stopped stroking and moved to cup my jaw. "But I can promise you that there will be no more women for the foreseeable future."

I found that I was smiling widely at him and he grinned back, looking a little rueful.

"Right at this moment," he added. "I can't imagine kissing anyone but you." He suited the action to the word, kissing me briefly before sitting up. "How about a Chinese?" he asked, clearly needing a break from the intensity of the day. "Apparently, you can always tell a good one by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

The ensuing week was very interesting. In some ways, our lives did not change at all – John was adamant that our relationship remain completely private for the time being, so our behaviour outside of the flat was exactly as normal.

Obviously this was irrelevant to my stated goal, so I raised no objection, although I could not avoid a slight feeling of dissatisfaction over the situation. The only discernible drawback was that John still appeared to be available, so women might approach him with romantic intentions, but I had no doubts whatsoever of his absolute loyalty so could not establish the source of my unease, which was irritating.

Things at home, however, had altered significantly. At first I was unsure what level of affection John would require on a day to day basis. Attempting, as planned, to take on a more submissive role initially, I had offered several times to make tea but he seemed to feel strongly that tea-making was part of his normal routine which he did not want to change and had declined so emphatically that I had given up, instead merely trying to purchase milk more regularly so that he could proceed without difficulty himself.

Our armchairs had been abandoned and were now full of books, case notes and what was left of Mrs Hudson's carpet sweeper after an unfortunate attempt at crime scene reconstruction.

John could now usually be found on the sofa, sitting at one end with a medical journal or occasionally his laptop (if I wasn't using it) and with me draped across him in some way, typically with my feet in his lap as I stretched out across all the seats. This had the dual benefit of being close to my usual pose and thus comfortable for me, and bringing me down to below his level physically, as per my current plan.

Occasionally, he would want me to join him in watching some mindless drivel on the television, and for this I would turn around the other way. He seemed to enjoy playing with my hair in this situation, stroking his fingers through it and brushing it away from my face. Perhaps this had some therapeutic value, as I understand that people who regularly stroke domestic animals tend to live longer. I wondered if John would like to have a pet, perhaps a Bulldog, but decided against it - John would certainly prefer to pet me over any animal. I would just have to make myself available sufficiently regularly for John to accrue any associated health benefits.

The morning after our first kiss had been awkward at first, with neither of us quite sure how to act. I observed John carefully as he pottered around in the kitchen, not knowing whether to approach him or to go and sit down. He kept glancing over at me and I gave him a small smile, which was perhaps lacking in its usual confidence because he suddenly put down his butter knife, came over and pulled me into his arms.

I immediately sank down to perch a hip on the kitchen table in order to reduce my height, and he hugged me, not saying anything, just embracing me, with one arm around my body and the other stretching up so his hand was on the back of my neck. I tentatively raised my own arms to emulate his position and we just stayed like that for several minutes. I was aware that his toast would be getting cold, but I didn't say anything – perhaps, when you are in a relationship, hugs come before toast?

It was a week on from that morning when we were called to the scene of a rather pedestrian double murder in Croydon. There was nothing particularly interesting about the case, but I did note on arrival the distinctly frosty atmosphere between Anderson and Sergeant Donovan. A glance at Anderson's shirt, in conjunction with the stiffness of his gait, and Sally's reversion to her own deodorant, indicated that Anderson's wife had returned and Sergeant Donovan had been given her marching orders.

I had just opened my mouth to make an observation about Anderson having spent the night on his own sofa, when John caught my eye and shook his head slightly. It was very doubtful that he had reached a similar conclusion to myself, but he seemed to have a knack of knowing when I was about to say something inflammatory. I'm not sure how he does that... it's interesting.

I grinned at him in admission, only to be distracted by a snort to my right - Sally was gaping at me.

"What is that?" she exclaimed, raising her hand to point straight at my face.

John looked round sharply, but I just shrugged my shoulders at him. "What?" I asked her impatiently.

"That!" she replied, maintaining the annoying pointing. "That thing that was on your face just then." She rolled her eyes. "Did Sherlock Holmes actually crack a smile? Has the world stopped turning? My God!" she exclaimed, seemingly very amused by her own sarcasm. "Someone phone Gatwick and warn them about the flying pigs!" She stomped off, laughing bitterly to herself. It didn't take a consulting detective to establish that she was unhappy about being dumped, even by such a lowly specimen as Anderson.

John was frowning, always so concerned for me, but I shook my head to indicate he should just ignore it and he followed me in to the scene without comment. The bodies had been abandoned in the corner of a large warehouse and I moved forward with Lestrade to examine them in more detail.

After a couple of minutes I was distracted by a choked sound from nearby and I looked up to see Anderson staring at something behind me, with a strange expression on his face - a most peculiar mixture of anger, longing and disgust. I looked around, but could only see John, who was talking to Sally. I looked again. Actually John was just listening to Sally, and she was batting her eyes at him and standing too close, shooting a glance across to Anderson every few seconds.

Logically, it was clear that she was just attempting to provoke jealousy in the lover who had jilted her, but she was standing far too close to John, there was no question about that. I looked to Lestrade; surely he would do something about this unprofessional behaviour? He wasn't even paying attention, off talking to one of the forensics team.

John had folded his arms now and was clearly uncomfortable. Sally edged even closer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Anderson start to turn away and Sally put her hand on John's chest, right over his heart.

I was in front of her before she felt more than a single beat, picking her hand off him by the wrist and dropping it in disgust. "Do you mind?" I snarled at her. "Considering where your hands have been," I nodded towards Anderson, who had turned back at the commotion. "I'll thank you to keep them off my..." I paused, my usually unfailing brain for once letting me down.

"Off your what?" she sneered, clearly shaken by my sudden appearance. "Your little pet? Your tame soldier? Your dog?"

I think I actually growled. "He is mine!" I snapped at her and, it would seem when I looked around, everyone else in the building also, since they were all staring open mouthed at the scene before them.

I turned slowly to face John, who was standing behind me, still with his arms crossed. He was glaring.

Not good.

Artwork for this chapter:

Hugs Before Toast sketch,  and Hugs Before Toast, both by tigerkatz.

Chapter Text

JOHN P.O.V.

The taxi ride home from the crime scene was made in ominous silence.

I was quietly fuming and Sherlock had adopted the sullen attitude popular among small children who know they've done something wrong but still profoundly resent being told off for it.

On the plus side, at least no one had jumped to the conclusion that seemed to me, in my self-consciousness, so glaringly apparent. Straight after Sherlock had dropped his bombshell, Sally had started howling with laughter.

"Surprise, surprise," she chortled loudly. "The psychopath doesn't want to share his toys!" She backed away, which was a wise move because Sherlock looked as though he felt the crime scene would be greatly enhanced by the addition of another body.

"You can't own a person, you freak," she berated him. "Just because he follows you around, doesn't make him your possession." She turned to me. "I warned you, John... I warned you to stay away from him and now look how he's treating you." She shook her head. "I don't know how you put up with him!"

"Neither do I," was my grim response... half relieved and half indignant at her assumption that I was some kind of pathetic doormat, but still furious with Sherlock. His head snapped towards me and he started doing that wide eyed thing he does when he wants something, or when he's blown up the microwave again; did he really think I hadn't worked that one out by now?

I regarded him stonily. "I'll wait outside," I told him, before turning on my heel and stalking off, receiving several supportive shoulder slaps on the way out – clearly everyone had accepted Sally's conclusion and thought I was a complete mug, but I supposed it was better than them knowing the truth...

I left Sherlock to pay for the taxi and marched ahead into the flat, intending to clear his crap off my armchair in protest. Unfortunately, I had forgotten the recent addition of some sort of electrical device to the experiment currently underway on my chair, and I most definitely didn't want to mess with that. I headed for the kettle in disgust.

I was aware of Sherlock lurking in the doorway just behind me, and I held on to the worktop tightly for a couple of minutes, working up a good head of steam before turning on him.

"What the bloody hell..." I poked him in the chest, "...do you think..." I poked him again, "...you are playing at?" A harder poke this time and he fell back a little, looking startled.

"Did we not agree," I demanded, still advancing on him, "to keep this..." I waved my hand between the two of us, "...whatever it is, private?" He just looked at me.

I wagged my finger at him. "Don't you widen those eyes at me, Sherlock Holmes!" I exclaimed, part of my brain aware that I appeared to be doing a convincing impression of my own mother.

"Is it not the case," I continued, "that we sat on that very sofa," I pointed, "only a week ago," My God, was it only a week? "and discussed this very issue?" There was a reluctant nod... he had his head down, and his chin out.

"As I recall," I was really getting into my stride now, "I stated that this was a big step for both of us and that we should most definitely keep it to ourselves for the foreseeable future, until we both felt more comfortable." I paused, glaring at him. It was a waste of a perfectly good glare, as he wouldn't look at me.

"At that point, did you not say, and I quote, 'That's fine with me, John. I have no preference either way'?" He seemed fascinated by the carpet. Any minute now he was just going to put his fingers in his ears.

"Sherlock?" I insisted, and he shrugged his shoulders, still keeping his head down sulkily. Yep, definitely working an emotional age of around eight to nine at the moment.

I sighed and lowered my voice a little. "So why don't you tell me what went wrong today, Sherlock?" I asked him. "What made you suddenly decide that today was the perfect day to out me to half of Scotland Yard?"

He muttered something under his breath. Honestly, he already had his hands in his pockets, I half expected him to start scuffing the toe of his shoe on the carpet.

"Sherlock!" I nearly yelled at him.

When he looked up, his eyes were blazing, the sulky child suddenly nowhere to be seen. "She touched you, John," he said, pointing at my chest. "She had her hand right there."

I couldn't believe it. "Are you saying you betrayed my trust because you were jealous of me and Sergeant Donovan?" I demanded incredulously. "Are you insane?"

"I was not jealous," he denied, in a disgusted tone. "I just..." He hesitated. "I didn't like it," he added, his voice lower. He was glaring at my chest now, as if he could still see the imprint of Sally's hand. "You should take off that jumper," he said suddenly.

"What?" I asked, bemused by this apparently random instruction.

"Jumper off!" he repeated, moving towards me. "There's no telling where Sally's hands have been, that jumper needs washing, at the very least." He was closing in on me now, his hands outstretched.

"What do you mean 'at the very least'?" I protested - this was one of my favourite jumpers! "What are you doing? Get off!" His hands were on my hips, gripping the bottom of my jumper and trying to pull it up.

"Might be safer to burn it," he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I was trying to bat his hands away, but he was very persistent. This was ludicrous... we were virtually wrestling now, with him trying to pull my jumper up and me pushing it down, both equally determined. Well, I was determined - he was just being ridiculous.

We struggled across the room until he'd got me up against the wall, when he suddenly stilled. My clothing had become quite dishevelled during the course of our 'discussion', with both my jumper and shirt getting rucked up to somewhere around my ribs. His hands were now on my bare waist and he flexed them gently, smoothing them over my skin, his thumbs rotating in a circular pattern. My breath caught.

Since that mind-blowing kiss a week ago, we had not taken our physical relationship any further or, indeed, as far again. Our behaviour had changed significantly, but it was such a radical shift for both of us that we needed time to to get used to it gradually. There had been lots of hugs, cuddling and fairly chaste kisses, but that was it, clothes had remained firmly in place.

Sherlock was looking down at his hands, which were now definitely stroking over the skin of my abdomen and lower back. His gaze moved up to my face and his eyes were black, the pupils enormous. I stared back at him, imagining my eyes probably looked the same. How was this possible? He was touching only what I had previously thought of as a 'low-key' area, not particularly sensitive or remarkable in any way. Hell, I wasn't even ticklish! And yet, with just his hands stroking over my skin I could feel heat curling low in my belly and the desire for more becoming stronger, even though I was nowhere near ready for what 'more' was likely to entail. His eyes were flicking to my mouth and it was clear where this was headed...

Suddenly, I remembered that I was angry with him. Was he just trying to distract me? I put my hands on his chest and shoved him away and he staggered back, looking completely dazed and bewildered. OK, maybe not a deliberate ploy then, but still... I straightened my clothing and pushed away from the wall.

"I am angry with you, Sherlock," I told him, in as calm a voice as I could manage. "What you did today was unfair and unreasonable." I turned away. "I'm going up to my room for a bit; I'll talk to you later."

I saw my laptop, which I hardly ever got to use, sitting on the arm of the sofa and detoured slightly to pick it up. "And I'm taking my laptop!" I announced on my way out the door, which undeniably added a touch of 'So there!' to what had been a dignified exit, but what can you do?

In my room, I sat on the bed and half-heartedly booted up the laptop. I spent ten minutes staring at my blog, but what could I really write?

'Snogged my flat-mate under duress... went surprisingly well'?

'Am in gay relationship, even though the thought of having sex with a man gives me the willies'? I chuckled a bit at that one.

In the end, I switched the laptop off again and just lay back on my bed, thinking about the last week.

Kissing Sherlock had completely turned my life upside down. If I had known beforehand what would happen, would I still have done it? After his performance today, I was tempted to say 'No,' but if I was honest (and if you can't be honest in your head, it's time to stop talking to yourself), this week had been amazing.

Although I'd dated many women over the years, I'd never lived with any of them, so the 'domestic bliss' side of things was an unexpected bonus. I had found that I loved just sitting with Sherlock on the sofa - especially watching television, when he would lie with his head in my lap so that I could stroke his hair. He was like a cat wanting to be petted; if my hand stopped moving, perhaps at an exciting moment in the programme, he would nudge against it until normal service was resumed... I don't think he was even aware he was doing it.

I smiled to myself. Sherlock was actually surprisingly tactile with me, considering his extreme aloofness with everyone else. He didn't usually initiate things, seeming to prefer for me to take the lead, but he had a particular smile... slightly uncertain, a little bit tentative, which had first appeared the morning after that incredible kiss. He had been hovering around the kitchen, watching me then looking away, clearly unsure of how to act, when that nervous smile made its first appearance. Ever since, I've thought of it as his 'Can I have a hug?' smile, since he might as well have been carrying a neon sign that morning.

Actually, hugging him was another thing I would have to add to my 'Top Five Activities' list. He always snuggled right into my neck and held on tightly, and he always seemed to need to sit down, or at least perch on something, which I found a little odd, but accepted as one of his many quirks. Cold toast was a small price to pay.

A glance at my watch showed I'd been up here for an hour. I was starting to calm down; after all, it seemed his slip had not actually given us away and I supposed I could understand him being a bit possessive considering how new all this was to him. He was still very much in the early stages of learning about how relationships worked. Rolling off the bed, I opened my bedroom door and made my way downstairs.

It seemed very warm in the living room and I hoped Sherlock hadn't been experimenting using the oven again; it had taken me over an hour to clean it the last time. He was standing by the window, but turned to face me when I came in, looking a bit sheepish.

"Hi," I said awkwardly. He smiled widely, clearly hoping he was forgiven.

"What have you been doing?" I asked him. "It's really hot in here."

"Oh, just an experiment," he told me. There was something a little off about his response, but I couldn't put my finger on it. "You're right though, it does seem warm." He took off his jacket, also undoing the top two buttons of his shirt – he was wearing the purple silky one and it suddenly struck me how much it suited him, with his pale skin and dark hair.

What was I thinking? I'd never noticed what a man was wearing before. I'd be reading Cosmo next! I decided a cold beer would make a suitably manly refreshment and headed to the fridge, pulling off my suddenly over-warm jumper as I went. Unfortunately, there was no beer, the fridge being absolutely full of milk, in addition to the normal miscellaneous body parts (I wondered idly when body parts in the fridge had become normal?)

Ever since I had persuaded Sherlock that tea making was absolutely not his area, he had started bringing home milk almost every time he went out, presenting me with the cartons as if they were trophies he'd brought back from battle. Between that and his constantly wanting to kiss me on the stairs (the only place he ever initiated anything), I could swear the man was actually getting odder. Pouring a glass of water instead, I headed back into the living room, dropping my jumper on the arm of the sofa, when I noticed a rather smug expression crossing Sherlock's face.

"What?" I demanded – clearly he was up to something.

"What?" he replied in kind, somewhat unconvincingly, I might add.

I looked round nervously, not wanting to find myself suddenly standing in something squishy. Sherlock's eyes flicked to the sofa and he seemed unable to repress a small smirk. I followed his gaze and saw he was looking at... my jumper. I glanced back at the kitchen. The oven wasn't on and there was no new experiment that I could see. With dawning awareness I turned to look at the thermostat, which was turned much higher than normal.

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed, walking over to turn the temperature down to 'human' instead of 'char-grilled'. I looked back at him and he just shrugged at me, grinning broadly.

"I remembered Aesop, John," he explained. I must have looked blank, because he carried on. "As a child, I had a book of Aesop's Fables." He smiled in remembrance. "The North Wind and the Sun had a contest to establish who was the strongest, by seeing who could make a man remove his cloak."

I began to see where he was going with this.

"However hard the North Wind blew," he continued, "the man only wrapped his cloak tighter."

I remembered my grim determination to hold on to my jumper when he was trying to remove it.

"But when the Sun shone, he was overcome with heat and had to take it off."

I said nothing, and he started to look worried. "You're not cross again, are you?" he enquired anxiously. "You can keep the jumper if you really want to…"

I shook my head at him, slowly. "Bugger the jumper," I told him. "Come here, you ridiculous man."

He bounded across the room, quickly lowering himself onto the arm of the sofa (I noticed he pushed the offending jumper onto the floor in the same movement), then pulling me into his arms.

Half an hour later we were watching some crappy game show and flicking popcorn at each other.

Artwork for this chapter:

Milk For You, by krusca

On The Stairs, by 0redwolf0

Chapter Text

SHERLOCK P.O.V.

As I worked on an experiment later that night, I felt relieved that our fight was over. My studies had indicated that the first fight was a crucial stage of any relationship and it was encouraging to have got it out of the way so early, since there was no mention of subsequent disagreements being as significant.

Really the whole thing had probably worked out for the best, although I had not enjoyed John being so angry with me – it was not as if he had wanted the attentions of Sergeant Donovan, or been interested in her, after all. I had been forced to accept his point regarding my actions, however. The agreement to keep our relationship secret, for now, had been made and I could see that this was important to John, so I would have to refrain from similar outbursts in the future.

I considered how best to manage the situation, as clearly it was not acceptable for John to be mauled by an array of strange women and/or men when out in public. Perhaps keeping him closer to me would be effective – with my advanced powers of observation, I would be able to anticipate any imminent approaches and thus steer any potential admirers away. I resolved not to leave John unattended in the future.

My experiment was well in hand and required little further attention at present, so I spent some time reviewing the events of the evening, which had taken a surprising turn later on...

After the popcorn was finished, we had settled side by side on the sofa to watch an extremely predictable 'detective' programme (if you could call them detectives) and I had noticed John gazing at me with increasing frequency. His attention seemed to be drawn particularly to my neck area, for some reason.

"Do I still have some popcorn on me?" I asked him, unfastening a third button to check if any had made its way inside my shirt.

"Hmm?" he queried, in a most distracted manner.

I studied him more closely. Pupils dilated, more so than one would expect even in the relatively low lighting, breathing a little shallow, heart rate slightly elevated; it would appear that John was becoming aroused.

I glanced at the television, but the cast of this particular show were mostly middle aged, and singularly unattractive, so I did not think that could be the cause. Also, although he was facing the television, he had actually been looking at me for the last half hour, only turning to regard the screen if I moved or looked around. This was interesting.

Although John had most certainly been aroused by our kiss the week before, since then I had not observed any similar signs, with the exception of during our tussle this afternoon. I had, in fact, been growing a little concerned that he would never really be physically attracted to me, other than as a result of direct stimulation. Obviously, this was not important to me in itself, as long as his needs were ultimately satisfied, but it might perhaps render him more susceptible to temptation elsewhere. However, his current preoccupation would seem to indicate that his feelings may be changing.

With the preliminary conclusion decided, it was time to test my hypothesis… I started to unfasten the rest of my buttons.

"What… what are you doing?" stuttered John, clearly disconcerted; although I noted that his heart and breathing rates had increased even further.

"Checking for popcorn," I explained, completely untruthfully. I was down to the lowest button now, leaving my shirt tucked into my black trousers, but completely open down the front. "I think some may have got inside my shirt."

I paused, regarding him carefully. His eyes were glued to the strip of skin visible down the front of my body and his hands were twitching. My theory was looking increasingly accurate.

"Could you help me?" I asked him, sitting forward and turning towards him slightly. "I can't reach round the back..."

His eyes shot up to my face and he froze, staring at me, clearly realising that I was fully aware of the direction his thoughts had taken. Interestingly, I found it very difficult to predict what he would do. He looked torn between what he felt he should do, which was to laugh it off and turn away, and what it seemed he wanted to do, which was to touch me. Possibly he was also concerned about where it would lead if he did touch me, as he was plainly far from ready for a full sexual encounter.

Slowly, he reached out his right hand and slipped it under my shirt front, placing it on the bare skin over my heart. I realised that I should have anticipated his action - he may be hesitant, and he may be feeling out of his depth, but my John certainly does not lack for courage.

The room was a little hot after my earlier experiment, but his hand still felt incredibly warm on my chest. Leaning on me slightly, he turned his body on the seat so that he was completely facing me, then slid his hand up my neck, bringing his left hand to the other side. His fingers played briefly in the hair at my nape, giving a slight tug, which should probably hurt but strangely didn't, then moved down so that his thumbs were running along my collar bones. Gradually his hands moved over my chest, the pressure lightening as his palms skimmed my nipples.

I jumped – that felt most peculiar. It occurred to me that John's needs were not being attended to and I reached for his buttons, but his hands slapped down over mine immediately, holding them trapped against his chest. He looked at me with doubt in his eyes, obviously worried about how far I wanted to take this.

"Just shirts, John." I attempted to reassure him. "Just our shirts, I promise." I smiled at him. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

He took a deep breath. "OK," he said, releasing my hands and lowering his own for the moment.

I made quick work of his buttons, pulling his shirt up out of his trousers at the same time, but I didn't take it off completely yet, so as not to spook him. I paused, regarding him carefully. Usually I only initiated kisses on the stairs, when he was a step above me, but I was feeling the strongest urge to kiss him now, presumably because my subconscious had calculated that this was the appropriate thing to do. I leaned forward tentatively, and he met me half way.

The kiss was gentle at first, like the others we had shared this week, but it soon became increasingly fierce. I felt John's hands reach for my shoulders and he pushed my shirt completely off, before sliding his hands down over my chest again while I wriggled out of the sleeves and threw the garment to the floor. As soon as my arms were free I brought both hands to his head, holding him to me, while he turned his wrists so that his fingers were splayed out across my upper ribs on each side. I was just considering what to do next when he started rubbing his thumbs over my nipples and my brain seemed to seize up. Seconds later I found that I was no longer kissing John, in fact I was gripping his shoulders to support myself, and my breathing had become unaccountably heavy.

John chuckled. "You like that, eh?" he asked me. I just gaped at him. "Let's see what else you like," he said, and pushed me backwards until I was lying down on the sofa, flat on my back.

He slipped off his own shirt before straddling me, with a knee on each side of my hips, then he paused, leaning forward slightly and supporting himself on one hand. He brought up his other hand and smoothed the hair away from my face, in a curiously tender gesture which made my throat feel slightly strange - as if it were difficult to swallow, although I could not make any connection between cause and effect, which was odd.

"Are you all right?" he asked me gently. I just nodded, as my voice did not seem to be working properly – perhaps a piece of popcorn from earlier had caused a blockage of some kind?

He lowered his head slowly and kissed me again, but soon his lips trailed away from my mouth and started to move down my neck. I raised my arms to smooth my hands over his warm back as he started kissing his way down my chest, which I would have to admit felt extraordinarily nice, until he closed his mouth around my left nipple and sucked...

I had once received a quite significant electric shock, and this was a surprisingly similar sensation, although there was no associated pain this time. My back arched up involuntarily and I may have cried out, although I have no idea what I said. He released me and I sank back down to the sofa, finding it difficult to catch my breath. This was most peculiar; I'm quite certain I have never read of any connection between the nipples and the brain, and yet it seemed that direct stimulation of one caused some kind of short circuit in the other – surely some research must have been done into such a phenomenon?

John was smiling down at me, looking just a trifle smug, but mostly affectionate. "Well, I think we may have found a couple of 'hot spots'," he remarked.

While I approved of his scientific logging of the relevant information, I did feel at something of a disadvantage. Wondering if he were equally sensitive, I raised my head and endeavoured to find out.

We spent almost an hour lying together on the sofa, and I found the experience extremely informative. John's body was very different to mine, being much more compact and solid. His muscles were well developed and there was a light dusting of hair across his chest which I found very appealing – presumably because I had none myself.

I was carefully noting his reactions in order to be an effective partner in the future, and he seemed to be doing the same, which encouraged me that he anticipated our relationship progressing. John's nipples were also responsive, although not quite to the extreme degree that mine seemed to be; perhaps I would become desensitised in time, which would be helpful as it was inconvenient to have my brain rendered ineffective so easily.

He also particularly enjoyed attention around the base of his neck, just above his collar bones, and I was concentrating on this area when he groaned surprisingly loudly. We had been lying side by side at the time, but he now rolled me on to my back and, for the first time, lay down fully on top of me, so that his skin was touching mine from belly to chest. I barely had time to register the new sensations before his mouth descended and he started kissing me deeply, holding my head in place with his hands and sucking my tongue into his mouth.

My brain seemed in danger of overloading again, and I began to worry about the long term effects of such extreme awareness, but was distracted by John's chest hair rubbing against me… I could also feel the trail of hair lower on his belly which I had noted earlier. Logically, this should not intrigue me so much, as I had a similar pattern of hair myself, but I had found myself strangely fascinated by it.

I brought my hands up to John's shoulders and stroked down... skimming my nails lightly along his spine and drawing another deep moan from his chest, although he did not release my mouth this time. My hands continued on their journey, until I found that I was holding his hips and pulling him into me - a move which I had not intended. It seemed that my brain had been more seriously affected by this experience than I had realised.

John pulled his head up sharply and raised his upper body away from me, propping himself on his elbows, although this had the additional effect of pushing his hips down further, so that we rubbed together once more. He groaned and dropped his forehead to mine, clearly trying to get his breathing, and his body, under control.

I released his hips and started stroking my hands up and down his back in an attempt to soothe him – I did not want John to become alarmed and withdraw from our arrangement, it was very important that things moved forward only at a pace for which he was ready. Strangely, I no longer felt any hesitancy myself, despite the newness of all this to me. Whenever John wanted to move forward, I would be very willing to accommodate him.

He seemed to be calming a little now, his breath fanning over my face more regularly and, after another minute, he kissed me briefly then rolled to the side. "Second base," he chuckled. "I feel like a teenager again."

I regarded him enquiringly, but he just shook his head at me. "Non-essential data," he explained, then turned on to his side. I did the same and he raised his hand to my face, stroking my hair back as he so often did. "Are you OK?" he asked me gently.

I nodded, although I did feel his word choice was somewhat inadequate. "Are you?" I enquired in turn and he smiled.

"I'm good," he said. "Although that's about my limit for the moment." He looked a little hesitant. "I hope you understand?" he added. "This is a big adjustment for me. My body may be telling me one thing, but my brain is saying another."

Considering the situation with regard to my nipples, I didn't feel in a position to critique his brain activity during this type of experience, so I just smiled as reassuringly as possible. "It's fine, John," I told him. "It's all fine."

Soon after that he had taken himself off to bed, leaving me to work as I did not feel remotely fatigued.

Shaking my head a little, I focused on my current project once more. I must have been reminiscing for longer than I realised, as the experiment had already run its course, so I was able to write up the results as to the spread pattern of various acids on woollen material straight away. It was a very important experiment, which needed to be completed as a matter of urgency, so I was sure that John would understand.

I would buy him a new jumper anyway.

Chapter Text

JOHN P.O.V.

I woke up from an increasingly recurrent dream about being swallowed by an octopus.

In the month since our epic 'making out like a pair of teenagers' session on the sofa, things had changed. They had changed a lot. I thought back to that night, which stood out as something of a milestone - it being the first time that I had found myself sexually attracted to Sherlock without him first touching me. There had just been something about him, as he sat on the sofa with his top two buttons unfastened and the light from the television flickering over his features, highlighting his cheekbones and the hollow at the base of his throat. I had found myself virtually unable to look away and had gradually been overcome by the urge to touch him, to run my hands - and later my lips - over those collar bones, and more.

Of course Sherlock, being Sherlock, seemed to know exactly what was going on in my head, as he had proven with his slow striptease… still, I could hardly complain about that now.

I turned over, with difficulty. It had been around a week after that, a week filled with more kissing, groping and generally making out than I had experienced since my college days, that Sherlock had first expressed concern about my nightmares, wanting to know their frequency (at least one a week), if I had trouble getting back to sleep after them (I did), and if there was anything which helped to keep them at bay (not that I'd found so far).

I answered his questions, but he didn't explain, distracting me instead with a passionate kiss against the fridge door (he seemed to have got over his fixation with the stairs, thank goodness). Part of my mind was concerned that rocking the fridge was an extraordinarily bad idea, likely to result in a bunch of grapes with optional eyeballs, but as he sucked on my neck, careful since our 'keep it a secret' fight to stay below shirt collar level, I found myself not caring so much.

If I had considered his line of questioning more calmly, perhaps I would have been less surprised that night when I walked into my room to find him lying on my bed in his pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown, his bare feet looking almost obscenely naked as they hung off the end of the quilt.

I froze in the doorway. "Sherlock?" I questioned him hesitantly, wondering for a moment if I had wandered into the wrong room. I glanced around – no, it was definitely my room and my bed, with my… whatever he was, lying on it.

He looked up. "Ah, John," he observed, as if we were meeting for a coffee somewhere and I was a few minutes late. "Ready for bed?"

"Sherlock, what…?" I trailed off, uncertainly.

"It occurs to me, John," he explained, "that, as your boyfriend..." I inhaled sharply, but he carried on, "...it is my responsibility to ensure your happiness and security." He paused, regarding me steadily. "The fact that you still suffer from nightmares about the war is of concern to me," he added. "And I would like to assist, if possible." He patted the bed next to him in invitation - as if it were appropriate for him to be inviting me into my own bed.

"Boyfriend?" I echoed, struggling to get past that point of his sentence.

He looked perplexed. "Would you prefer partner?" he enquired politely. "Lover seems a little previous, but I am not averse to it if you…"

"No, no," I interrupted, overtaken by a vision of Sherlock introducing himself to all and sundry as my lover. "I guess boyfriend covers it." I shook my head. "It's just not something I ever thought I would have; takes a bit of getting used to."

He nodded dismissively. "Now, about your nightmares," he continued. "I would like to observe your sleeping patterns, in order to establish if there are any signs which indicate the commencement of a bad dream, then attempt to devise an effective diversionary tactic."

I just looked at him blankly. "Could you dumb that down for me, please?" I asked him. "It's been a very long day and I'm tired."

He rolled his eyes slightly and sighed. "You will sleep here..." He lifted the covers next to him in demonstration. "I will observe from here..." He indicated his current position. He tilted his head to one side, as if to enquire if that was dumb enough.

"Go on," I told him.

He shrugged his shoulders, indicating that the rest was obvious. "If you show any signs of distress, which may herald the onset of a nightmare, I will attempt to distract you."

My mind boggled. "And how do you plan to do that?" I asked him, a varied range of options running through my mind - some of which were beginning to seem quite appealing.

He looked at me oddly. "Well, I was planning on a hug," he advised, his eyebrows slowly rising. "But it would seem from your elevated breathing rate that you may have some alternative suggestions?"

I could feel the blush rising up my face, while he watched in fascination.

"Interesting," was his only observation.

I didn't actually have any nightmares that night, or the next night, or any of the ones after that. After three nights Sherlock stopped sleeping on top of the covers, two nights after that he stopped keeping to his side of the bed, and two nights after that he stopped wearing his pyjamas.

The first time I brought him to orgasm with my hand, he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. With his head thrown back and his back arched, the dim light from the window casting a glow over his features and highlighting his cheekbones, I couldn't imagine anything more gorgeous – he barely had to touch me to reciprocate. Of course, he spent plenty of time touching me on other occasions, his insatiable need to know everything leading to some very memorable nights... and some very oddly placed love-bites.

I turned my head to regard my own personal octopus, who was wrapped around me tightly as usual. Sleeping, he looked so young that I almost felt I was taking advantage. He was strangely boyish with all that fierce intelligence hidden away and, when asleep, treated me like a giant teddy bear, his hands seeking me out automatically if I ever escaped his grasp. That might be a problem come the summer months, I mused, then felt slightly shocked at myself for the assumption.

As I lay there, absently running my hand over Sherlock's arms where they were clasped possessively over my stomach, I realised that I was truly happy, for the first time in many years; certainly since I came home from Afghanistan. All the concerns and issues which I had struggled with at the thought of becoming romantically involved with Sherlock seemed to have faded and being with him felt more natural every day. We hadn't actually had full sex yet, but we were getting there – he never pushed and seemed content to take things one step at a time. Having said that, once a step had been taken, he was relentless in repeating it until he felt he had mastered whatever skills were required; I shivered slightly, remembering, and the arms around me tightened.

Sherlock also seemed to have been putting some effort into appropriate behaviour. I had been distinctly unimpressed when I found what was left of my poor jumper and there had been some discussion on the subject of unreasonable possessiveness, quickly followed by a talk on public displays of ownership, after he started loudly reeling off the darkest secrets of anyone who dared speak to me. He had bought me three new jumpers to make up for the one he destroyed, each no doubt costing more than everything else in my wardrobe, and then spent the following weeks stripping them off me at every opportunity – i.e., as soon as we walked through the door.

Sherlock Holmes was a complex, difficult, brilliant man. I didn't understand half of what came out of his mouth, or most of what went on in his head, but I knew he wanted me, and I - God help me - I was starting to want him just as much.

As if my thoughts were calling him from his slumbers, he began to stir, stretching slightly, then snuggling in again, burying his face in the back of my neck and inhaling deeply. My name was a rumble in his chest as he reached to turn my face around so that he could kiss me, then he smiled, eyes still half closed. It had taken me a while to get used to seeing him so languorous, when I was more used to his manic moods, but he was amazingly cuddly in the mornings – in between cases, at least.

I had just finished that thought when his phone beeped with Lestrade's distinctive message chime – hmm; perhaps my brain was extra effective today... I started thinking about winning the lottery, just in case.

"Come on, John!" He grabbed my shoulder, totally alert now, and springing out of bed. "We've got a locked room mystery!"

"But it's too early," I grumbled, pulling the duvet back up.

He yanked it down again. "Could be dangerous..." he teased, waggling his eyebrows at me.

I glowered back at him. "How could it possibly be dangerous?" I demanded, maintaining my death grip on the edge of the quilt. "The victim is, presumably, already dead and the police will be all over the place."

"You never know," he mused, striding off towards the bathroom, stark naked and completely unselfconscious.

I rolled my eyes, thought for a moment, then heaved myself out of bed. Let's face it, if he was going, I wouldn't be far behind.

The door of Sherlock's locked room was hanging open when we got there, having clearly been broken down. Lestrade led us through the huge, old-fashioned house, giving background information on the victim - an elderly man and the owner of the property, who was lying in a pool of blood near the drawing room fireplace. It was when the door was found to have been bolted shut from the inside and the windows all painted shut and unopened for years, that Sherlock had been called in.

Lestrade went off to interview the housekeeper, while Sherlock paced around as usual, ordering people to shut up and examining anything and everything, before suddenly muttering something about an alcove and dashing over to the corner.

I was looking around in vain for an alcove when there was a shout and part of the wall seemed to swing out, presumably on a concealed hinge. As I watched, a dark figure erupted from the opening and charged for the doorway, knocking forcibly into Sherlock, who had no time to get out of the way. His head banged hard against the wall as he fell and he hit the ground, rolling over before lying still, face down on the floor.

I sprinted across the large room, pulling back my fist and taking down Sherlock's assailant as I flew past - let the police deal with him from there.

Skidding to a halt beside Sherlock, I fell to my knees and rolled him over carefully, then pushed the hair back from his face, supporting his shoulders and head with one arm as I used my other hand to check for injury. To my immense relief, he started to stir almost as soon as I touched him and after a moment his eyes fluttered open.

He was clearly dazed by the blow as his gaze was unfocused and there was no sign of his usual alertness in his eyes. He seemed to recognise me, however, and lifted his hand to my face.

"John," he said. "John, I lo…"

"Sherlock!" came a shout from the doorway, and I looked around as Lestrade burst into the room; obviously the news had swept through the building very quickly. A quick glance seemed to satisfy him that Sherlock was all right and he shifted his attention to the killer, who was now barely visible under a pile of police officers.

I turned back to Sherlock and it was really him this time, his eyes fully aware and alert. He seemed to realise where we were and glanced down at where his hand had slipped to my chest as I moved. Looking horrified, he yanked his arm back, his eyes darting around to see if anyone had noticed.

"I'm sorry, John," he said urgently. "I didn't mean…" He paused. "Please, don't be angry…"

I looked at his face, which I now knew so well. I glanced down at his body, which curled round me every night. I noted his hands, which had explored me so thoroughly and his mouth, which had done the same. I considered his role in my life and how much more important he was than anyone and everyone else, all this while he stared up at me in fear because he thought I would leave him if anyone found out.

It was time.

I kissed him.

Artwork:

No More Secrets by  br0-Harry

Chapter Text

SHERLOCK P.O.V.

The observational powers of the typical human being are so negligible as to be practically non existent. After taking such care over the last few weeks not to do anything which might give away our relationship, John actually kissed me in a room full of supposedly trained detectives, and not one of them noticed. I was absolutely disgusted.

Admittedly, we were on the floor in the corner and John had his back half turned to the room. Also, there was the distraction of a presumed murderer struggling and shouting obscenities whenever he had breath to do so, but still - no wonder they so often need my assistance. My Great Aunt Agatha could do better, and she had a glass eye and has been dead for fifteen years.

The kiss itself had been relatively fleeting - John was clearly concerned about possible concussion and he soon released me to check my vitals again. He must have seen the look of disappointment on my face at the lack of outcry because he raised his free hand to gently cup my cheek.

"I didn't do it for them," he told me softly. "I did it for you." He smiled at me. "No more secrets, Sherlock," he said, resting his forehead against mine for a moment. "Now tell me how you feel," he instructed, slipping into doctor mode.

I considered for a moment. "Fantastic," I told him. He quirked a brow at me. "Oh, you mean my head," I realised.

"Yes, Sherlock," he smiled. "I mean your head, which you just banged hard enough to knock yourself out for a few seconds and, to be honest, you still seem a little off." I was affronted, but he ignored my expression and carried on. "What do you remember?" he asked.

"About what?" I queried, and he rolled his eyes, clearly biting back a sarcastic response.

"How about you take me through today?"

"Alright, John," I agreed. "Well, I woke up in my favourite place in the world." I smiled at him and he snorted.

"You are definitely not yourself!"

I ignored him and thought back. "Text from Lestrade, got up, persuaded you to get up, went for a shower…" I thought about that for a moment. "You know John, we really should do more for the environment."

He sighed. "Is this about sharing the shower again?" he asked me. I beamed at him. "Fine, fine… keep going," he instructed.

I obeyed. "Got dressed, watched you getting dressed." He looked surprised and I shrugged. "What?" I queried. "I like to watch you." Surely he realised that by now? I carried on. "Burnt the toast, got a cab, came here... bolt, windows, room out of proportion, no alcove." I sat up a little, peering round. "Ah, there's the alcove."

John pushed me back down. "What next?" he asked.

My head was hurting now, but I did my best. "Found the latch, killer was fast, knocked me over." I looked at him. "That's it."

"OK, that's good," he told me. "What about when you came round?" He seemed curiously intent.

I thought hard. "You were there. I had my hand on your chest. I was afraid that someone would see, I was afraid…" I paused; that had not been a pleasant sensation. "Then you kissed me," I added pointedly. "In public!" Even though none of those tossers had noticed. "Does this mean I can call you my boyfriend, not just in my head?" There were definitely some issues requiring clarification.

John seemed disappointed about something, but we were interrupted by a fresh disturbance from the doorway before he could speak. The suspect had been removed from the scene while we were talking, but now it seemed that the on-again / off-again Scotland Yard soap opera couple had decided to grace us with their presence. I cast a cursory glance over them as they marched straight towards us: 'on-again', it would seem.

Sally waded straight in with the pointing, although it was aimed at John this time. "You kissed him!" she exclaimed, in her unfeasibly loud voice, shifting her finger to indicate me now. "We saw you through the window!"

She glanced at Anderson, who was doing an excellent impression of a nodding dog. "Scraping the barrel a bit aren't you, Watson?" he sneered, in his supercilious tone.

I felt John bristle, but Lestrade had walked over and he jumped in to explain. "Sherlock hit his head when the suspect knocked him over," he told them. "Doctor Watson," he emphasised, "was reviving him."

This was not good. If John was regretting his impulse, then Lestrade had just given him an easy out. I held my breath... I should have had more faith, my John didn't even think about taking it.

"No, I wasn't," he retorted to Lestrade, without any hint of a pause.

"I'll kiss him whenever I feel like it." That was aimed at Sally.

"Piss off!" went to Anderson.

There was a stunned silence, which I spent smiling smugly at anyone who caught my eye.

"Right," continued John. "Lestrade, give me a hand - I'm taking Sherlock home."

Lestrade seemed to shake himself. "Yes, right, OK," he muttered. "Is he alright?"

"He's mildly concussed, but I think he'll be fine," John told him. "I'll keep a close eye on him for the next twenty-four hours to be safe, but he seems relatively normal…" he trailed off. "Well, normal for him." He smiled down at me. "Perhaps a bit emotional."

Lestrade snorted, while the others were still gaping like fish.

Between the two of them, they got me onto my feet and helped me outside, where Lestrade commandeered a police car to take us home, which seemed only fair as I had been injured in the line of his duty. I could hear him quizzing John as we made our way out, but my head was aching quite badly by this point and it was difficult to focus. Also, my legs did not seem to be acting in total accord with the rest of my body. I was glad to get back home to my sofa, although John refused to lie down with me, which was very annoying. He kept wanting to check my reflexes and ask me odd questions, although at least he knew me well enough to steer clear of so-called 'General Knowledge' – I had once narrowly escaped being carted off to the psych ward when I was unable to advise A&E staff as to the current Prime Minister, or name any member of U2.

The next morning, I felt much better. In fact, the events of the previous day seemed a little hazy... although I clearly remembered being kissed at a crime scene. John took great pleasure in spending the morning quoting things I was alleged to have said in my concussed state, including, apparently, that I liked watching him get dressed (true, but I prefer the reverse), that coffee without sugar was a complete abomination, and that kissing him was better than a double homicide.

I suggested that his fabrications were becoming increasingly ridiculous, then got my revenge by making him hold my hand all the way to Angelo's, which seemed an appropriate venue for our first public lunch together as a couple. He didn't actually seem to mind as much as I thought he would.

A week later, I lay in bed reflecting on the overall success of my plan. My original aim had been for John and I to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, whereby he had the convenience of regular sex and affection, which he clearly required, and I would retain the partner upon whom I had come to rely. It would seem that this target had most decidedly been met, particularly in the week since John had allowed our relationship to be publicly acknowledged, thus making it easier for me to deflect unwanted attentions towards him from others.

At the outset of this project, I had been slightly concerned that John's physical needs might be difficult or unpleasant to fulfil, but this had turned out not to be the case. Indeed, I had found meeting his requirements surprisingly enjoyable. I briefly wondered if this meant that some previously unsuspected sexual element of my character had been unlocked, and whether this was something I should investigate more widely. However, the thought of being intimate with anyone but John made my stomach clench with nausea, so I quickly dismissed the idea.

John was still fast asleep at the moment, firmly clasped in my arms as usual. I had adopted the same principal used when swaddling infants to make them feel secure, and it had been extremely successful thus far – it was over a month now since John had experienced a nightmare, and he had never had one while I was holding him.

Looking down at the top of his head, I felt a peculiar sensation in my belly and hoped that I was not going to succumb to the same illness which John had suffered this past week. He had been quite poorly for a couple of days, with sickness and a fever, but I felt I had coped reasonably well, even if I had needed Mrs Hudson to help with tea-making. As I believe is common with medical personnel, he was not a good patient and kept telling me to leave him alone, but obviously I ignored him. Looking after one's partner when sick was clearly detailed under the remit of boyfriend, so I assumed his attempt to reject me was some kind of test. I was not about to fall for such an obvious effort. "A good boyfriend does not run away at the first sign of vomit," I quoted at him, and he rolled his eyes and gave up.

I hugged him a little closer, which he always seems to enjoy. Presumably we both moved around during our sleep, but he was always snuggled into my arms when I woke up. He mumbled a little, but then settled down again. I squeezed him a bit harder… it really seemed an appropriate time to offer him some physical affection. Hopefully he would wake soon…

Later that morning, I suggested a walk. John looked at me oddly, as I was not normally given to walking without the express intention of going somewhere. However, he had been stuck in the flat for two days since his illness and I felt the fresh air would be beneficial to his health. He was agreeable, so I made sure he was wrapped up warmly and we set off for Regent's Park, strolling towards the boating lake. I tucked his hand through my arm so that we were linked without being too obvious, as I did not want John to feel uncomfortable. We had paused to lean against the railing on York Bridge when it happened.

He was gazing out over the water, the wind ruffling his hair, which was rather longer than normal, and I was just looking at him... for once not really thinking about anything, just studying his face and the shape of his head, the way his nose turned up slightly at the end, and the smile lines at the corner of his eyes, when suddenly he looked round and I lost my breath.

It was as if I were underwater. There was a roaring in my ears, my eyes darkened and I felt as if something was shifting inside of me, almost a lurching sensation, which made me reach a hand to the railing in fear of losing my balance. I could hear John saying something, but it seemed to be coming from a long way off and I could not respond.

Gradually my vision cleared and he was standing in front of me, holding my upper arms and calling my name. I wanted him.

Not in the simple, reciprocal, 'that feels good' kind of way that I had experienced during our time together so far, but on an infinitely more basic and primal level. I wanted to consume him, to absorb him, to have him be a part of me. I wanted him inside my body and I wanted to take his also. I wanted to bury myself within him so that he would always feel my presence and I wanted him to make me his so completely that I could never belong to anyone else.

I could feel my body responding as I faced him. I was aware of every point of contact between us, each finger he was pressing into the flesh of my arms felt like a brand, and I remembered his hands moving over my naked skin, how they had looked wrapped around me only a few hours before. My eyes moved to his mouth and I could almost feel it on my throat, kissing down my chest, sucking around me, his tongue flickering and swirling as he watched me, never taking his eyes off my face.

Standing in the park, at eleven o'clock on a breezy morning, with only our arms in contact, I was more aroused than I had ever been. And, as I stared at John, gripping his forearms to keep myself upright, I had never felt so frighteningly out of control.

I'm not sure how we got home. John was clearly worried about me, probably concerned that my 'dizzy spell' might be connected to the concussion of the week before. I felt completely lost, as if my head were on the wrong way round and everything was upside down or backwards. What was happening to me? Was this what lust felt like? How did people cope with this sort of thing all the time, all the churning and the confusion, it was intolerable.

With enormous effort, I banked down the torrent of feelings and emotion which John had so unwittingly unleashed – I was not going to give in to these overwhelmingly human demands, at least not without considering them logically, in conjunction with other aspects of our relationship. Decision made, I began to breathe a little easier, but was still relieved to see Lestrade waiting for us on the doorstep.

He wanted us to go to some house somewhere... it didn't matter to me, I was just glad to be engaging my brain in a more acceptable manner. Lestrade travelled with us in the taxi so that he could tell me about the case en route, perching on the fold-down seat opposite and describing the situation. I listened with part of my brain, but the majority of my attention was fixed on John, sitting at my side.

His hand was resting on the seat between us and I reached out and placed my own over it. His eyes flicked to Lestrade for a moment, but he obligingly turned his hand over so that I could clasp it. I could feel the connection right up my arm, it was extremely curious. I let go of his hand – the tingles stopped; then took it again – they were back.

I had held his hand before, many times in the last week particularly, and it was nice; I liked the companionship of it, it was warm and it let people know that he was mine. This level of awareness, however, this was different, it was like a humming under my skin.

I released his hand again and he looked at me strangely, before moving his arm to rest both hands on his thighs. I was amazed at the strength of the urge to take it back.

When we got to the scene, we found a considerable police presence already there. The body was in the front garden and they had already set up a tent to protect the area; Anderson was blocking the entrance.

"You can't go in yet, they're taking photos," he told us smugly. "You'll have to come back in five minutes."

"Excellent!" I beamed at him, much to his consternation. "Come along, John." I grabbed John's hand and pulled him out of the side gate and round the corner until we were in a deserted alleyway running along the back of the houses.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked me, as I towed him along. "What do you see?"

I stopped suddenly and turned on him, putting my hands on his shoulders and pushing him back into an archway. "I see you," I growled, before pressing the full length of my body against him, tipping his head up and taking his mouth fiercely. It was indescribable.

Our first kiss had been a revelation, a whole new world of amazing sensations, but this was something else again. I was just so hungry for him. I was sucking and almost biting at his mouth, feeling as if it would never be enough. I slid one hand down his back and pulled his hips towards me, pressing myself forward at the same time.

John had seemed shocked at first, but he responded to me almost instinctively now and was soon pushing back against me, rolling his hips slightly as he did so. He thrust one hand into the hair at the back of my head and tugged and I released his mouth on a groan, immediately moving to his neck and biting down much harder than I ever had before. He bucked against me, his fingers tightening in my hair and his other hand sliding under my jacket to scratch at my back through my silk shirt.

I moved my mouth back to his, thrusting my tongue in rhythm with my hips as I ground against him, the blood pounding in my ears...

"Bloody Hell!" came Lestrade's voice from behind me.

I stopped, raising my head slightly but not moving away from John, who was barely visible as my coat had swung forward to almost cover us both. He was looking up at me, part embarrassed, part dazed, but mostly still turned on, and I rested my forehead against his for a moment, breathing hard.

"Er, the crime scene's ready for you." Lestrade's voice sounded again. "Just, whenever you're ready." There was a pause. "I'll, er, I'll go back and tell them you're coming..." There was another awkward pause, John actually giggled. "I mean, that you'll be there soon," Lestrade finished, his voice fading slightly as he backed away.

"Give us a minute," I told him, still without turning round. He retreated swiftly.

We looked at each other. "Not that I'm complaining," murmured John. "But what..." he paused to draw breath, "...the bloody hell," he still looked dazed, "...was that?"

I smiled at him. "An experiment?" I offered, my voice still sounding huskier than normal.

He huffed out a laugh. "Well," he replied. "I'll take that over eyeballs in the microwave any day!"

Back at the crime scene, Lestrade was looking anywhere but at us, and I noticed Anderson staring disbelievingly at John's neck, which bore a large and extremely obvious bite mark. I had a feeling that John might be less than amused when he spotted it and began devising methods of keeping him away from reflective surfaces for at least a couple of days.

An inspection of the body and surrounding area produced significant data, which I had just finished reeling off to Lestrade, when a large black car pulled up smoothly to the kerb and Mycroft stepped out. I raised my eyebrows at him – it was almost unprecedented for Mycroft to venture so far from his office; there must be an unusually significant problem to bring him to the scene of a common murder.

"My apologies for the intrusion, Detective Inspector," he addressed Lestrade, flashing some kind of Government ID at him. "Might I borrow my brother for a moment?" Lestrade looked surprised to find I even had a brother. It was a common reaction, people seemed to struggle to imagine me as part of a family unit.

"What? Oh, certainly, of course, go ahead," he responded, still seeming rather affected by the shock of his discovery earlier. "You can use the house." He waved behind him. "The front room is free."

Mycroft gave him a gracious nod, then turned to John. "Good afternoon, my dear John," he said, carefully not looking at his neck. "Do excuse us, won't you?"

John nodded and looked at me questioningly, but I shrugged my shoulders. "No idea," I told him. "Back in a minute."

Mycroft led the way up the steps into the house, then glanced around at the various police officers carrying on their activities, before moving smoothly into the large, L-shaped front room. He closed the door firmly behind us, then turned to me.

"I have a situation, Sherlock," he began. "A very delicate situation with which I need your assistance."

I shook my head firmly. "I can't," I told him. "Too busy, just can't spare the time."

He looked at me steadily, but I didn't waver. After a few moments, he turned to the window, gazing down apparently absently at the activity taking place in the front garden.

"And how is your own experiment going?" he asked me. "Your 'Retention Project', I believe you called it?"

I glared at the back of his head. "Fine," I replied.

"Really?" he enquired, with fake concern. "And have you managed to make the good doctor fall in love with you?" He turned to me, smiling in an unconvincing manner.

"The project is not yet complete," I gritted out, feeling I owed him that much as it was he who had inspired the plan in the first place.

"Well you seem to have achieved the main objective," he responded. "John is clearly no longer dating women, so the risk of him leaving you to get married seems minimal."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" I snapped. The situation with John had become much more complicated today and I did not want to talk about it.

"Just your help with a very small but significant problem," he told me. "It won't take more than a few hours." He was wheedling, must be desperate.

"I don't want to," I replied, with an air of finality.

"Well, I didn't particularly want to help you to seduce a perfectly decent man, just so that you could retain your assistant," he said pointedly.

For a moment I was tempted to tell him that it wasn't like that any more, but I had no idea how to describe what it was like, so decided to stick with what he knew.

"He gets sex, I get to keep my partner," I snapped. "It seems perfectly logical to me."

"Only you would find it logical to sacrifice your body for the sake of a pleasant working relationship," he sighed. "I assume it is still your aim to make John fall in love with you?"

I tried to ignore the strange warm feeling those words gave me. "That would be best for the stability of our arrangement," I confirmed tightly.

"And will you tell him that you love him in return?"

What on earth was he driving at? "I am a sociopath, Mycroft," I retorted. "You know perfectly well that I am incapable of such an emotion."

I had a momentary fear – where was John? It would not do for him to hear this. Striding to the window I looked down into the garden, and he was there, just where I left him. As if feeling my gaze, he looked up and waved. I nodded back in acknowledgement, fighting to take the smile off my face before turning back to my brother.

"What is your point?" I demanded.

"My point is surely obvious," he replied. "I helped when you asked, despite finding your project distasteful." He regarded me sternly. "From observing John's demeanour prior to our chat, compared with the activities of later that day, I would gather that my assistance was not ineffective." He raised his arms in a pleading gesture. "All I ask is for a few hours of your time in return." He paused. "You may even find it interesting."

I was still reluctant.

"You can bring John," he added.

I sighed. "Fine!" I told him begrudgingly. "When do you need us?"

He waved to the window. "I brought the car," he said, by way of an answer.

We went outside and I collected John, promising to text any further thoughts to Lestrade while en route. The car was just starting to pull away from the kerb when I glanced back at the house, getting a good look into the front room. As I watched, a figure emerged from around the corner of the 'L-Shape' and moved to the window, staring out at me.

It was Sally Donovan, and on her face was an expression of absolute disgust.

Author's Note

This is your Captain speaking. Passengers with a nervous disposition should fasten their seatbelts and hold on tight, we may be approaching some turbulence…

Chapter Text

JOHN P.O.V.

There was something the matter with Sherlock. He'd been acting strangely ever since we went to the park, especially with the whole grabbing me in the alleyway thing - not that I was complaining too strenuously about that. This was different, though.

As we drove off with Mycroft to heaven knows where, to do goodness knows what (nobody ever tells me anything), his body suddenly tensed beside me. I looked up at him and he was staring out of the rear window, his face completely frozen. I started to turn, to see what had affected him so badly, but he immediately grabbed my shoulders to halt my movements, switching his gaze to me with the strangest look on his face.

"What is it?" I asked him, concerned. "What's the matter?"

He didn't say anything, just staring at me, his eyes moving over my face as if he was trying to memorise it, which I'm sure he had already done by now. Then, with no warning, he yanked me forward into an awkward hug, slipping his hands inside my coat and around my body.

I let out a grunt of surprise, before trying to pull back – a deserted alley was one thing, but a moving vehicle with his brother sitting opposite was a little bit out of my comfort zone. He released me without argument and sat back into his seat, angling his body away from me. No explanation, no apology, not that I really expected either from Sherlock.

"Has something happened?" I pressed him, looking to Mycroft when Sherlock didn't respond.

For a moment I wondered if this sudden departure might be a family thing. "Is your Mother alright?" I asked, not able to bring myself to use the word 'Mummy' to anyone over the age of seven.

Mycroft smiled benevolently at me. "Mummy is very well, thank you, John," he nodded at me. "Sherlock has merely agreed to assist me with a rather delicate problem."

I looked at him doubtfully. "That doesn't sound like him."

We both turned to look at Sherlock, who was now staring out of the window, tension evident in every line of his body. Something was very definitely wrong. I decided I needed to 'man-up' and get over my embarrassment about being in an enclosed space with my gay lover and his upper-crust sibling.

"Excuse us," I muttered to Mycroft and he nodded, smiling approvingly at me, before turning his attention to the opposite window so that we were presented with the back of his head.

I slid along the seat until my thigh was pressed against Sherlock's, and put my hand on his shoulder, feeling the tremor which ran through him at my touch.

"Sherlock," I said quietly. There was no response. I moved my hand up to the back of his neck and he shivered. Using my other hand to cup his jaw, I turned his head around so that I could see him properly. He looked wild, his eyes dark, and his jaw so tight his teeth were gritted together. I could not imagine what had happened to bring about this reaction in him, but he was ridiculously tense and clearly distressed.

I brought both my hands to his face and tried to soothe him, stroking my thumbs along his high cheekbones and smoothing the tips of my fingers over his eyebrows and forehead. After a couple of minutes, I pushed my left hand into the hair behind his ear and used my right to stroke gently along his jaw, tracing the shape of his lips with my thumb. I could feel him relaxing slightly, as I was bearing more of the weight of his head in my left hand, where my fingers were making small circular movements in his hair.

After a little while, the tension in his jaw started to ease and his lips parted slightly. I pressed the tip of my index finger against his mouth and saw his eyes flash to Mycroft, who presumably still had his back to us, because Sherlock touched his tongue to the end of my finger in invitation. Happy to distract him, I slid it into his mouth a little, before stroking around the inside of his lips. He was definitely leaning towards me now and he started to suck, running his tongue along and down, so that he was lapping at the cleft between my fingers, which felt inappropriately good. Really, having a boyfriend with a distinct oral fixation could never be a bad thing; I didn't even mind the biting.

I held back a moan, remembering where we were, and with whom, and concentrated on Sherlock, who gradually seemed to be settling somewhat. I slowly withdrew my finger, cupping his jaw again as I leaned forward and kissed him several times. Soft, tender kisses with no tongues involved, just our lips coming together gently and with affection.

Pulling back, I looked at him carefully, still framing his face in my hands. His eyes were huge against his pale skin and he looked strangely delicate and ethereal. I'm falling in love with this man, I thought, and somehow the idea didn't shock me at all.

I smiled at him. "Are you alright?"

He nodded slightly. "I'm sorry, John," he murmured.

I looked at him quizzically; he so rarely apologised for anything and now I didn't even know what he was sorry for.

"Thank you," he added – another rare occurrence, although this didn't look like the time to make an issue of it.

"It seemed to be what 'a good boyfriend' would do," I pointed out, trying to make him smile. He had spent the last week quoting 'a good boyfriend does this' or 'a good boyfriend never does that' at me. I particularly remembered the day I was trying to get rid of him so I could throw up in peace. It had occurred to me to wonder if he was getting relationship tips from a website aimed at pubescent girls; Google has a lot to answer for.

I released his face and took his hand, sitting back into my seat, and he laced our fingers together tightly, giving me a small smile. When I looked around, Mycroft was texting, then he regarded his phone with an irritated expression.

"Where are we going, anyway?" I asked Sherlock quietly, assuming he at least had some idea what was happening.

He just shrugged. "Job for Mycroft," he said. "Don't know the details yet."

It seemed to me extremely odd that Sherlock would agree to undertake a case for Mycroft, without knowing exactly what it entailed – in fact it seemed strange that he was willing to assist his brother at all, as I had witnessed him refusing similar requests several times in the past. Really, this day was just getting more peculiar by the minute.

Mycroft exhaled loudly, then knocked on the partition between us and the driver, which slid down smoothly. "221B Baker Street," he said, pressing a button to restore the divider. "I do apologise, gentlemen." He turned to us. "It would appear that my problem has resolved itself, so I have intruded on your time unnecessarily."

Sherlock's eyebrows were nearing his hairline and he leaned forward aggressively. "What are you playing at, Mycroft?"

Mycroft just returned his gaze with his usual expression of polite enquiry.

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Did you know…" he trailed off, shooting a glance at me, then studied Mycroft a little longer. "Why did you come!" he exclaimed in a low tone. It wasn't a question, his voice sounded plaintive and almost despairing. He dropped his head, sitting back and tightening his grip on my hand even further.

I looked at Mycroft enquiringly but just got his 'polite face' smiling blandly back at me.

"Apologies, my dear John," he said, and for a moment I thought there was a thread of real regret in his voice. "Ah, here we are," he continued a few minutes later, as we pulled up in front of the flat. "Must get back to business, eh?" He raised a hand dismissively in farewell as we left the car. Sherlock didn't even look at him.

By the time we got upstairs, Sherlock seemed to have frozen again. I pushed him down to sit on the sofa and went off to make some tea, managing to locate some rather crumby digestives. I had to practically force them into his hand, but he did at least sip at the tea, although one bite of biscuit seemed to almost choke him.

I put my mug down on the coffee table and turned towards him, "Sherlock, what is it?" I asked him pleadingly. "You have to tell me what's the matter!"

He was just looking at me again, then he shook his head. "I can't tell you, John," he replied. "I just…" He was tensing up again and jumped to his feet, dumping his cup on the window ledge.

He started pacing the room the way he does when a case really has him in knots and his brain is working at a hundred miles an hour, muttering to himself and waving his arms around. After a few minutes, he came to a stop in the middle of the room and thrust both hands into his hair, tugging mercilessly.

I stood up to go to him, but before I could move forward his head snapped up and he fixed me with a piercing stare, which seemed to freeze me in place. We stood like that for a few moments, just staring at each other, until he let out a frustrated cry and hurled himself at me, his impetus driving me backwards until I was pressed against the wall.

His hands gripped the sides of my head to hold me in place and his head swooped down to kiss me with bruising intensity. There was a sharp edge of desperation in his actions which made me uneasy, but I couldn't deny that he was turning me on. He dropped a hand to my shoulder, then slid it quickly down the front of my body until he was gripping me firmly, squeezing rhythmically as he sucked on my tongue. I gasped into his mouth and he suddenly pulled me away from the wall and put both hands on my shoulders, pushing me to my knees. The position was nothing new, but it was very unlike him to be so forceful or demanding. I found I rather liked it.

I yanked off my jumper, then started to reach for his belt, but he stopped my hands, falling to his knees also and pulling me against him once more. He was kissing me again, one hand cupping the back of my head and the other wrapped around my torso, holding me so tightly that it was difficult to breath. I struggled for air and he eased off a little, then slid his hand down to my lower back to support me as he started pressing me backwards towards the floor, grabbing a cushion off the sofa for my head at the last moment.

His body followed me down until he was lying full length on top of me and he brought both hands up to my face.

"John," he said softly, kissing me sweetly for a moment, before his intensity returned. "John," he said again, moving his mouth along my jaw, then down to my neck, just where he knew I was particularly sensitive. I could feel his fingers at the buttons of my shirt and he pulled it open, kissing along my collarbone to my scarred shoulder, then down my chest, pausing to lick and suck at my nipples. I was writhing beneath him by this point, my hands stroking and kneading whatever part of him I could reach as he moved over me.

His hands slid to my jeans and he quickly finished undressing me, then sat up and tugged off his own clothes in a blur of motion. He regarded my body hungrily for a moment, then grabbed a fleecy throw rug off the back of the arm chair and spread it out, waiting until I moved onto it before lying back down on top of me.

The feeling was absolutely incredible. Even though we slept cuddled together every night, there was something so different about this. Sherlock seemed absolutely desperate for me, his hands stroking up and down my sides as he kissed me again, then he nudged my legs apart so that he could nestle between them, moving his hips so that we rubbed together; it was unbelievable.

Part of my mind was still aware that something was worrying him, that he wasn't quite himself, but if this was what he needed, there was no way I was going to deny him. My head fell back and I arched involuntarily, almost embarrassed by the noises I was making.

He raised himself onto one elbow and swept his other hand down my body, raising my knee until my foot was flat on the floor, before stroking his hand up my inner thigh.

"John," he spoke urgently, his voice husky and even deeper than usual. "John..." He waited until I looked at him, his fingers questioning as they explored me. "John, I want..." his eyes were burning. "I want to..." his finger pressed into me slightly, his intention very obvious.

Considering all the time and energy I had spent worrying about this, now that the moment was here I supposed I should feel more nervous, but honestly it never occurred to me to hesitate.

"Yes," I told him, gasping out the word. "Yes, Sherlock, whatever you want." I was panting now as his finger became more insistent. "Anything," I promised him. There was just one more thing I had to do.

Lifting both my arms, I cupped his face in my hands and brought it towards me, raising my head to kiss him gently. "I love you," I told him, kissing him again. "I love you, Sherlock." I released him and fell back against the cushion.

His eyes widened and his hands abruptly stilled. An array of expressions passed over his face too quickly for me to identify, then he dropped his head down into the crook of my neck, pressing his face hard against me and I felt his body shudder.

"Sherlock?" I queried. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, was that not what you wanted?" I felt unsure now, and a little embarrassed.

"John," he muttered into my neck. "Don't be sorry. Please, don't ever be sorry." He lifted his head and his face was tortured. He kissed me again but it was wrong, his mouth was twisted.

I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him back a little way. He didn't fight me.

"Sherlock, what is it?" I insisted this time, rolling us so that we were both on our sides. "Look, we don't have to do this now," I told him, stroking his face, concern for him having taken the edge off my excitement anyway. "We have all the time in the world."

He made an agonised sound, which just increased my frustration. "But you have to tell me what has upset you so much." I was pleading with him. "I don't understand. I don't know what's wrong. I want to help, but I don't know what to do..."

I had never seen him like this; his face was tight and I was getting really worried. In a swift move, he hugged me to him again, holding me closely for a few moments, then seemed to come to a decision.

"I have to go out," he announced, sitting up and reaching for his clothes.

"What?" I exclaimed. "Sherlock, what's going on?" I grabbed his arm. "Tell me!"

He turned as I sat up and gripped my elbows, looking at me intently. "I'm sorry, John," he said. "I can't explain. There's something I have to do." He paused. "Try to do," he corrected.

"Can't I help?" I asked him, not liking the sound of this at all.

He smiled grimly, and stroked my face. "Not with this," he said, then jumped up, throwing his clothes back on haphazardly.

I pulled the blanket around myself, feeling suddenly self-conscious and, if I'm honest, rather rejected.

He was grabbing his scarf by this time, but when he looked around and saw me sitting there, he strode back across the room to me, bending to press a hard kiss to my mouth.

"John, I..." he stopped. "Don't go out, will you?" he requested.

"What do you mean?" I asked him, but he just shook his head.

"I'm not sure how long I'll be, but please stay here," he insisted. "I want to come home to you. Please, John, promise me you'll stay here?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Where else would I go?" I asked him. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

He closed his eyes briefly. "Hopefully it won't matter," he said, cryptically. He pressed his lips to my forehead, then turned and almost ran out of the flat. I heard the downstairs door banging behind him.

Well, that certainly wasn't how I'd imagined our first time going.

Feeling deflated in more ways than one, as well as somewhat foolish sitting naked on a throw rug in the living room at five o'clock in the afternoon, I got dressed again, then made a sandwich, since we'd never got round to lunch.

I was worried about Sherlock. He'd shown more emotion today than in the entire time I had known him, and I wasn't at all sure what to make of it. He was such a contradiction; on the one hand he was fully aware of his genius and could be the most arrogant man you'd ever meet. On the other, he was surprisingly insecure, seemingly convinced that swarms of women would descend upon me eagerly and take me away from him the moment I gave even the slightest appearance of being single – ever since we had 'gone public' he was constantly taking my hand, or linking our arms together. For someone of his intellect and, I felt free to admit it now, his astonishing good looks, it was surprising... it seemed that I was the only case where he persistently ignored all the evidence.

Feeling restless, I thought about walking down to the pub, but remembered Sherlock's insistence that I stay here. Fine. Looking around at the mess, I decided to tidy up a little. I picked up the sofa cushion which had formed my temporary pillow and turned to put it back, when I noticed something glinting in the upholstery – it was a pound coin. That made me wonder what else might be down there, so I pulled off the other cushions and had a good root around. I found seven more coins of varying amounts, three marbles, a whistle, and what appeared to be a full set of metatarsal bones.

There was something else lodged deeply down the side of the arm where Sherlock had been sitting earlier, but I couldn't reach it. Refusing to be beaten, I fetched a wooden spoon from the kitchen. That did it – I managed to lever the object up far enough with the spoon so that I could grasp it with my fingers; I pulled it out triumphantly... it was my phone. That was odd – I clearly remembered putting my phone in my zippered inside coat pocket when we went out this morning because I was expecting a call from Harry, so how had it become lodged down the side of the sofa? And switched off to boot?

I shook my head; really this had been the oddest day. I switched the phone back on and it started beeping immediately – there were seven text messages and three voicemails. For a moment I felt unusually popular, but then I realised they were probably all for Sherlock – he so often took my things that people had got used to reaching him on my phone if he didn't answer his own. I looked at the list of text messages and sure enough they were nearly all from Sally Donovan, with the exception of Harry's, asking me to call her to arrange lunch if I was free the following Thursday.

The ones from Sally, I wasn't sure if I should read, but in the end decided I would – if she wanted Sherlock, I could at least let her know that he wouldn't be back until later. As it turned out, they seemed to be meant for me, all asking me to call her, with increasing degrees of urgency. I listened to the voice mails and they were more of the same, she was really most insistent.

I debated just ignoring them... I didn't really like Sally and surely Lestrade would call if it was something important; but I was bored with tidying already and had nothing better planned until Sherlock returned. Sighing, I sat down heavily and pressed the relevant buttons. After all, what harm could it do?

Chapter Text

SHERLOCK P.O.V.

I left the flat with only one clear idea in mind, which was to find Sally Donovan and somehow convince her to keep her mouth shut. I knew she disliked me, no doubt more than ever after today, but I didn't think her enmity extended to John. If I could make her see how much any interference on her part would hurt him, and perhaps show that what she had heard was not exactly as it seemed... I knew the chances were not good, but I had to try.

When I saw her in the window as we drove away, it was clear from her face that she had overheard my conversation with Mycroft. Useless now to wish I had been honest with him, that I had explained what had happened to me today.

And then Mycroft, my own brother. Obvious in retrospect that the whole 'problem' he needed my help with had been a ruse, but I did not understand why. Looking back, I could see the way he had steered the conversation, led me into those damning statements which I now realised would hurt John terribly. My stomach knotted at that thought, and I leaned forward, as if doing so would make the taxi travel faster through the heavy rush-hour traffic.

Experience told me that Sally was likely to be found at Scotland Yard at this time of day, but when I arrived she had just left. I hadn't wanted to call her, as it was going to be hard enough to convince her in person... virtually impossible by phone, but there seemed no other option. The line was busy. I paced the lobby for ten minutes, trying her phone repeatedly, but it remained solidly engaged – who on earth could she be talking to for this length of time?

I'm not sure what I would have done next, but when I looked up from my pacing Lestrade was standing there, regarding me warily, "Sherlock?" he said, cautiously, "Sherlock, what's the matter?"

I glared at him. I didn't want to talk to him - or anyone - but I didn't know how to find Sally. In her profession, she was unlikely to have her home address listed in the phone book. He took a half step back, looking slightly alarmed; perhaps I did not look quite myself. I pushed a hand through my hair. "I need to find Sergeant Donovan," I told him. "It's urgent."

He looked surprised. "I'm pretty sure Sally's gone for the day," he told me... redundantly, as clearly I was already aware of that or I wouldn't be pacing in the lobby. "Can I help you with something?"

I was surprised to see that he actually looked genuine, as I had always assumed he tolerated me only because he needed me to do his job. Perhaps he was afraid I was going to do something peculiar in the lobby? They all seemed to regard me as if I were an unexploded bomb most of the time, just waiting for the day when I lost it completely. Right now, it felt as though that day may have arrived.

"Sherlock, you're obviously upset," he told me, putting his hand on my arm.

I bristled. "I don't get upset," I retorted. "And I'm seldom obvious!"

He just cocked his head to one side. "Before you met John, I would have agreed," he said. "But right now you are upset." He was adamant. "And it's obvious enough that the desk sergeant phoned up to warn me."

I turned to glare caustically at the desk sergeant, who ignored me.

"Fine," I replied. "I need to find Sergeant Donovan." I had, of course, already mentioned this, but most people seem to need a certain level of repetition before they are motivated to act.

"Why do you need Sally?" he wanted to know. I just looked at him. "OK, fine," he acceded. "Come up to my office and we'll see what we can sort out."

I followed him up and he waved me to a chair, but I shook my head; sitting down was the last thing I felt like doing.

"So, what's going on?" he asked me. I gave him the blank stare again and he sighed. "Look, Sherlock," he said heavily. "If you want my help..."

"I don't want your help!"

He looked at me consideringly, then nodded. "No, but you need it, don't you?" It was an odd moment of reversal, taking me back to John's so-called 'Study in Pink' case.

Just the mention of John in my head made my decision, and I slumped down into one of the chairs. "Sally overheard a conversation which sounded bad, but was out of context," I explained awkwardly. "Now she's trying to relay it to John, and I want to dissuade her."

Lestrade looked taken aback to be presented with a personal, rather than a case-related issue, but he soon rallied. "Right," he said. "What was the conversation? Why is Sally trying to tell John? How do you know she's trying to tell John? Why do you want to stop her and how exactly do you plan on doing that?"

I was a little surprised – the man was capable of reasoned thought, after all. I really didn't want to have to explain all this, but he was right; just at this moment, I did need him.

"It was a conversation I had with my brother Mycroft and it concerned John. Sally is a gossip and will justify it as something John should know; I have to try to stop her because it will...," I broke off, suddenly finding it hard to continue. "It will upset him." I swallowed. "It will upset him very much." My face felt hot, which was strange considering the ambient temperature.

Lestrade was studying me. "So, you're just assuming that she's trying to tell John about this mysterious conversation?" he asked - again showing a surprising awareness as to which of his queries had been side-stepped.

"She had sent him three texts and left a voicemail message by the time we got home," I told him. "That would suggest that she was trying to tell him."

"Yes, but it doesn't explain why she didn't manage it," he observed. "Why didn't John just answer his phone?"

"I borrowed it."

"You borrowed it?" he queried sceptically, one eyebrow raised. "You mean you lifted it, don't you?" Clearly he was remembering all his warrant cards; it seemed there was no point evading the issue.

"Fine," I said. "I saw Sally as we left the house and immediately realised that she would try to contact John, so I took his phone and switched it off." John had looked rather startled by that sudden hug, I remembered. "When we got home, I checked the phone while he was making tea and saw that my suspicions were correct."

"So, did you delete the messages?" he enquired, eyebrows rising.

I shook my head. "No time. I didn't even read them."

"Do you still have the phone?" he asked, reaching out a hand. "Let's see what she said..."

I shook my head again. "I couldn't keep it on me," I explained. "John's so used to my borrowing his things..." Lestrade quirked a brow at the word 'borrowing', but let it pass, "...if he had wanted his phone he would certainly have checked my pockets, as well as his own. I switched it off and hid it."

He nodded. "OK, so let's see if I've got this straight... Sergeant Donovan misunderstood a conversation between you and your brother to such an extent that she's trying to split you and John up over it?"

I could feel my face paling. "Do you think it would?" I asked him. "Do you think he would leave me?"

He threw his hands up in the air. "How the hell should I know? I thought that was what you were afraid of – why else all this drama?"

"Because it will..." I broke off, thinking back to John's face when he'd said those words to me. It was suddenly hard to swallow. "I don't want him hurt... he doesn't deserve... it's not..." I couldn't find the words. "I have to stop her."

Lestrade was looking at me curiously. "What on earth did you say in this talk with your brother?"

I couldn't explain the project, he would never understand. "I said I wasn't capable of love."

His face softened. "Well, that's looking debatable, isn't it?" He got to his feet without waiting for an answer. "Come on then," he told me. "Let's go, before Sally finds John and all hell breaks loose." I looked at him questioningly and he shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not letting you get at poor Sally on your own. You go with me, or not at all."

I was startled. "But why would you be willing to help me?" I demanded, and he gave me a slightly pitying look.

"Just because you've never been interested in friends, doesn't mean you don't have them." I just stared at him. "Anyway," he continued, looking a little abashed. "I've always been a sucker for a happy ending."

It took us nearly an hour to get to Sally's apartment by car, and there was no-one there when we arrived. Lestrade wanted to try Baker Street, but I knew she wouldn't go there – she would want to get John on his own, away from me. I considered the possibility that she was with Anderson, but Lestrade said he had left the crime scene before we did, off for a long weekend trying to patch things up with his wife again, so that was clearly out. I kept trying her phone, but it seemed to be switched off now.

We were still debating what to do next when there was a gasp from behind us; it was Sally, and she looked terrible.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped at me, in a rather subdued version of her usual manner.

Lestrade stepped forward. "Sally, are you all right?" he asked. "You look awful!"

She sniffed. "That's his fault," she said accusingly. "If he wasn't such a complete psychopath, I never would have..." she trailed off. "I never would have..." her face crumpled and she started to cry.

Lestrade glanced at me worriedly, then put his arm round her, patting her shoulder. She already had her keys in her hand and he took them off her gently, opening the door to her apartment and ushering me in after them.

"Sally," Lestrade murmured, sitting her down on the sofa. "Sally, what have you done?"

My mind was reeling; surely she couldn't have spoken to John already? He had promised to stay at home and I couldn't believe she would have gone round there without knowing I was out.

"He phoned me," she said. "John phoned me, just as I left work."

I found that I was suddenly sitting down. John had found his phone. My mind raced ahead; he would have heard Sally's version of my conversation with Mycroft, he would realise that I had taken his phone deliberately, he would know that I was trying to stop him from finding out, and that even knowing what was likely to happen I had almost... had almost... what had I been thinking? I would have taken him, there on the floor, if he hadn't shocked me with his declaration. I would have taken him and now I probably never would... I dropped my head into my hands, my mind going round in circles.

I could hear Sally and Lestrade arguing, but I wasn't taking in what they were saying. Sally seemed to be protesting, no doubt telling Lestrade how I had taken advantage of John, how I had manipulated him for my own selfish reasons, without really caring for him at all – that wasn't right though, was it? If I didn't care, why did I feel like this? What was happening to me? My head was spinning and I felt as if I might be sick.

"Look at him!" Lestrade's roar cut through the fog in my brain and I raised my head.

They were both staring - Sally looked as if she didn't recognise me at all.

"You heard a conversation you weren't meant to," Lestrade told her. "Whatever was said, and please, spare me the details..." He paused. "Does a man always tell his brother the truth?" he asked, in a quieter voice. "Especially if he doesn't realise it himself?" He waved his hand in my direction. Sally looked appalled.

"But I..." she stopped. "I thought... I thought that I was doing a good thing, that John should know, but he... he was..." She sank back on to the sofa. "He was so... broken." She started crying again.

I could hardly breathe. My chest felt tight and there was pressure building inside my head. Lestrade looked at me worriedly, but sat down next to Sally, handing her a tissue and patting her on the back. "Tell us what happened," he said.

It took a while, but eventually the whole story came out. When John had phoned her she tried to get him to meet her somewhere, but he said he couldn't leave the flat; my breath caught at that. He had told her I was out and reluctantly agreed that she could come round, which she had promptly done. Part of my brain calculated that she had probably got there just when I was in Lestrade's office. On arrival, she had immediately told him everything Mycroft and I had said.

"He wouldn't believe me at first," she related. "He was angry with me, but then..." She looked away slightly – there was something wrong there, something she wasn't telling us. "Then he just seemed to accept it and he looked..." She was crying again, fat tears rolling unheeded down her face. "I've never seen anyone look like that," she added quietly. "I mean, I've seen some terrible things. In this job, you get used to it, but I've never..." She broke off and glared at me again.

"This is your fault," she yelled at me. "You made me do this and now I can't take it back and I can't change it and I can't... I can just see his face..." She pressed her hands over her eyes as if to take away the vision, sobbing quietly.

There was a short silence. I could feel the bile rising up my throat and I couldn't seem to say anything.

Lestrade spoke up. "Where is John now?" he asked her. "Is he still at Baker Street?"

Sally shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "He was when I left, but his sister was on her way, so..."

"His sister?" I challenged. "John doesn't get on with his sister."

She just looked at me, tiredly. "There was a message from Harry on his phone," she replied. "I saw it when..." She broke off. "I asked him if it was a friend that he could call, but he said it was his sister. He didn't ask me to phone her, but..." She paused. "I couldn't just leave him on his own like that." She shook her head. "I didn't tell her anything. Just that John needed her. She said she'd be there in..." Sally glanced at her watch. "Well, she should have been there for a while by now."

Her words seemed to bring me back to myself, and I jumped up. "I have to go."

Lestrade nodded and got up. "I'll drive you," he said, as if there was no question. "Will you be all right, Sally?" he asked her.

She got up also, still sniffling, but nodded, then came over to touch my arm. "Look," she said. "I don't like you." Hardly a surprise.

"I think you're a dangerous, manipulative, bastard, if the truth be known." Lestrade made a sound of protest, but she carried on. "But, for what it's worth, I'm sorry." She paused. "Not for you, because you totally brought this on yourself, but I am sorry about John. I wish I hadn't..." She looked down for a moment. "I won't tell anyone about this," she said. "I promised John that I wouldn't and I won't – not anyone."

I nodded at her, then strode out of the apartment, Lestrade on my heels.

We seemed to be chasing around London for hours, looking for John. We went to Baker Street first, of course, but it was empty. John's things were all there, at least; the mug from his tea still sitting on the lounge table and there was a plate by the sink. We checked the pub he often went to and any other nearby possibilities, but there was no sign and no one had seen him.

His phone was on, but it was just ringing out. I wanted to track it but Lestrade said that was a 'misuse of police resources'. He did agree to get Harry Watson's phone number and she answered, but hung up as soon as I gave my name – I had, however, managed to establish a general area from the background noises and we re-focused our efforts, splitting up after a while to cover more venues. They were definitely in a pub... and a traditional type of pub, not a trendy bar, the music was quiet enough for conversation.

Eventually, several hours later, I was searching a crowd of faces, when I saw a woman who looked like John. She had his nose and his sandy hair, and her head was tipped slightly to one side as she regarded the person opposite her, in just the way that John does. I moved round so that I could tell for sure, and there he was.

Just to see his face again after the hours of searching brought me a certain relief, but my anxiety rose as I studied him. He looked completely blank. There was a drink in front of him, but he wasn't drinking it – hadn't touched it, actually. He was looking towards his sister, but clearly not really seeing her; she was talking, but he didn't seem to be aware of it. After a few minutes, I saw her get up, touch his arm briefly, then head in the direction of the toilets – this was my chance.

I moved swiftly across the bar and slid into Harry's vacated seat. John's eyes focused on me and he stared for a few seconds, then bolted. I had never seen John run away from anything before and for a moment it shocked me into immobility, but then I rose and followed him. He had headed towards the rear of the building and I went through a fire door which was still swinging to find him leaning against the wall in a dirty alley. He was bent forward, hands on his thighs, as if he were trying to get his breath back. He didn't look up.

I walked towards him cautiously, stopping still some distance away. "John," I said quietly. "John, please talk to me."

He let out a low, choked sound. "What should I say?" he muttered, and his voice was all wrong. "I'm just your pet, your project." He spat out the word. "What should I say when you're not pulling my strings?"

"What did she tell you?"

He took a deep breath. "She told me that you deliberately set out to make me fall in love with you, despite knowing that you were incapable of returning those feelings, because you didn't want me to get married and leave you without a convenient partner."

Hearing him say the words, it seemed strange that I had ever found it a reasonable idea.

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" Such bitterness sounded out of place coming from John. "I fell in love with you." My chest felt odd just at the words, but he carried on. "Except for the part where I didn't…" I was confused, but he kept talking. "I fell for an illusion – a performance you put on for me. Now I'm in love with someone who doesn't exist and who could never return my feelings, even if he did."

I wanted so badly to reach for him, but forced myself to remain where I was. "It's not true, John," I told him.

He laughed, but it wasn't a funny sound. "It's not true?" he queried. "Are you saying that Sally lied to me, that she made it all up?" I opened my mouth, but he kept going. "When she said that you had sacrificed your body for the sake of a pleasant working relationship, was that a lie?"

His words struck home as I suddenly realised just how deeply I had fooled myself, as well as everyone else. Of course it was no sacrifice to sleep with John, it never had been. Why would I have even come up with this ridiculous plan, if not because I wanted John, deep down somewhere in a hidden part of me which I kept locked away so tightly, I had wanted him and my conscious brain had managed to produce a logical justification. I felt as if a light had turned on in my head and I smiled at him as the revelation filled me. "Yes, John, that was a lie!" I announced – of course it was a lie... My God, it was obvious!

I was about to explain this to him, but I had lost his attention - he was pulling something out of his pocket and staring at it. It was his phone. He pressed a few buttons then placed it on the flat of his hand. I glanced up to his face in query, but he was expressionless once more. Then I heard my own voice:

"He gets sex; I get to keep my partner. It seems perfectly logical to me."

I felt the blood drain from my face. This was what Sally hadn't told us, this was why John had accepted her words without arguing, without first trying to speak to me. I thought back quickly... Sally must have started recording us on her phone as soon as she realised what we were talking about. Mycroft's voice came next:

"Only you would find it logical to sacrifice your body for the sake of a pleasant working relationship. I assume it is still your aim to make John fall in love with you?"

That phrase! Idiot! That was not a phrase Sally was likely to have remembered or repeated word for word – I should have realised there was a recording as soon as John said it. Sally must have transferred it to John's phone, that was when she saw Harry's message. I cursed myself for a fool, as my voice sounded again:

"That would be best for the stability of our arrangement."

Did I always sound so cold? I certainly didn't feel that way at the moment, it seemed as if emotions were trying to claw their way out of my chest, they were choking me. Mycroft's voice asked:

"And will you tell him that you love him in return?"

I knew, of course, what was coming, as clearly John did too, but still we both flinched as I denied it:

"I am a sociopath, Mycroft. You know perfectly well that I am incapable of such an emotion."

John shut off the message, and drew a deep breath. Then he started talking, not quite looking at me. "I could have lived out the rest of my life as your best friend and colleague," he mused, sounding almost conversational, "and never wanted or asked for anything more. I could have been happy." He paused, and his chest suddenly heaved. "But now," he continued, his tone becoming more agitated. "Now, it's too late for me, I can never go back."

His eyes suddenly focused and he looked at me, his gaze travelling all the way down my body and back up again. "Even at this moment, knowing what you have done, when I look at you all I want is to push my fingers into your hair and taste your mouth, to run my hands down your body and feel you shiver, to have your breath on the back of my neck as you sleep." He stared at me, and his eyes were a sea of pain.

"But it was all a lie, you never wanted any of it, you just used sex to keep me with you." His voice was shaking now. "All those gasps and moans, every time you reached for me, it was all just pretend..." He turned away abruptly and retched violently against the side of the alley.

I moved towards him, but he thrust out a hand to ward me off. "Don't touch me!" His voice cracked. "You don't ever have to touch me again."

I rocked back on my heels, just as the fire door slammed open, and there was Harry. She took in the scene with a glance, then came running at me. I could see what was coming, but I made no effort to avoid it, or to ride the blow. She was surprisingly strong, and had added momentum from being in motion; I was knocked back against the wall.

She was on me immediately. "You sick fuck!" she screeched at me. "What kind of twisted, evil, creature would do something like this? Especially to a man like my brother, who is kind and generous and loyal to you beyond all sense or reason?"

I looked around her to find John and he was moving away, staggering down the alley like a drunkard. Harry followed my gaze and growled; clearly realising she would have to end her rant to follow him.

"I hope you're proud," she told me, bitterly. "You've done what the entire Afghan army couldn't - you have destroyed my brother."

I flinched back and she pressed her advantage. "You took him apart and put him back the way you wanted him and now he doesn't know who he is any more."

John was nearly at the street now, she really needed to go. She turned to run, then glanced back at me. "Stay away from him," she warned. "He deserves better than you." She looked me up and down. "Anybody would." With a last, scornful curl of her lip, she dashed off, catching John just at the end of the alley and steering him around the corner.

I slid down against the wall of the alley and rested my head on my knees. After some indeterminate time, I realised that my phone was ringing. Absently, I fished it out of my pocket and looked at the screen – it was Lestrade. I ignored the call, then texted him my location. Five minutes later I heard running footsteps which skidded to a halt in front of me. I looked up.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed. "Did you get into a fight?"

I raised a hand to my eye, which was tender and would no doubt be black tomorrow. "No," I told him, my voice sounding odd. "This was Harry."

He let out a breath. "You found him, then?" he checked. I nodded. "I'm taking it didn't go well?" I shook my head.

He thought for a moment. "Is he safe?"

I nodded again. "Harry's with him, I imagine she'll take him home with her."

"Right then," he said. "Best get you back to Baker Street, I think." He helped me up. My legs felt stiff, and as if they didn't belong to me. We made our way to the street.

Lestrade got me home, muttering the occasional platitude about how it would 'all work out' and 'look better in the morning'. I didn't respond, other than to thank him before he left – however things had turned out, he had been more of a friend to me than I had ever expected or, I acknowledged to myself, deserved.

I cleared the various books and experiments off my armchair and sat down, not wanting to go near the sofa. Hanging untidily over the back of the chair was the throw rug I had lain John down on earlier. I touched my hand to it, picturing him as he had looked, only a few hours before. I felt numb, as if I were in a bubble and everything else was on the outside. I was cold. I pulled the blanket over myself. It smelt of John.

John, who would never lie on it again. John, who I had hurt so terribly, without even thinking about it; who I had manipulated and twisted to fit my purpose, whose loyalty to me I had used to destroy him. John's eyes, so filled with pain, John being physically sick because I had made him feel like a rapist, as if he had taken what I didn't truly want to give. My face was wet.

John would never come back here now. He would never drink from the mug on the table, never sit and stroke my hair as we watched ridiculous TV shows, never kiss me again. I couldn't breathe properly.

There would be no more cuddling in his bed, no more trying to persuade him to join me in the shower, no more making out on the sofa. My throat had closed up.

There was a noise.

Footsteps on the stairs, but not the right footsteps, not John's footsteps, not John with his occasional limp and his bags of groceries... no, not ever again. Mycroft stepped into the room.

He walked over to me and his face was open and smiling, his expression taking me back twenty years. He perched on the arm of my chair.

"There you are," he said, and it was the voice which had explained away my nightmares and fixed my first microscope. "I've waited a long time to see you again, little brother."

That voice had never lied to me, had always kept its promises, had seemed infallible. He put his arm around my shoulders. "Don't worry, we'll get him back."

I put my head on my brother's chest and cried.

Artwork :

Fall Apart by soma chiou

Chapter Text

JOHN P.O.V.

Harry's house was beige. Beige walls, beige carpets, beige furniture, beige brother.

I put on a beige jumper. Perhaps, if I sat quietly for long enough, I would fade completely into the background, then what was left of me could simply disappear.

Harry was getting fed up. For the first week, she had tiptoed around as if any sharp noise might cause me to shatter. The second week, she had started tutting at the undrunk tea and uneaten sandwiches. Last week she asked when I was going to look for some locum work in the area. Now she wanted to throw me a 'coming out' party.

"I'm not gay, Harry," I reminded her, for the seventh time that day, and perhaps the hundredth since I had arrived here.

"You were with him," she retorted, and I added another tick to the mental checklist of 'How many times I wished I hadn't told Harry the whole pathetic story'.

"How do you know it's not some latent tendency?" she persevered. "Just a few close friends - they're coming round for drinks and nibbles tonight."

I shook my head, but she was undeterred.

"You don't have to say anything, just a bit of chat, see what you think." She considered for a moment. "I think Colin might be just your type, actually."

I dropped my head back onto the top of the sofa... I had a type?

"I'm going out tonight," I told her, surprising myself somewhat.

Her eyes narrowed. "With whom?" she challenged, scoffing at my rather feeble mention of 'a friend'. She tried to find out more, but I retreated into silence and eventually she stomped off, muttering under her breath.

I sighed and pulled out my phone; I would have to go out now. I texted Lestrade – he had contacted me several times over the last month, but I had avoided him, along with everyone else. He was nice enough, but it stood to reason that Sherlock was more important to him than I was. Still, I did have to go out – might as well see if he was free for a pint.

I sent the message and then looked at last night's text again: Good Night, John. SH

He sent one every night; 10.30 pm on the dot. He never missed and he was never late. Sometimes he would apologise, sometimes he would make excuses, sometimes it was just Good Night. My finger hovered over the Delete button for the thousandth time, but not too close - I had accidentally pressed it once and that missing day gnawed at me every time I looked through the list, which I did far too often. They were like a connection with my Sherlock – the one I loved, my imaginary friend. I knew, of course, that they were coming from him... the real man, the puller of strings, but there was no way for him to know that I kept them, so I held on to the fantasy.

I didn't understand what he hoped to gain from it – he must have some purpose in mind, but it eluded me. I hated myself for keeping them, I hated my heart for aching every time I read through them and I hated my stupid body every time it woke me up craving him.

There was a chime as Lestrade replied with a time and place – it looked like I was going out, after all.

The pub was warm and busy and full of life; I felt slightly surreal sitting in the corner in my cloud of beige. When Lestrade arrived we shook hands and talked about the weather - wet, the football - useless, and the state of the economy - terrible. I was searching for another topic when he seemed to steel himself and it was obvious what was coming.

"He's not doing very well without you, you know."

I grunted, which he took as a sign to carry on.

"He still helps on cases when I ask him to, but he doesn't care any more."

I snorted. "Of course he doesn't care, he's a sociopath. Not caring is his speciality."

Lestrade looked at me sadly. "I don't think that's true, John," he said. "At least, not any more. What I meant was that he's not excited about the work like he used to be – he's not trying to butt in on the interesting cases, not embarrassing me in front of the press, not showing off to the rest of the team. He just turns up when asked, examines the evidence, reports his deductions and leaves again." He shrugged his shoulders. "He's not even rude any more!"

I huffed: as if Sherlock Holmes' lack of rudeness was such a great loss to the world.

"I was with him that night, you know," he said unexpectedly. "The night he was looking for Sally."

I flinched, and he gave me a small, apologetic smile.

"And then we were looking for you... I don't know the whole story - and I don't want to," he added hastily. "But I know that the man I found in that alley was not the man I've worked with for the last five years."

"He wanted me to stay with him and he doesn't like for his plans to fail," I muttered. "Especially one he's worked so hard on."

"I don't think that's it," he denied. "When he came to Scotland Yard, he was desperate to find her; I'd never seen him so agitated." He thought back. "But when I mentioned the possibility of you splitting up, he was startled – he'd just not wanted you to be hurt."

I laughed bitterly. "Well, that didn't work out too well for him, did it?"

I was clearly making him uncomfortable but I couldn't seem to help my anger from seeping out into my words – it was if my beige was being shot through with scarlet.

It was the first time I'd talked about that night, or Sherlock at all – Harry had been to Baker Street to pick up my things a couple of days later and returned white faced. I didn't ask, and she didn't tell me – just handed over my bags. She hadn't done a very good job of packing as there were several things missing... my oldest and rattiest jumper and most of my toiletries; although she had brought a mug, which seemed a bit random. She had tried to talk to me about it a few times but after the shock of the first night, when it all just came out, I had refused to discuss it. Leaving the room seemed to indicate my unwillingness to talk quite effectively.

Lestrade moved the conversation on to various cases, not mentioning Sherlock again until we were leaving the pub at ten, when he suddenly put his hand on my arm before we parted. "Look, it's obvious that you think he's cold and emotionless," he said, seemingly disagreeing. "But I saw you." He paused. "I saw you both, that afternoon."

I realised he was referring to Sherlock kissing me in the archway, and pulled my arm away abruptly. He let me go.

"I'm sorry, John," he said. "But that was anything but cold - that was red hot and unmistakeable. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed…" His voice faded.

I should have been walking away, but just the memory of that kiss seemed to hold me in place.

He shook his head. "Look, John, it's your life, and Sherlock has obviously hurt you very badly, but don't you think you're basing an awful lot on one revelation? Does a single misguided conversation wipe out all of your time together, just cancel everything out?"

"You don't understand," I told him angrily. The red was expanding into my beige now, taking it over.

"No. No I don't," he agreed. "But I don't think you do either."

I walked the short distance back to Harry's house slowly, letting myself in through the back door and sneaking up to the guest room quietly – I could still hear her friends cackling together in the lounge. There was a large envelope on the bed, which hadn't been there when I went out; it had my name printed on the front. I opened it and pulled out a photograph but there was no note or message. It looked like a surveillance shot, I thought, clearly taken from a distance when the subject was unaware of it.

Sherlock was standing on York Bridge, where we had stopped that day in the park. He was leaning on the railing and looking out over the water, but his eyes were unfocused. He had lost weight, I noticed, his cheekbones even more pronounced than usual, and his hair needed cutting. He looked lost, his face ineffably sad.

My phone beeped with a text message – it must be 10.30: I miss you, John, SH

Two days later, I got a text from Mycroft: Need to talk with you. Is it convenient to call round shortly?

I replied suggesting that he go screw himself, then left the house quickly, making my way down to the local park and a particular bench which had become something of a haven when I needed a break from my sister. I had only been there a minute or two when someone sat next to me – it was Mycroft, of course. I sighed.

"Do you find everyone so predictable?"

"Usually," he admitted, handing me a beaker of tea from the nearby shop. We sat there for a few minutes in silence.

"I should punch you," I pointed out.

He quirked a brow at me. "Are you going to?" He didn't look very worried.

"I don't know," I confessed. "But I think I'm entitled. It was you who convinced me to give that fake relationship a chance in the first place. I never would have gone down that road if you hadn't steered me." I was actually getting angrier as I talked, and I noticed him edging away a little, which did make me feel marginally better, although, knowing the Holmes brothers, he was probably only edging in order to make me feel better. Manipulative bastard.

"I didn't lie to you, John."

I snorted. Loudly. "You told me a load of old bollocks just to help your brother keep his assistant... as per his incredibly stupid plan," I reminded him. "The fact that it was my life you were fucking around with doesn't seem to matter at all. You're inhuman."

Mycroft really did look a little nervous now, but he sipped his tea with a steady hand. "Everything I said to you that day was true."

"Oh, really?" I challenged bitterly. "Because I clearly recall you telling me that your brother was physically attracted to me." I tried not to think too much about what I was saying. "And yet I have a recording of you discussing with Sherlock how he 'sacrificed his body for the sake of a pleasant working relationship'." Oh, how I hated that phrase, which had haunted me for a month now.

He just looked at me.

"So?" I demanded. "How do you explain that contradiction?"

He raised his eyebrows. "By repeating myself, it would seem. Everything I said to you was true…" He waited while I joined the dots.

"You mean your conversation with Sherlock…"

"Was, in fact, 'a load of old bollocks', as you so succinctly put it." His distaste for the vulgarity was evident.

I gaped at him. "I do not understand a single thing that comes out of your mouth." I started to get up. "I'm going back to Harry's."

"Interesting word choice," he mused, irritatingly. "Tell me John, where is home?"

A vision of Baker Street rose unbidden to my mind. The skull, the mess, the appendix in the fridge, the violin in the corner and Sherlock, always Sherlock. Sherlock on the sofa, pushing his head against my hand to be petted. Sherlock demanding tea at ridiculous hours and bringing home too much milk. Sherlock wrapping himself around me in the night and grumbling sleepily when I got up. Sherlock with his head thrown back and his body arched as he cried my name.

I snarled at Mycroft as my eyes filled, then turned and practically ran back to Harry's. I crossed the bench off my list of refuges.

Two days later he was back, this time near the duck pond.

"Sherlock was diagnosed as a sociopath by his classmates when he was fourteen years old," he announced, without even a 'Good morning' to introduce himself. "And he embraced it because it protected him from their taunts."

I was listening, despite myself.

"I was twenty-one at that point," he continued, "and away from home for extended periods." He looked regretful. "By the time I realised what was happening, it was too late."

I had vowed never to believe another word that came out of Mycroft's devious mouth, but found myself unable to doubt him now. He wasn't looking at me, analysing my expressions or laying on the charm, he was just sitting on a bench and reminiscing while absently watching the ducks swim to and fro.

"We had always been close, despite the age difference. Sherlock as a child was…" A smile crossed his face. "Well, he was adorable," he continued ruefully. "Always so fascinated by the world, wanting to know everything, explore everything, understand everything; frighteningly intelligent and inquisitive." He shook his head slightly. "People aren't quite sure how to treat such a child, you know."

He glanced at me and I tried to pretend I wasn't riveted.

"He would always say too much, make them uncomfortable. They would look at him as if he wasn't quite human. He learned from an early age that he wasn't 'normal'."

I tried not to care, but it was difficult.

"Children can be very cruel, and the teenage years are challenging enough. By the age of fifteen, the 'sociopath' persona was locked in place, a rigid shell surrounding him which stopped anyone from getting in." He paused. "Even his own brother," he added sadly, appearing lost in thought as the wind whistled through the branches over our heads.

"But that's not who he really is," he emphasised, turning to look me in the eye. "That's not the boy I remember, that's not my brother." He was more agitated than I had ever seen him, always so cool and unaffected by everything. "Sherlock is locked inside just as surely as everyone else is locked out," he added. "He's only been half alive for years."

My dreams that night were strange and erotic. Sherlock had sent one of his more obscure texts: I woke up at the park, SH, which left me thinking of that day again. Awake, I tended to focus on the disastrous ending... the meeting with Sally, telling Harry what had happened, the confrontation with Sherlock in the alley, all of that.

My subconscious mind, however, chose to linger predominantly on the kiss in the archway and, most definitely, the almost-sex on the throw rug. I woke up twisted in the sheets and as hard as a rock, with an image of Sherlock looking dazed behind my eyes and the feeling that I was missing something.

I felt jumpy and irritable all day, so when Harry sprung a group of friends on me in the evening (no warning this time), I insisted that we all go to the pub rather than sit around making small talk amid all the beige.

I was getting another round of drinks at the bar when someone bumped into me from behind. I turned with a sharp comment on my lips but choked it off when I saw the culprit. She was small and curvy, with wavy blonde hair and big brown eyes, and she looked nervous.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, and her voice was very soft - I had to lean forwards to hear her. "I was looking for my purse and then I dropped my phone and then I stood up too quickly and lost my balance..." She was babbling. "I do apologise, I didn't make you spill your drink did I? Please let me buy you a replacement if so, it's the very least I can do, I'm not usually so clumsy..." She was off again and didn't seem to be in any danger of winding down.

I held out my hand in order to stem the tide. "I'm John," I introduced myself, "and there's no harm done." I waved to the drinks on the bar. "Look – all present and correct."

She giggled and shook my hand. "I'm Mary, and that's a great relief."

We chatted for a few minutes while she was being served. She was a primary school teacher who had just finished her first week at a new school; here to meet up with some colleagues. With some vague idea of winding Harry up, I invited her to join us while she waited.

They were forty minutes late, and she was perfect. She was pretty but in a gentle way, sweet but not saccharine, and funny but still kind. She was shy but seemed to like me and we talked together easily. If I had met her six months earlier I would be planning my proposal by now. I felt angry and frustrated with myself, so when her friends arrived I asked for her number, which she gave with a huge smile – honesty over coyness, another tick on the 'Yes' side.

The rest of the evening dragged by. Thankfully Colin, who I had to admit looked a little like Sherlock, with his black hair and striking cheekbones, seemed equally as disinterested in me as I was in him, so at least one of Harry's schemes had crashed and burned - perhaps now she would leave me alone.

Not for long, as it turned out, since the next morning she shouted up the stairs that I had a visitor.

"If it's Mycroft, tell him to fuck off!" I yelled back.

"No, it's a police officer."

Must be Lestrade, I thought, getting up and heading downstairs.

Harry was just going out the door. "Got to dash," she told me. "I've put her in the lounge."

Her. I ground to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. I was about to make a tactical retreat via the kitchen, when Sally appeared in the lounge doorway – just looking at her face I felt my heart rate pick up. My skin grew clammy and everything seemed to slow down; adrenaline rush, part of my brain registered, fight-or-flight response. It would seem my body had a visceral reaction to the memory of our last meeting.

"Give me a minute," I asked her, and she nodded, turning back into the lounge. I sat down on the stairs and put my head between my knees, concentrating on my breathing until I felt more in control of myself, then followed her.

"I'm sorry to just turn up," she started. "But I didn't think you'd want to see me and I have to talk to you."

I couldn't help a small wince at hearing the same words she had used that night: 'I have to talk to you,' as if she had no choice, so whatever happened as a result could not be blamed on her. I could feel my lip curling slightly, but I said nothing.

"It was wrong, what I told you," she started, which surprised me into speech.

"You gave me a recording," I pointed out. "How could that be inaccurate?"

She looked ashamed. "I should never have done that. I heard part of a conversation and jumped to conclusions - I should know better in my line of work."

I was just looking at her blankly and she took a deep breath. "You have to understand, I've worked around Sherlock for years and he's always been 'the freak' to me. I've constantly been waiting for the other shoe to drop and for him to do something terrible."

"That's what you said to me the first time we met," I remembered. "You said that one day you'd be standing over a body and Sherlock Holmes would be the one who'd put it there."

She nodded. "Exactly. So when I heard what I did, I thought that was it – he'd done something inhuman and I had to warn you; I couldn't bear the thought of him getting away with it."

I wasn't sure what she was getting at. "OK, so you told me. And now you've explained why you told me - which, by the way, was unnecessary. Why you did it is irrelevant to me, really."

She stood up suddenly and started pacing. "I'm trying to explain why I shouldn't have told you!" she exclaimed, clearly frustrated. "This plan, project, whatever... I don't pretend to understand what goes on in his head, but it's obvious now that the conversation I heard was absolute rubbish!"

I was startled. "What do you mean?"

She sat back down with a thump. "When he found out that I'd already told you, he virtually collapsed. Honestly, he was hyperventilating - I thought he was going to throw up on my new carpet."

Somehow Sally's self-interest made her statement ring truer, but still I shook my head. "He'd been caught out," I reminded her. "That must have been a shock, even to him."

"I told myself that," she replied, nodding. "I told myself that for as long as I could... but I just can't make myself believe it any more." She sighed heavily.

"He's changed, John," she continued, after a moment. "I don't know if it's because of losing you, or if he was already changing and losing you just made it more obvious, but if I ever wanted him to suffer..." she dropped her head a little, clearly ashamed, "...then, My God, I've got my wish. I can barely stand to look at his eyes any more."

Bloody hell, could this woman be any more self-absorbed? I suddenly remembered an urgent dental appointment, clutching my jaw in pain as I showed her out. Just like the rest of them she tried to go for the last minute arm-grab, no doubt with some more pearls of wisdom ready to dump on me, but I was watching for it this time and managed to avoid her grasp. I may not have toothache, but my head was certainly throbbing by the time I got rid of her.

I felt in need of a large dose of 'normal', so I phoned Mary and we arranged to meet for coffee. She was just as perfect as she had seemed last night and I found myself feeling, not exactly happy, but certainly more recognisable as the John Watson I had known for most of my life. It was nice; to sit and chat with someone who didn't know about the soap opera my life had become, to have a normal conversation with a nice, normal girl. It felt right, as if this was what I should be doing.

Mary had to leave after coffee, but the forecast was good for the next day, so we arranged to meet in the park. I kissed her cheek as she left and she blushed – perfect.

I should have known it was too good to last... I reached the park an hour early the next day, just wanting to enjoy a bit of sunshine (and peace - Harry was on the warpath again), when Mycroft was suddenly there on the end of my bench. He reminded me of Mr Benn in a TV programme which I had watched as a child: 'as if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared' – assuming, of course, that the shopkeeper was a shady political character with no morals to speak of and a tendency to treat people like chess pieces.

"I can't talk to you today," I snapped at him. "I have a date!" There... stick that in your pipe and smoke it, I thought in satisfaction.

Of course, he wasn't fazed in the slightest. "Ah yes, the lovely Miss Morstan," he mused, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Why was I even surprised that he knew her full name, when I didn't? He had probably known what she'd had for breakfast for the last five years within minutes of her shaking my hand.

"Don't tell me that she's a spy, or an axe-murderer, or a call girl," I warned him. "Because I won't believe you."

"No, no, John." He smiled slightly. "She seems a lovely young woman and I'm sure she would make an excellent partner for you." He paused, then sat up a little, crossing his legs. "Tell me, John," he enquired. "Are you familiar with the concept of alternative realities?"

He quirked a brow at me, then clearly decided to take my look of absolute blankness as a negative, and continued. "The theory is that every decision you make in your life leads you to follow one particular path, but at each point where you make a choice an alternate reality splits off, in which you chose differently. By the end of your life, there will be an almost infinite number of different roads you could have taken as you progressed through all those choices."

Somewhere in my head a bell was ringing. "You mean like that movie 'Sliding Doors', where there were two different stories, one where she caught the train and one where she didn't?" I asked. Harry loved that movie; she said it proved that most men were scum and even the ones that weren't would knock you up then get you killed in a road traffic accident.

"Just so," responded Mycroft, although he looked a little bemused by the movie reference. "I have long found this concept fascinating – all the different possible routes laid out in front of people, like a garden of forking paths..."

I could see how it would appeal to him, with his habit of interfering in people's lives. That was probably what politics was all about – nudging people onto the path you wanted them to take, preferably without them being aware of it. "Well, this is all very interesting, Mycroft," I said, in a tone loaded with sarcasm. "But I assume you have a point somewhere, because Mary will be here soon and I don't want you anywhere near her."

I paused. "No offence." I paused again. "On second thoughts, take all the offence you like."

He sighed. "I don't blame you for being angry, John."

"Well, that's a weight off my mind." Really, the sarcasm was flowing freely today; I'd better get it out of my system before Mary arrived.

"When I first met you, John," he explained. "And especially when I met you and Sherlock together after you had just saved his life," he added pointedly, no doubt implying that he could have me done for murder if he so chose. "A new possible road became clear to me."

He fixed me with a steady gaze. "It was obvious immediately that the two of you belonged together in some capacity, you were uniquely suited on almost every level, complementing each other perfectly."

I squirmed uncomfortably. I really didn't want to hear this now, but he was relentless.

"It seemed to me that there could be thousands of possible scenarios where you lived out your lives as friends and companions, with Sherlock remaining largely an outsider all of his life... probably even many where you married someone like Mary and still worked with him." He paused, seeming to steel himself.

"But I could also see the possibility of another path - one that would awaken in my brother the part of himself which he buried so long ago. One that would allow him to feel, to love, to really live the life he should have had and which he deserves."

A suspicion was dawning on me as he spoke, and I narrowed my eyes slightly.

He tensed, but carried on. "After you had been working together for a while, it was obvious that he was increasingly attracted to you, that he cared deeply about you, that you were reaching him; but it was equally obvious that he would never, ever act on, or even recognise those emotions."

I was starting to get a very ominous feeling and was aware of my muscles bunching as I gripped tightly on to the edge of the bench. "Mycroft..." My voice was low and unusually controlled. "Mycroft, what did you do?"

He was looking distinctly uncomfortable by this point, perhaps aware of how close he was to becoming much more intimately acquainted with his umbrella than the manufacturer would recommend.

"I just gave him a little nudge," he said quietly. "I enabled him to rationalise his desires by giving him a logical reason for doing so."

I gritted my teeth. "It was you? You put him up to this project idea?" I stared at him. "You had better leave, Mycroft."

He hesitated, opening his mouth again, but I cut him off. "Seriously," I warned him. "I'm hanging on to my temper by a thread here; you need to leave right now."

He got up quickly and moved a little distance away, before turning back. Honestly, what is it with these people and their obsessive need to have the last word?

"Can I just ask you to consider what is keeping you from him now?" he asked me. "Is it a genuine belief, despite all the evidence, that he does not love or want you, or is it pride? Because he fooled you? Because, believe me, he fooled himself just as successfully."

He was gone, leaving me on the bench with my head swirling and the taste of confusion thick in my mouth.

As I got ready for bed that night, I reflected that it was perhaps not surprising that my date with Mary had been less successful than anticipated, although she had still agreed to meet me for a drink in a couple of days time. I was aware that I was focusing on her in order to avoid thinking about Sherlock, but I really wanted to avoid thinking about Sherlock, so I was OK with it. I'd even stopped obsessively reading through his texts every hour.

My phone beeped just as I had this thought... it was 10.30: I'm on fire, SH

I assumed this was meant metaphorically – surely even Sherlock wouldn't text if he'd actually managed to set himself ablaze in some bizarre toaster experiment.

I went to bed thinking of heat and flames, which inevitably led to more erotic dreams and another massive erection, which absolutely refused to go away on its own. As I took care of it, I tried desperately to think of Mary; but it was Sherlock's name on my lips as I came, and Sherlock's face behind my eyes when I closed them. Once again, his expression was dazed and I couldn't work out why I was picturing him that way.

During the following week, my thoughts swirled constantly around Sherlock, despite my every effort to focus them in other directions. Mycroft's words were predominant. I didn't trust him in the slightest, but he had, at least, given me some insight into Sherlock's childhood which explained a lot. Lestrade's recollections of that night, and even Sally's surprising volte-face all crowded into my brain in an overwhelming flurry.

Ever since my world had collapsed around me, I had assumed that my Sherlock was a persona, an act, something the real man had put on in order to achieve his goal - just as I had seen him do so easily on cases, turning himself temporarily into someone completely different, and virtually unrecognisable. But what if it was the other way round – what if my Sherlock was on the inside, hidden deeply away from the rest of the world, and even largely from Sherlock himself? That would mean the man that I loved was real.

My mind was flooding now with memories of intimate moments, times when he had shown me real affection, looked after me, worried about me... his possessiveness when Sally touched me, how cuddly he was in the mornings, his strange determination to get me to share the shower. Then there was that kiss in the archway when he had seemed so desperate for me, his panic in the car when he had realised that Sally had heard him, then his frantic love-making when we got home, which he had stopped - despite clearly not wanting to - he had stopped when I told him I loved him. Did that mean something? It must do, but my confused mind couldn't quite make sense of it.

I tried to carry on as normal... I went out on two more dates with Mary and we made plans for dinner at the weekend. She had clearly expected me to try to make a move on her by now, but I just couldn't quite bring myself to do it, which was frustrating in itself.

Come Saturday night, I got ready for my date still just as confused as I had been all week. Sherlock had deceived me so completely, how could I ever trust him again? And yet, it seemed entirely possible that he had deceived himself the same way. How could I be sure if my Sherlock was real or an illusion? I was sick of thinking about it; I went out... and I left my phone behind.

Mary and I had a lovely dinner. She told me stories about school, things the children had got up to - it was obvious that she would be a wonderful mother. She seemed impressed when I told her about Afghanistan, but she didn't pry when I mentioned being invalided home, just reached over the table and squeezed my hand gently, her brown eyes warm and soft. She made me feel strong and in charge again, and I liked that feeling very much.

I walked her home at eleven and we stopped at the steps leading up to her apartment. She turned to me with a shy smile. "Would you like to come up for a coffee?" she asked, nervously biting her bottom lip... and I suddenly understood what Mycroft had been talking about.

I could plainly see two roads stretching out in front of me; one with Mary, a family, everything I had always assumed that I wanted and might have one day; the other with Sherlock, a constant challenge, possibly deadly, certainly dangerous. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment... then I took Mary's hand and followed her upstairs.

When I got back to my sister's the next morning, the house was quiet - Harry must have gone out. I went up to my room and the first thing I saw was my phone, where I had left it on the desk the previous evening. I picked it up and there was no message, no text from the night before. I sat down abruptly on the bed, my legs feeling unsteady, as realisation dawned on me... he was letting me go.

I didn't question how he knew about Mary, because the Holmes brothers always seemed to know everything. I didn't wonder if he knew where I had spent the night, because I was sure he did.

His dazed face was swimming in front of my vision again and at that moment I knew what I had been trying to remember all this time, why I kept waking up with this image in my mind. When he had been concussed and his normal control had been completely shut down, just for a few seconds, the one thing he had tried to do, tried to do immediately, was to tell me that he loved me. His subconscious had, for once, briefly surfaced, before being battened down again as he regained awareness, and this was its message.

I got to my feet, suddenly absolutely certain. My Sherlock was really in there, buried under the shell that Mycroft had described, but I could break it.

I ran down the stairs and out into the street, for once finding a taxi almost immediately. For me, he would lower his defences; for me, he would risk it - take the chance, live his life.

The taxi was making good progress. I remembered how he wrapped himself around me at night, when his brain was switched off; how cuddly he was in the mornings, when he was still half asleep, his essential nature showing itself whenever it got the chance.

I was here. I still had my key, so I let myself in, pounding up the stairs. I knew he was at home - I don't know how, but I was sure. I pushed open the door.

He must have recognised my footsteps on the stairs, because he was rising to his feet when I stepped through the doorway, a look of uncertainty on his face.

He looked terrible. His eyes were red and his face blotchy, he had obviously been crying for hours. In his hand was a photograph – I recognised myself and Mary smiling at each other in the park; it slipped from his fingers as he straightened and wafted to the ground, ending face down on the carpet.

His eyes were roaming all over me and I knew he would be taking in every aspect of my appearance, every nuance of my approach, so that, even though he looked as if he couldn't believe it, he would know my intentions.

He opened his arms and I walked straight into them.

I was home.

Artwork: End of the Separation by wuhaya


Additional Artwork for this chapter:

I'm home by wuhaya
 
Separation by Giftstift

Chapter Text

SHERLOCK P.O.V.

Nine Hours Earlier...

I put the phone down slowly. That was it then, John had moved on. This woman, this Mary, had won, without even knowing there was a battle.

I sat down heavily in my armchair. I had been aware, of course, that he had started seeing her socially. Mycroft had not wanted to tell me, but I had my own sources. I picked up the photograph again, the one from last Sunday afternoon, which showed the two of them together at the park. They were smiling at each other and John looked happy. She was pretty enough, I supposed, if a little pasty. Mycroft had at least confirmed that her character was suitable – no dark secrets or nasty surprises in store. A thoroughly nice, pleasant, safe, boring woman, who was right now with my John... I cut off that train of thought abruptly.

Unable to sit still, I jumped up again and started pacing. Ever since that terrible night six weeks ago, when I had broken down in front of my brother, I had tried to remain logical and as calm as possible. The anger I had expected to feel towards Mycroft had strangely failed to appear, instead being directed inwards. I knew that I had brought disaster upon John and myself through my own actions, my lack of self-awareness – it would have been easy to blame Mycroft, but I needed him; he was the only thing that gave me any hope once John had gone.

He seemed so confident that John would return, that he would forgive me given time, and what Mycroft euphemistically termed, 'appropriate guidance'. He had stopped me from chasing after John straight away, so I had taken to sending a short text message every night – I wanted him to know that I was sorry, that I cared for him, that I was thinking about him and the texts seemed an unobtrusive method; he didn't have to read them if he didn't want to and there was no pressure to respond in any way. I sent them at exactly the same time each night, to show that he was my priority over everything else, and also I thought that he would come to expect them and they would carry more significance to him. My only hope was that he would look back over our time together and see the signs which I had been too blind to observe myself; the signs which should have shown me long ago that my so-called project was just a ridiculous excuse to justify having what I had really wanted all along.

When John contacted Lestrade, Mycroft was delighted – apparently this was a sign that he was ready to deal with the situation. Privately, I thought it more likely to be a sign that he was getting fed up with his sister, but I bowed to Mycroft's superior understanding of human behaviour.

Mycroft made his first approach two days later and returned extremely confident – he described John's reaction to the word 'home', which apparently meant that he still loved me, although Mycroft had to admit that John still believed the 'me' that he loved was an illusion.

I was amazed when Sally Donovan took it upon herself to visit John. I think Lestrade may have had a hand there, although he denied it. However, as is usually the case with Sally, her attempt seemed to do more harm than good and immediately afterwards John contacted the woman, Mary.

The introduction of the woman seemed to cause Mycroft some concern, as he took the unusual step of taking responsibility for my ridiculous project idea - no doubt in an attempt to deflect some of John's anger away from me and onto himself. I'm not sure how successful it was, as when I asked him about it he just shrugged and glanced nervously at his umbrella.

That night my body was burning for John... I felt as if I could burst out of my skin, the longing for him was so intense. The text I sent him claimed that I was on fire and I half laughed thinking that he would picture me blowing up the microwave again. Then I sobered, wondering if he even read any of my texts or just deleted them unopened.

Through all of this, I tried to maintain a certain level of stoicism. I worked whenever Lestrade called on me, which seemed to be for increasingly trivial matters – it occurred to me that he was trying to help by keeping me busy and I could not understand how I had known the man for so long and not recognised his worth at all. Had I been so blind to anything but intellect until John opened my eyes?

I talked for hours with Mycroft, often about John, but also about growing up, about what happened to me – I had never known how much my closing myself off had hurt him and, to be honest, even had I realised, I would probably have dismissed it as irrelevant.

I went everywhere John and I had been together, spending hours on York Bridge or just walking the route we had taken in Regent's Park. I used my network of contacts to keep track of John, and obsessively considered every move he made. My longing for him never abated, it was a constant ache no matter where I was, giving me the feeling that I wasn't entirely involved in any given situation – the world was carrying on all around me but I was slightly out of step with it; there and yet not really present at all.

Six weeks had passed and I had not cried again. I had hung on to the hope that, somehow, Mycroft would be right and John would come back to me, but now…

I had known that John was going out on a more serious date tonight, so had made the difficult decision not to send my usual text as it would be unfair to intrude upon his evening – perhaps he would understand that I was putting his happiness before my own considerations, perhaps that would make a difference…

A phone call two hours ago had told me that John had accompanied Mary up to her apartment. The call I had just taken told me that the lights had gone out, and John was still there...

I sat down again and jealousy burned through my veins, there was no point in pretending that it was anything else. I tried not to think about John with the woman, but more and more images kept assailing my mind until I thought I would go mad with it.

This could not go on… I could not survive like this, with all of these emotions overwhelming me. I wished that my brother had never planted this seed; that I had never started down this road. Surely I would have been better off 'half alive' as Mycroft put it, than to be fully aware and wishing I was not.

I clutched my hair in my hands and tried to think.

John kissing the woman... No! I had to stop this, had to shut myself down, go back to the way I had lived for all these years.

John moaning as the woman kissed his neck... Stop it! How did people live like this, with this acid burning them from the inside out?

John naked, the woman touching him... I jumped up and went to the window ledge, pressing the knot underneath which released the hidden hinge. I pulled out the small box which was secured inside… I had vowed not to do this again, but I had to shut down my brain somehow.

John writhing on the woman's bed, his head thrown back... I opened the box and reached for the syringe I knew was ready… but it was gone… Mycroft!

I howled in outrage and threw the empty box against the wall.

I spent hours stalking round the flat, talking to myself, trying to drown out the nightmare playing on a loop inside my head. I had to go back to the way I was, I had to… even if it meant losing the friend I had made in Lestrade, the closeness I had gained with my brother - that drug-stealing bastard. I briefly considered going out to obtain my narcotic of choice, but I didn't really have the attention span to deal with anyone. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I stormed past it - no self-respecting supplier would want to deal with me at the moment, I looked deranged.

After an interminable time, when the dawn was just showing signs of appearing, I collapsed back into my chair feeling completely drained and exhausted. I was decided. In a few hours time I would concentrate all my energy into shutting down every thread of emotion and feeling which had stirred into being since John came into my life. I would become colder and more remote than ever before. I would distance myself from anyone who might stir any iota of feeling in me and (my whole body quailed at this, but I overrode it) I would not allow myself to think of John again.

But before I could do that… I needed an outlet for the churning in my belly, the aching in my heart, the tormenting images in my head. Before I started to delete everything that had happened; first, for a few hours, I would let myself grieve…

I picked up the photograph of John and Mary in the park and I told myself that he would be happy; happy as he deserved to be and as I had never made him. He would have the family he was supposed to have. The tears came so easily, I didn't know how I had held them back for this long.

I cried for the life I would not have. I had never really envisaged what might have been, as by the time I realised what John truly meant to me, disaster was already imminent, but I thought about it now – I imagined us living and working together through the years, how John would look when he was older, when he had streaks of grey in his hair, which I imagined would only make him look more distinguished.

I cried for the loss of intimacy, the curling around someone at night, the cuddling on the sofa during the day, the hand holding, the hugs, the just having someone to care for and worry about.

I cried because I would now never have sex. My body had not reverted to its more or less asexual state, but only thoughts of John caused any reaction, so that outlet would be closed to me also.

Finally, I cried just for John, for the loss of his presence in my life, his unpredictability, his loyalty, the way he moved and the taste of his skin. I looked at his chair and pictured him in it for the last time. I touched the throw rug and decided to burn it. I would clear his toiletries out of the bathroom and no longer sniff them every time I went in. I would discard the old jumper that was under my pillow, and stop sleeping in his bed when the craving got too much.

At last, my tears started to slow and the heaving in my chest began to calm. I looked at the photograph one last time and tried to impress on my subconscious that John was happy and that it should just let him go.

I drew a deep breath… and the downstairs door banged… there were footsteps running up the stairs and I would know those steps from a thousand others. I started to stand, my legs unsteady, and John burst through the door.

Why was he here? Had he come to gloat, to tell me that he'd found someone who cared for him honestly? No - it wasn't in John's nature to be so cruel. The photograph slipped from my fingers as he approached me.

I recognised his expression and his body language, but I did not understand it - he was coming to embrace me? My body reacted to the signs without conscious thought, my arms opening to him in invitation, despite my brain telling me that my eyes must be mistaken… but they weren't… his steps did not slow as he got nearer and he walked straight into me, his arms closing tightly around my body, even as mine did the same to him.

We stood there, locked together and, for the first time in six interminable weeks, I was fully and completely present, and exactly where I was supposed to be.

After a few minutes, he tried to pull away. I held on tighter. He didn't fight me, just relaxed into my embrace again. My mind was whirling as I held him, not knowing why he was here, or for how long, and I tried to get myself under control so that I could face him rationally. I concentrated on calculating the volume of extra liquid which I would need to consume to replace the missing water from my tears, until I felt ready to ease my grip slightly.

I pulled back just far enough that I could see his face, still keeping my arms tightly wrapped around his waist. My eyes roamed over him hungrily, looking for changes in the six weeks since I had seen him properly. He looked a little tired, don't think about why, I instructed myself firmly, but essentially he was just the same as the picture in my head - apart from being dressed.

"You look tired," he observed. This was not surprising, as I had not slept at all.

"So do you," I replied, don't think about why, don't think about why.

He cocked his head to the side. "Tea?"

I shook my head; the tea was in the kitchen - I wanted him to stay with me in the living room.

"Well, I think I'll have a cup." He paused. "If that's all right with you, of course?"

I looked at him blankly for a moment before understanding: he had moved out, he no longer felt he had the right to help himself in the kitchen.

"Are you back?" I asked him bluntly.

He smiled at me. "I'm here," he replied, which was no answer at all.

"Are you staying?" I needed to know what was happening, whether he was going to leave again. If this was to be the only hug, I had to know that now, before my hopes became too high.

"If you want me to."

I stared at him incredulously. If I wanted him to? Of course I wanted him to! Surely that much was obvious? Unless... unless he meant because of what had happened with the woman, Mary?

"What happened?" I asked him.

He looked at me for a moment, then pulled away more strongly, so I let him go this time. "OK," he said. "If we're not having tea, then I think we should sit down." He glanced at the chairs, then took my hand and led me to the sofa. We sat at an angle so we were facing each other. I did not let go of his hand.

"OK," he said again. "Sherlock, I need you to be honest with me."

"Of course."

He quirked a brow, but carried on. "Do you want me to come back?"

That was easy. "Yes!" I answered immediately.

He smiled, but then his face became more serious. "You started this whole thing because you didn't want to lose me as your work colleague, as I understand it?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "That's what I told myself," I tried to explain, "but that's not really..."

He held up a hand. "We'll get to that. What I want to ask you is whether that is what you would like us to be? Just colleagues and friends, the way we were before all this began?"

I gaped at him - was he serious? Was he thinking that he could come back to live with me and yet carry on seeing the woman? Would she come to the flat? Would they be together here, would I be able to hear them? No! I couldn't... but what if that was what John wanted? Could I bear it in order to have him with me? Perhaps I could agree, in order to get him back, and then try to change his mind?

"Sherlock!" He got my attention. "What you're doing right there, that's a problem."

I regarded him in some confusion.

"You're thinking," he explained. "You're wondering what you should say. You've got a dozen scenarios running in your brain and you're going to give me the answer which leads to the best outcome in your head. We're not doing that any more."

He was being uncharacteristically forceful with me. I was surprised to find that I quite liked it. "What do you mean?"

His answer was prompt. "If I ask you a question, then you give me the true immediate answer that comes into your head. You do not manipulate me or try to tell me what you think I want to hear." He was obviously very serious about this. "Let me say right now that you have no idea what I want to hear. Your grasp of emotions can only be described as 'rudimentary'."

I felt that was a little harsh, but didn't want to antagonise him.

"So," he said, "are we clear?"

I nodded.

"Right, let's try that again... Do you want me to move back in here with you?"

"Yes." That was still an easy one.

"Do you want us to just be friends and colleagues?"

I took a chance and gave him an honest and immediate answer. "No."

He smiled at me, seemingly pleased with my response – Ha! Take that, woman! I thought.

"Will you be happy to take things slowly?"

"Yes." Anything, I would take anything. When could we start?

"Do you want to take things slowly?"

I hesitated. He had implied that he wanted to take things slowly, and I truly was happy to do that – whatever he wanted would be fine with me; I was definitely tempted to say 'yes'. But, I had promised, and it seemed very important to him that I be honest... "No," I replied, so tentatively that it almost sounded like a question.

He smiled again - this honesty thing really seemed to be paying off.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, and I didn't even think at all.

"Everything."

He suddenly pulled free of my hand and threw his arms around my neck, hugging me fiercely, his face tight against my collar bone. I could feel his heart beating where our chests were pressed together.

After too short a time, he sat back a little. "Is there anything you want to ask me?"

I needed to bring up the woman, Mary. I had to know how things stood with her – it seemed so unlike John to have a one-night stand and then just abandon the person. Surely he would want to see her again, let her down gently at the very least? It was a difficult topic, but it had to be broached. I opened my mouth, "May I kiss you?"

He gasped slightly, seeming nearly as surprised by the question as I was myself.

"Immediate and honest answer, John." I reminded him of his own stipulation.

He rolled his eyes, but nodded. "All right then. Yes and No."

I was about to protest this evasion, but he carried on – "Yes, you may kiss me whenever you really, really want to, because it's what you yourself want or need to do and for no other reason. No, you may not kiss me just because it's more than ninety minutes since you last touched me, or because you think I expect it, or because you feel it's appropriate to the situation, or because..."

He was unable to continue, as I had taken in the 'whenever you really want to' part of his answer and acted accordingly.

It was wonderful… I kissed his mouth, to shut him up and because I just couldn't help myself any longer. Then I cupped his face, and kissed him to show him how I felt. Gentle kisses along his cheekbones and up the arch of his eyebrows to let him know how sorry I was for what had happened and how much I had hurt him. Soft kisses on his lips to show my gratitude that he had come back to me and the happiness that I was feeling, after the black despair of the night before.

He was responding now, his own hands coming up and sliding into my hair, tugging slightly as he always did. I could feel a growl rumbling in my chest as I pushed him backwards, following him down until we were both lying full length on the sofa, our bodies completely entwined. Then there were hungry kisses to show him how much I wanted him, how I had missed him, how my body craved him.

It was as if we were trying to crawl into each other's skin, to become so deeply entangled that it would be physically impossible ever to separate us again. His hands were stroking my back, gripping my shoulders, then sweeping down to my waist and back up again, as if he were re-learning me. I rolled us onto our sides so that I could do the same, my hand squirming between our bodies so that I could touch his chest, his belly; I was desperate to get my hands on his bare skin and started pushing his jumper and shirt out of the way.

He pulled his mouth away and moaned. "Sherlock..." He pressed our foreheads together. "Sherlock, we have to slow down."

"Mmm," I agreed, kissing along his jaw line, then down his neck. He groaned as I sucked hard just at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, his body writhing against mine, our hips pressed closely together – there was no way he wanted to stop.

His hands tightened on my shoulders. "Sherlock," he said again. "Sherlock, I mean it. I need some time and there are things we have to talk about."

He meant the woman. I shook my head - well, as much as was possible while still kissing as far down as I could reach inside his shirt collar. My fingers surreptitiously unfastened his top two buttons to give me better access. I'm pretty sure he didn't notice.

He tried to ease away, but I resisted. "John," I spoke into his skin, working my way back up to his ear; he tilted his head automatically to help me. "John, please don't. I really don't want to hear the details."

He pushed me back harder this time until he could see my face. I kept my eyes down. I knew I had no right to be jealous. I had driven him away; we had not been together at the time. Whatever had happened, he had come back to me – perhaps I should even be grateful? But I could not help the anger churning in my belly. The images which had haunted me all night were poking back into my head like poisonous darts and I tightened my arms around him to reassure myself that he had picked me, that he was here.

"Sherlock." His voice was commanding. "Sherlock, look at me."

I didn't want to. I didn't want to see the expression on his face when he talked about her. I didn't want to see him remember being with her, only a few hours ago, my pitiless brain reminded me. But... I couldn't deny him. If this was what he wanted from me, then I would give it to him. I would give him anything - everything. Whatever it took to keep him with me, I would do. I raised my head.

"I didn't sleep with Mary," he said, holding my gaze, and it took a few moments for the words to register in my brain. He looked away. "I wanted to," he added, and I flinched. He turned his head back and saw my expression. "No!" he cried. "No, I'm sorry, that's not what I mean - I mean that I wanted to want to, if that makes any sense." He shrugged his shoulders. "It would have made everything so much simpler. It was what I intended, when I followed her up to her apartment. I did choose it, just for a moment." He looked at me apologetically. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head; he had nothing to be sorry for.

"But when we got inside, she was making coffee and I realised that I couldn't go through with it," he explained. "I was using her to distract me from you - it wasn't fair to her. She's a good woman and she deserves better than to be a substitute for someone who, as I still feared at the time, might not even exist."

I stared at him, feeling completely humbled. "You treated Mary better than I treated you," I acknowledged. "Even after only knowing her for such a short time." I dropped my gaze. "I don't deserve you."

He hugged me. "Sherlock, if I had a fraction of your intellect I would have worked all this out so much more quickly. I have to just muddle along with the rest of the ordinary people."

"Ordinary?" I scoffed. "John, that's the last thing you are!"

He shook his head. "Look, never mind. Let me just get this out and over with, then we can…"

"Get back to the kissing?"

He chuckled, then looked surprised at the sound; as if he'd forgotten he knew how to laugh.

We spent most of the day on the sofa; talking, explaining... and kissing – kissing most of all. Short kisses just used as punctuation during our talks. Long kisses that seemed to wrap us up in each other, leaving us tangled inextricably together. Passionate kisses which left us gasping for breath and took a while to recover from.

John explained about talking to Mary who, he said, had been very understanding and had offered him her sofa for the night when they realised how late it was. I tried to explain about my stupid plan and how I had come to realise the depth of my self-delusion. He asked about my childhood, which apparently Mycroft had told him something about and he admitted that he had kept my texts, and re-read them frequently.

We stayed in each other's arms for the whole day and it was perfect. John made sandwiches at some point, which took him twice as long as it should have with me wrapped round him like an octopus, but he didn't complain even a little bit – other than at the meagre contents of the fridge, where the edible was now definitely outnumbered by the experimental.

I couldn't remember ever being so happy.

The next few days were incredible, and strange, and frightening, and wonderful. To have John back here with me was more than I had dared to hope for, but I hated for him to be out of my sight at all. I had developed a completely irrational fear that he would disappear if I took my eyes off him and drove him mad following him around the flat, lurking outside the bathroom, even going with him to do the shopping, although I don't think he actually minded that one too much.

Lestrade called round the day after John came back, purportedly with a case, but when he saw that John was home he promptly admitted he'd made it up and had just come to check on me. He stayed for a coffee and we arranged to meet up at Scotland Yard the following week to go over any cases on hand. He shook my hand as he left and clapped John on the back, saying that we were 'sickening', but he couldn't keep the smile off his face.

The only fly in my ointment was that John still wouldn't sleep with me. He said we needed time to adjust and that we didn't have to rush into anything, which I understood and could accept, but I hated being apart from him all night. I tried keeping him up on the sofa as late as possible, distracting him with kisses every time he moved to leave, but that just meant he slept in later in the mornings and I didn't like that either.

I sneaked into his room a few times just to watch him, until he caught me and made me promise to stop – he talked about 'respecting boundaries' and 'privacy issues', which I struggled to comprehend but tried to accept as it was clearly important to him. He also constantly quizzed my motives for things, often needing reassurance that I was only touching him because I wanted to, kissing him because I needed to.

After several days of this, it occurred to me that I had not told him how I felt. I had assumed that it was obvious from my behaviour, but perhaps he needed to hear the words? I thought back to the time when he declared himself to me and recalled the flash of happiness and contentment his words had inspired, before the reality of that terrible situation had come crashing down into my awareness. I resolved to rectify the omission immediately…

He was in the shower. I knocked on the bathroom door. "John? John, I need to talk to you." There were some muffled words and a bang. "John? Are you all right?"

The door swung open and he was standing there with a smallish towel wrapped precariously round his hips, his hair dripping wet and water still running down his chest. My mind unhelpfully went completely blank as its blood supply was abruptly diverted.

"Sherlock!" He was snapping at me. "Look, I'm still here." Clearly he was losing patience with the whole insecurity thing. "I haven't vanished down the plughole or squeezed out of the air vent." He waved his arms around a bit. "I went into the bathroom, and I will come out of the bathroom!" He put his hands on his hips, which merely served to divert my scrutiny down to the crucial area of his body which was currently hidden by the towel.

"Sherlock!" he snapped again, drawing my attention back upwards, although my gaze most definitely took the scenic route.

There was a droplet of water just falling from his hair... it hit his shoulder and began to travel down his chest. I followed its progress with fascination, first using only my eyes, then also with my finger. He drew in a sharp breath as I stroked over his nipple; when I reached the edge of his towel, he grabbed my wrist.

"Sherlock," he said, and he wasn't snapping any more, his voice was low and husky. "What are you doing?"

I glanced back up at his face. "I came to tell you something, John" I brought up my other hand to complete a parallel journey down the other side of his chest and he groaned, releasing my wrist to grab the side of the door.

For a moment I was afraid he was trying to shut me out of the room, but he seemed to be using it for support. I made the most of the opportunity and brought both hands to his chest, rubbing quite roughly, which a glance in the direction of his towel told me that he most definitely liked. I checked his face and he had closed his eyes, so I ducked my head down and sucked his left nipple into my mouth, grazing with my teeth then flicking over it with my tongue.

He let out a shocked moan and his legs seemed to lose their strength but I was prepared, quickly wrapping my left arm around his waist, then turning him so that he was pressed back against the side of the doorway.

I was still bent forwards with my head at his chest and I dropped my right hand to his leg, just below the level of his towel, stroking the back of his knee where I knew he was sensitive. Then I kissed my way upwards, my hand sliding round his leg and rising along his inner thigh under the towel as I straightened, until I was biting at the base of his neck, my fingers stroking through the soft hair between his legs as my hand moved higher.

His head fell back against the doorframe with a thud as I kissed along his jaw, my hand sliding further to grip him firmly just as I took his mouth. If I had thought my body had burned for him when we were apart, it was nothing to how I felt now.

It was only seconds later when he seemed to snap out of his daze and suddenly pushed me backwards and away from him. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded, and my heart ached for what I had done to him, how he doubted that I really wanted him - just right in that moment, for himself, without any ulterior motive or agenda.

"Look at me, John," I demanded, holding my arms out to the side so that he could see me clearly, knowing how desperate for him I must appear. I watched as he registered my heavy breathing and my eyes – my pupils must be enormous. His gaze moved to the pulse throbbing in my neck, then down my body to where my tight fitting trousers did nothing to hide how much I wanted him.

"John, can't you see?" I raised my arms towards him. "I came to tell you something, I came to..." The breath was knocked out of me as he pushed me again and I thought he was angry, until I realised that he was following me, pushing and shoving me backwards until we came to my bedroom. I kicked the door open and he pushed me through it, his hands falling to my hips now until I was backed up against the bed.

"It seems to me," he said, and there was a note of determination in his voice which sent a shiver down my spine. "It seems to me that one of us is wearing far too many clothes." His hands moved to my shirt with deliberation and he started unfastening my buttons one by one. I moved to assist him, but he knocked my hands away.

"No," he said warningly. "If we're doing this, then we're doing it my way." He finished on the buttons and pushed the shirt slowly off my shoulders and down, until it fell to the floor at my feet. "I will be in control," he stated, his hands grazing over the skin he had uncovered, skimming over my nipples until I was quivering.

"You will not take over, or overwhelm, or overpower me." His hands moved to my belt and he unfastened my trousers and pulled them down, leaving my underwear for now, then pushed me back to sit on the bed as he removed my shoes and socks, before slipping my trousers off completely.

He stood up and indicated that I should move backwards, which I did.

"You will not hide from me how you feel, or what you are thinking." He climbed onto the bed, then started crawling up my body until he was sitting astride me, at which point he pushed my torso back so that I lay flat.

He leaned over me and fixed me with his gaze. "You will let me in, Sherlock," he told me, and he clearly meant every word. "If you want me to believe you, to trust you again, then you have to give up your control and let me in."

I stared up at him. "Do you agree?" he asked, and I knew that this was one of those moments... one of those moments that impact the rest of your life - for better or for worse.

Could I do it? I had always kept a part of my brain rational, even with John, constantly analysing, memorising, deciding what to do next. I was always in charge, of myself at least. Could I hand that control over to John, even for a little while?

I looked up at him, waiting patiently as I considered - even looking pleased that I was considering, that I wasn't just giving him some glib answer. I looked up at him and he was all that I wanted.

"I love you, John," I told him. "I love you and my answer is 'yes'." I paused at his gasp. "My answer will always be 'yes'." I smiled at him and his expression was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen – why hadn't I worked this out days ago?

He lowered his head and kissed me, kissed me passionately and with a depth of emotion that I'd never felt from him before. I wrapped my arms around his body and smoothed my hands down his back until I reached the edge of the towel, which must surely be hanging on by a thread by now... I gave it an experimental tug and it came away in my hand. I threw it off the bed and immediately pulled him down so that I could feel his full weight on top of me.

He raised his head a little and quirked an eyebrow. "This is you not taking over, is it?" he queried, but the edge had gone from his voice; it seemed that my declaration had gone a long way towards relieving his anxiety about my motivations. I shrugged and widened my eyes at him – even though he had proven himself fully aware of this trick, it still seemed surprisingly effective.

He chuckled and lowered his head again and soon laughter was the last thing on my mind. He kissed and caressed me, paying particular attention to my over-sensitive nipples as he made his way down my body; his hands gently skimming off my underwear as he took me in his mouth. He had made sure that my head was propped up on the pillow so that I could watch and every time it became too much and I closed my eyes, he would stop; I had to watch him, I had to let him see me. It was a little frightening, but incredibly intimate. When my body started to shake, he released me and slid back up to kiss me again.

I knew it was time - I reached over to the drawer by the bed and brought out a condom and a bottle of lube and handed them to him.

He regarded me seriously. "Are you sure?"

I nodded. "Absolutely," I promised him. "This is what I want." Just to confirm, in case he still had any doubts at all. "I love you," I added, the words just emerging as if of their own volition – I must have looked a little surprised, and he smiled.

"Sherlock," he said, kissing me. "I love you too."

I beamed and he kissed me again, then paused, looking at me. "I'd like to do this face to face," he explained. "But it might be easier for you if you turn over."

For a moment I was startled by his knowledge and confidence, until I remembered that he was a doctor. Really, his attempt to shut down my brain seemed to be working surprisingly well already.

"Face to face," I confirmed. "Definitely." My body was twitching under him, knowing what was going to happen and eager to get on with it.

He nodded, smiling, and coated his fingers with the slippery lube, preparing me as best he could. The feeling was distinctly odd, and I couldn't help tensing up against the pressure / pain. I closed my eyes tightly.

"Sherlock," he called my name. "Sherlock, look at me."

I obeyed reluctantly; I didn't want him to see that he was hurting me.

"Sherlock, you need to relax."

That was easier said than bloody well done, I thought. At least, I meant just to think it, but he chuckled so perhaps I'd got more used to thinking aloud to him that I realised.

"Look at me," he insisted again. "I love you," he told me. "You can trust me." He was gazing into my eyes as his fingers stroked inside me. "I will look after you," he promised. "Relax, Sherlock, just relax."

I was starting to obey as he focused his movements on a particular area, which became incredibly responsive under the attention.

He smiled at my moan. "I think you're ready."

He had put a pillow under my hips, which helped as he gradually started to ease into me, but he was much bigger than his fingers and I began to tense up again. He paused, his body quivering with the effort of staying still. "Stay with me," he said, holding my gaze. "Trust me, Sherlock," he repeated. "Just let go."

I breathed in. It was so difficult to let him lead me. I was fighting against my instincts, but I knew I had to do it. I had to let him in or he would never fully trust me, never let himself believe in our relationship, never fully commit to me again. I owed him this and I wanted to give it to him. I knew I could trust him, I knew he was a good man and that he loved me...

"I'm here," he said again. "I've got you, I won't leave you..."

I did it. I gave in to him. I gave up to him. My muscles relaxed, and suddenly he was all the way inside me. He was inside my body and inside my mind. He was filling up the empty parts of me and sharing with me his warmth, his heart.

"You are mine," he growled, pulling back slightly then pushing in again. I looked into his eyes and I knew that it was true.

I don't remember much more about my first time, quite frankly. There was moving, and stroking and feelings so intense I didn't know how I would survive them, and quiet words which became louder, and a complete loss of control on my part, and then on John's.

Afterwards, he used his towel to clean us up, and then looked at me. "Should I stay here?" he asked. "In your bed, I mean?"

I smiled at him, then pulled him down and under the covers with me, wrapping myself around him tightly. "Our bed, John," I corrected, kissing him. "And yes, please."

Additional artwork for this chapter:

In The Bathroom Doorway by soma chiou

Chapter Text

JOHN P.O.V.

"Sherlock!" I slapped his hand away. "Sherlock, we're in the morgue for heaven's sake!" He ignored me, nuzzling my neck just below my ear and pressing his body against my back, his weight pinning me against the side of the table. The autopsy table. The autopsy table which had a body bag on it. This was just beyond wrong…

Ever since we'd had sex: proper full-on, no holds barred, mind-blowing, headboard-endangering, sex the week before, he had been absolutely insatiable. He was like a child who had been raised on treats of carrot sticks and apple slices and then suddenly found himself in a sweet shop.

Our first time had been… well, it had been perfect really, that's the word that comes immediately to mind. I hadn't expected that, with it being new to both of us, but having taken things slowly in our original relationship, we already knew each other's physical reactions very well and our time apart only made us more appreciative of being together.

It was also one of the few occasions that I had been allowed anything resembling control, I realised, looking back. Sherlock had clearly enjoyed it at the time, and I had certainly needed it to rebuild my confidence in him, and in us, but there was no doubt at all that he was instinctively the more dominant of the two of us. Which led me to my current situation...

I groaned as he started sucking just above my collar bone. Our distorted reflections shimmered in the silver cabinets opposite, his dark head bent to my neck and his long arms wrapped around me – I looked as if I was being attacked by a vampire. My head fell back against his shoulder, my eyes closing. His hands were wandering again and I could feel my legs going; how did he do this to me so easily?

He stilled and I became aware of heels clicking down the corridor… Molly was coming back. I tried to push him off and he chuckled, nipping my neck one last time and rolling his hips against me, before stepping away and moving round the table, fastening his jacket as he went. I must start wearing jackets, I decided. A jumper did not hide the evidence of what he does to me nearly so well and I was forced to stand next to the table for several more minutes or risk embarrassing myself, as well as poor Molly.

They were deep in discussion now - something about stomach contents I think. I supposed I should be paying attention, but my mind had wandered back, as it so often did, to that night a week ago when he had first told me that he loved me. Even though I had been fairly confident of his feelings by that point, I had still found it overwhelming when he actually said the words – I suppose it just didn't seem a very 'Sherlock' thing to do; I had more or less resigned myself to accept that he would perceive it as a weakness and be unwilling to admit to such a thing without a current head injury... so for him to just come out with it had taken me completely by surprise. He had really opened up to me that night, I thought – in more ways than one, my inner schoolboy added, with a snigger.

Of course that was the exact moment that he looked across at me and, with one glance, knew exactly what I was thinking. He shot me a smirk which was so lasciviously sinful that poor Molly, caught in the crossfire, actually dropped her clipboard. I shook my head at him but he had already turned back, continuing his sentence as Molly tried to regain her wits.

My mind drifted again... He had been quite sore the next day, unsurprisingly, but had still managed to take me less than twenty-four hours later. He had explained that we should get my first time out of the way as soon as possible, since it would be at least a couple of days before I recovered enough for him to do it again. Clearly romance did not feature in the Sherlock Holmes Guide to Love, but I was OK with that - as long as he was honest with me, I was OK with pretty much anything. I did wonder later if his gentleness had been mainly focused on keeping my recovery time to a minimum, but it's hard to maintain doubts about the affections of someone who follows you around the bed even in their sleep.

I looked up and he was staring at me, one eyebrow quirked. I flushed slightly; his single mindedness must be infectious - I now found it difficult to focus on anything but him.

We said our goodbyes to Molly, who regarded us with interest. Strangely, the news that we were together had not stopped her mooning over Sherlock; in fact her gaze often moved over both of us and I felt somewhat uneasy about the thoughts which might be running through her mind on these occasions. I'm sure Sherlock could have told me, but he had not as yet commented, a fact for which I was profoundly grateful.

He borrowed my phone as we walked down the empty corridor and started texting away.

"New developments?" I asked him.

"No, no," he replied. "Just letting Lestrade know that we're going to be a little late for our meeting."

I checked my watch, surprised. "But we've got plenty of time," I pointed out.

"Exactly!" he smiled, putting my phone into his jacket pocket and taking my arm. "Just need to check… Let me see… Ah, yes." He pulled open a door with a flourish and pushed me inside, following swiftly and closing the door behind him.

I looked around. I was in a cupboard. A cupboard at the morgue. With a madman. A madman whose eyes I could just make out in the faint light coming from the small glass panel above the door. They were gleaming like a cat's and focused very much on me.

"John," he said softly. "Come here, John."

I shivered. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

He smiled, and it was a predator's smile. "Why don't you tell me what you've been thinking about, John?" he invited, as he threaded his fingers into the belt loops of my jeans and pulled me closer. "Because we both know it wasn't Molly's lab report." His thumbs had slipped under my waistband and pushed down slightly, rubbing circles over my hipbones.

"I, ah, um..." This was not good. Well, it was good, there was no denying the way he made me feel, but I most definitely did not want to get caught having gay sex in a morgue storage cupboard.

I needed to snap him out of it, so I went with romantic. "I was thinking about the first time you said that you loved me," I told him, not completely untruthfully. I gave him what I hoped was a sickly smile, which probably just looked nervous and added to the whole 'deer in the headlights' thing I had going on.

"Hmm," he replied, not remotely deterred by my efforts. He smiled at me, then leaned forward so that he was speaking softly right next to my ear. "I do love you, John," he confirmed, his breath fanning over my face, and I couldn't help my slight gasp at his words.

"I love your mouth." He kissed me, licking at the seam of my lips until I opened to him, then corkscrewing his tongue around mine and exploring my mouth thoroughly, simultaneously turning our bodies so that I was leaning against the wall. How had he got so good at this? I wondered dazedly. He kissed the way he did everything else - with absolute focus and concentration, complete devotion to the task at hand. Sometimes I thought I could come just from his kisses... it wouldn't take much more.

He was pulling back, talking again. "I love your ears," he murmured as he kissed along my jaw line, then sucked my lobe into his mouth, nibbling on it before flicking his tongue right into my ear. I jumped; he hadn't done that before and it almost tickled, but… He did it again and my breath caught. OK, definitely not tickling exactly. He made a low noise, which I recognised as him recording my reactions for future investigation, before moving on.

"I love your neck." He was leaning over me now and I could feel his hands pulling my shirt out of my trousers, pushing both it and my jumper up to chest level as his mouth attacked my neck with enthusiasm. I reached for him to try to even the balance, but he caught both my wrists in one hand then raised them so that he was holding my arms above my head, pinned to the wall.

He leaned back a little so that he could look at me as our eyes adjusted to the dim light. I felt ridiculously vulnerable and exposed, considering that I was practically fully dressed and we both knew that I could break his hold if I wanted to - his reaction to what he was seeing stopped me from trying. His eyes were as dark as they had ever been and his breathing was harsh as his gaze raked over me. Even though he was ostensibly in control, I knew that it was my power over him which caused that look on his face and that hunger in his eyes. The thought turned me on so much I felt a shudder run through my body and he smirked, moving forward once again.

My 'no sex in the cupboard' policy seemed to be going straight to hell. It struck me that, technically, the policy had been based on not getting caught having sex in the cupboard so, as long as we remained undetected, we could both be happy without breaking any of my rules... That made sense, right?

Sherlock was kissing his way across my chest now, moving from one nipple to the other and still reciting all of his favourite things. If his list was rather more geographical in nature than was typical for such an occasion, it didn't seem to be the time to take issue with it; especially when he released my wrists, sank to his knees, and turned his attention to my trousers.

It became difficult to concentrate as I felt my jeans and underwear descend to mid thigh and he started kissing around my hipbones, but I noticed that his list had progressed from attributes to actions.

"I love the way you shiver when I kiss you here," he said, his voice like liquid chocolate as he moved his fingers up the inside of my thigh. "I love the way your eyelids flutter when I stroke you like this." He glanced up at me. "But most of all," he said, waiting until he had my full attention. "Most of all, I love the noises you make when I do this..." His mouth closed over me and his tongue started that incredible swirling thing he does.

My head fell back against the wall as the rest of my body faded out of my awareness, narrowing my focus to that one area and Sherlock's mouth... Sherlock's incredible mouth which seemed to be sucking all the nerve endings I possessed into one concentrated mass, one throbbing, burning, aching mass of need and want and desire for this extraordinary man who was on his knees in front of me in a storage cupboard.

How had I, John Watson, doctor, soldier, straight as an arrow man on the street, possibly ended up in this situation? I looked down. How had I ever got this lucky?

His hands were on my hips now, essentially holding me up and it was taking all of my willpower not to make the noises he had referred to, or at least to make them very, very quietly. I grabbed hold of a shelving unit with one hand and thrust the fingers of the other into the hair at the back of his head, not trying to control him (an impossible task at the best of times), but just tightening and releasing my grip in rhythm with his movements. He started growling around me, the vibrations bringing a whole new level of intensity to what he was doing and within moments I was gone - falling apart, sagging against the wall and letting go of the shelves to bite down on my own forearm in an effort not to scream his name as my vision whited out.

As the haze began to clear, I felt him stand and lean over me, kissing me gently before moving back a little. The sound of his zipper brought me round and I started trying to consider practicalities - this cupboard was small and full of things which would potentially be very noisy if knocked over, and Sherlock was both tall and extremely energetic. I heard him moan my name, but he didn't touch me. He moaned again. Surely he wasn't... I opened my eyes; oh, yes he was.

He was standing over me, braced on one arm against the wall by my head and his eyes were black in the dim light. In the circumstances, offering him a hand seemed like the least I could do.

"I've never really understood that word, inappropriate," Sherlock mused, once we finally left St. Barts some twenty minutes later and caught a cab to Scotland Yard.

"You astound me!" I snarked back at him. Meeting Molly in the foyer a good forty minutes after we were supposed to have left the building had certainly been unfortunate, and there had been some suggestion about more appropriate venues for particular activities we might be engaging in - although again I got the distinct impression that she would include her own apartment under that heading, which thought freaked me out more than a little.

He carried on as if I hadn't spoken. "All my life I've been criticised for it, but I still don't understand the problem – why do people want to be appropriate all the time? Doesn't that just mean predictable?"

He looked honestly bemused and I shook my head at him. "I don't think anyone would ever accuse you of being predictable, Sherlock."

His smile was warm and he took my hand, tugging until I moved across the seat so that I was pressed up against his side. "I have a question, John," he confided. "Well, more of an area of confusion really."

I wasn't sure I wanted to know. Experience suggested that it would concern either some bizarre experiment, possibly involving fungus and/or internal organs, or some relationship advice he'd read in another internet chat room which was likely to be age, and quite likely gender, inappropriate.

"What is it?" I asked, trying to brace myself for anything.

He looked at me consideringly, then leaned forward so that he could almost whisper in my ear. "I don't understand about the love thing."

I didn't feel much closer to understanding either and I wasn't sure I liked the sound of this. "Do you mean the concept of love in general, or some particular aspect?" My tone may have sounded a little disgruntled because his look was reproachful.

"Of course I understand the concept, John." He was giving me the big eyes again and even though I knew, I knew that he did it on purpose, I just could not help feeling like an utter cad. It was extremely annoying. "It's the words," he continued. "I don't understand about the words."

He raised his eyebrows at me, as if to imply that his part of the conversation was now over and that it was my turn to step in with an explanation. I sighed. "You're going to have to give me a bit more to work with, Sherlock," I told him. "What words exactly, and what don't you understand about them?"

His expression indicated that he was only tolerating my extreme stupidity out of the goodness of his heart - and possibly the remaining endorphins in his system from the hand job in the cupboard. "Fine, I'm talking about the declaration - the actual 'I love you' part."

I nodded at him to go on and he rolled his eyes. "'I love you' is a simple declarative statement, yes?" I nodded again. "So it's like saying, 'The grass is green' or 'I like chocolate digestives', do you see?"

I pondered for a moment. "I suppose so. But often people don't stay in love forever, so the situation might change."

"But that's true of just about anything," he argued. "The grass might go brown in the summer, or I might discover another type of biscuit I like better."

"OK," I agreed reluctantly, still inherently aware that being in love with somebody could not really be compared to liking chocolate digestives, but not able to put my feelings into words.

"So why is this different?" he demanded, throwing his hands wide. "I am perfectly capable of appreciating grass without feeling the urge to announce what colour it is. Similarly, I don't need you to tell me which biscuits you prefer on a weekly basis – once is enough, and I am confident that you would inform me should the situation change."

I feared that I was beginning to understand. "So once I told you how I felt, that was enough?" I tried to clarify, feeling embarrassed and distinctly disappointed - because if he didn't want me to tell him, then he certainly wouldn't be telling me. "I know you hate repetition; I'm sorry, I should have thought..."

"No!" he exclaimed, gripping my shoulders. "No, that's exactly what I don't understand." He looked concerned now, realising he had upset me a little. "I'm sorry, John, I've explained this really badly." He shook his head, frustrated with himself. "Normally I do hate repetition, you're absolutely right; it's unnecessary and boring. But for some reason this one thing is different... I want you to tell me - but I don't understand why. And I get this urge to tell you, too – sometimes the words just emerge and I didn't even know they were waiting." He looked at me helplessly. "It's not sensible!"

I felt an urge to laugh, but squashed it mercilessly. If you had spent most of your adult life in a more or less emotion-free zone, and then suddenly discovered you were not as immune as you had always thought, I imagined it would be a big and confusing adjustment. I smiled at him fondly. "I think you've answered your own question."

He looked at me in query and I shrugged my shoulders. "Love isn't sensible," I explained. "It isn't governed by the same rules as grass and chocolate biscuits. Logically, we may accept that someone loves us until they tell us that they don't any more, but emotionally we need that reassurance – not all the time, but every now and then."

He cocked his head to one side, thinking. "Clearly this is an area which warrants further investigation."

I could almost see a plan forming in his brain and wondered what on earth was going to be in store for me as he researched the nature of love. "As long as you're only experimenting with me, then knock yourself out," I told him, leaning back against the headrest.

He looked both horrified and disgusted. "John! I could never... the thought of..." He was practically squirming. Then he started to look thoughtful. "I assumed you knew this, that it was obvious - but perhaps it isn't?" He paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me. "I don't want to bring up the whole project thing again, but what Mycroft told you at the start was correct, you know - you are the only..." He broke off, turning his head to face the window.

His voice was quiet as he forced himself to finish. "If you hadn't come back to me I would never have moved on." A slight flush was rising along his cheekbones. "If I can't have you, I don't want anybody."

I swallowed. I knew he found it difficult to talk about things like this, that he was still trying to make up for what had happened, to give me confidence in his feelings for me.

I took his hand. "You can have me."

We walked into Scotland Yard together and headed up to Lestrade's office, encountering mixed greetings. Lestrade jumped up from his chair and came to shake our hands, a broad smile on his face which Sherlock returned. Sally looked smug from her perch on the corner of the desk, as if she was taking credit for our reunion - which she presumably felt cancelled out her role in splitting us up. Anderson glowered at us from the sofa and curled his lip, the homophobic tosser.

As Lestrade sat back down and started running through the current cases, I manoeuvred Sherlock until we were standing in front of the sofa, then rested my hand on his lower back. I heard a disgusted snort from behind us and allowed my hand to drift down a little; Sherlock shot me an amused glance and I smiled back at him blandly. After a few minutes, Anderson got up, huffing, and moved round to the other side of the room, leaving the sofa free. Result!

Once we were comfortably ensconced, Sherlock picked out a couple of cases he found interesting and started going through the files while I chatted with Lestrade, who made some comment about the cases (a jewellery theft and a string of break-ins), being fairly low key, with no international intrigue this time. I suddenly thought of the case that Mycroft had wanted Sherlock's help with on that fateful day - the case that had mysteriously resolved itself en route. There had been something odd about Sherlock's reaction to that, I realised. In fact, there had been something decidedly fishy about the whole situation.

Why would Mycroft come to a crime scene himself? That seemed very out of character. Then that horrible conversation - Sally hadn't recorded the whole thing, but I had listened to what there was repeatedly and in retrospect it was clear that Mycroft was leading Sherlock, pushing him into making statements he would no doubt otherwise have avoided. Why would he do that? Had he somehow known that Sally was there? But then… that would mean it was ultimately his interference which had led to our break up and weeks of misery – why would he want that, then later work so hard to get us back together? It didn't make any sense, but there was clearly more to the situation than I had realised.

I looked at Sherlock, engrossed in a file – did he know? Surely he must, but he had never mentioned it. Perhaps he just didn't want to remind me of that day? Maybe he was protecting his brother, as they seemed to have become much closer during the past few weeks. But then... that didn't follow, as surely he would have been angry with Mycroft if he'd suspected his involvement?

My head was whirling; I needed to get some air. I touched Sherlock's arm. "I'll meet you back at the flat, OK?" I told him, rising to my feet. "I've got a couple of errands to run."

He nodded vaguely, still reading the file, then suddenly refocused and looked at me. A flash of alarm crossed his face. "What is it, John?" he demanded. "What's the matter?"

I shook my head and tried to make my face as impassive as possible – there were inherent problems in being with someone who could analyse most of what was on your mind with a single glance. "It's fine," I told him. "Just something I need to take care of. Don't worry."

His eyes searched my face, then he reached up a hand, beckoning me nearer. I bent forward obligingly, and he grabbed the back of my neck and pulled my head down so that his mouth was next to my ear. "Are we OK?" he asked quietly.

I pulled back a little to look at him, but he didn't release me. "We're fine." He raised his eyebrows. "I promise." He still looked uncertain. I was aware of eyes on us, but I didn't want to leave him worried so I pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "I'll see you soon, OK?" He nodded reluctantly, letting me go just as Anderson started making fake retching noises behind me.

I turned on him, in no mood for his prejudices, but Sherlock beat me to it. "Oh dear, Anderson." His voice was cutting. "It seems that infidelity has a most unfortunate effect on the intelligence if you are reduced to such schoolyard amusements. Perhaps you should consider attempting to be faithful to somebody, before your few remaining brain cells dribble out though your ears?"

I made my escape.

After twenty minutes of walking around with my head in a muddle, I sent Mycroft a text asking him to call me. I was walking rather aimlessly along Victoria Embankment some fifteen minutes later, when a large black car pulled up alongside me, the rear door swinging open as usual. Whatever you might say about Mycroft, he certainly was efficient.

I was whisked away to what appeared to actually be his office this time and before long we were sitting facing each other over a tea tray.

For once he didn't beat around the bush. "I assume, from your presence and demeanour, that you have deduced my involvement in the 'Sallygate' affair?" was his opening salvo, much to my surprise.

"Not completely," I admitted. "But I'm actually more interested in the 'Why' than the 'How', to be honest." I held his gaze. "I'm also regretting not punching you when I had the opportunity a few weeks ago, but looking forward to rectifying the omission shortly."

He grimaced, then sat back in his chair, regarding me thoughtfully. "Are you happy, John?" he asked me. "I don't mean right now at this moment, when clearly you are both confused and angry, but in general terms of your current situation with Sherlock, are you happy?"

I just glared at him.

"I don't need to ask the same question of Sherlock," he continued. "As I know perfectly well that he is happier than he has ever been, or ever would be without you."

If he thought flattery was going to save his nose, he was sadly mistaken. The glaring seemed to be working for me, so I kept it up, saying nothing.

Mycroft sighed. "Can you think of any other way in which you could have arrived at the point you are now, with the open and honest relationship the two of you have?"

"How about if you had kept your nose out and we had worked it out for ourselves?" I demanded. "What gives you the right to interfere? Who are you to split us up and put us through six weeks of absolute hell, and for what? Only to encourage us to get back together again – what was the point?" I could hear my voice rising apace with my anger.

"I am sorry for what you have suffered, John." He sounded sincere but really, with Mycroft, how could you tell? "You didn't need to go through this, but there was no other way to break down Sherlock's walls. He would never have let you in otherwise, never fully realised what he had until he lost it." He shook his head sorrowfully. "It was very unfair that you had to go through the same despair, but I hope that in time you will feel it was worthwhile."

"We would have got here on our own, eventually," I protested. "It may have taken longer, but it would have been a lot less painful."

Mycroft shrugged. "A house that is going to stand the test of time needs good foundations," he explained. "The project was necessary to start Sherlock on the right road, but it was no basis for a long term relationship. The truth had to come out, just as soon as you were both committed enough to come back together by choice." He smiled at me approvingly. "Better now than years down the line when you were already married," he added. "You could have ended up feeling you'd been living a lie from the start, it would have been much more devastating."

He'd lost me before he got half way through that sentence. "Married?" I goggled at him.

He quirked a brow. "My dear John, what do you envisage happening in the future? You can't imagine that Sherlock is going to risk anything coming between you again? He's no doubt already planning how to get a ring onto your finger."

"A ring?" I echoed, aware that my brain was now lagging some distance behind the conversation.

Mycroft ignored me. "It's true that you could opt for a civil partnership, if you don't want to wait," he mused. "But Mummy would dearly love a proper wedding, it would mean the world to her."

I experienced the feeling of unreality which so often came over me in conversation with this man and wondered for a moment if I had slipped unknowingly into one of his alternate dimensions. Grasping at a straw of normality, I tried to challenge at least one of his outrageous statements. "You do know that same-sex marriage is not legal in the UK?" was the best I could come up with, but he just tapped the side of his nose.

"Working on it," he smiled.

The car dropped me off at home soon after, still feeling dazed and disoriented. Perhaps Mycroft had just been trying to distract me so that I wouldn't punch him? I'd have to congratulate him on a job well done if so – the thought of having Mycroft as a brother-in-law was enough to distract anyone. I shook my head to clear it, reminding myself that just because Mycroft said something didn't make it so, and tried to put the whole thing out of my mind.

I called Sherlock's name as I walked in, but there was no response, which was odd because his coat was on the hook downstairs. Then I heard the shower going. He hadn't closed the door properly and I was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to see him, to connect with him again after the bizarre encounter with Mycroft. I slipped into the bathroom and pushed the door shut behind me.

The shower was attached to the opposite wall, hanging over the bath which ran down the side of the room, so when I moved forward I could see Sherlock clearly. He was facing away from me, leaning forwards with both arms stretched to the wall to support him. His head was lowered and the water was beating down on his shoulders and back. He was absolutely gorgeous.

It was difficult now to remember a time when I hadn't been attracted to him, when I hadn't seen him and wanted him, when I didn't get hard just thinking about him. Looking back, it seemed like a different life. His hair appeared longer with the water straightening out all his curls, sleek against the back of his neck and down towards his shoulder blades. I could see the definition of the muscles in his upper arms where they bore his weight, the tension extending into his deltoids and up to his neck.

He loved to stand under the shower for ages and had insisted we get an electric one so that we never ran out of hot water; he said it helped him think. I was starting to see what he meant - it was certainly giving me a few ideas at the moment. My eyes followed the path of the water as it ran down his body and I could feel my pulse rate rising, my breathing getting shallower. My voice sounded husky when I spoke to him.

"You missed a bit."

His head whipped round, sending a spray of water droplets flying; I had managed to surprise him. He regarded me carefully over his shoulder, taking in the tension in my body, my expression, and no doubt a thousand other things at the same time. I don't know how he came to his conclusion, but then I rarely do.

"Mycroft?"

I nodded.

"Talk?" he offered.

I shook my head. "Later." I pulled off my jumper.

His eyebrows rose, but he didn't turn around, just regarded me steadily over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed, cat-like as he looked me up and down. Tease.

Two could play at that game. I started to unfasten the buttons of my shirt, very slowly and deliberately, pulling it out of my trousers as I went but then leaving it hanging open. I stepped forward and heard his breath hitch as I reached a hand towards him, but I merely leaned it on the side of the bath for support as I removed my shoes and socks, throwing them behind me into the corner. Straightening up again, I was close enough to feel the spray of the shower as it bounced off his body, close enough to see the pulse throbbing in his neck as he observed me. I reached for my belt.

Part of me was watching myself and wondering what the hell I was doing; the other part was watching Sherlock, seeing his breathing speed up and his pupils enlarge, and just wanting him. Wanting him so badly that I was torturing myself as well as him with this delay. I unfastened my jeans then stretched out my hand to rest it on his back as I began to remove them, allowing my hand to slide down over the curve of his hip and along his thigh as I bent to pull the trousers off my legs, then stroking it back up again as I stood, my jeans discarded in the direction of my footwear.

I could feel tremors running through his body now and knew that he was fighting the urge to turn around and finish what I had started, to take control as he almost always did. He gritted his teeth and stayed still. "Shirt, John." His voice was low and demanding. "Take off your shirt."

I waited for a moment as if considering my options, before slipping my shirt off my shoulders and away, then I quickly discarded my underwear and stepped into the tub behind him. He started to turn, but I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Wait," I instructed. "Didn't I say you'd missed a bit?" I reached around him to get the shower gel, allowing my body to just brush against him as I did so.

He groaned loudly and dropped his head down onto his chest. "John," he moaned. "You're killing me."

I smirked to myself and squeezed some of the gel onto my hand. "Don't worry," I told him, as I rubbed my hands together then brought them to his shoulders. "I am a doctor, after all." I started rubbing the foamy gel into his skin, massaging his trapezius muscles. "I know the kiss of life."

He moaned again, then fell silent as I washed and massaged his back, sometimes using firm strokes and kneading his muscles, sometimes barely skimming my hands across his pale skin, just revelling in being able to touch him, to stroke him, to put my hands all over him, knowing that no-one else had ever done so and suddenly determined (bloody Mycroft putting ideas into my head) that no-one else ever would. Eventually, I reached the base of his spine and felt his tension increase in anticipation. I paused to get more gel onto my hands and his impatience was a tangible force in the room.

Knowing full well that he would snap soon enough and take over, I decided to make the most of my time and dropped to my knees in the tub behind him, bringing my hands to his ankles, and quickly massaging up his calf muscles. He let out a grunt of frustration, but held still; I was impressed.

I sat back on my heels and brought both hands to his right ankle, tugging slightly. "Foot," I demanded, and he adjusted his balance obediently and bent his knee, lifting his foot into my hands. I squeezed out some more gel and pushed my fingers in between his long toes, rubbing my thumb into the arch of his foot at the same time.

He shivered in surprise and wobbled a little, causing me to drop his foot and grab his hips to steady him, but he adjusted, then presented me with his other foot without prompting – I gathered he liked that.

Gradually I worked my way up his legs, paying close attention to the delicate skin at the back of his knees, then moving onto his thighs, first using both hands to massage each in turn with firm strokes, my thumbs digging in to his surprisingly well developed muscles, then using a lighter touch and just grazing my hands over his hair-roughened skin.

He was panting now and I allowed the backs of my hands to brush lightly along his inner thighs, moving up until I was delving between them, stroking and teasing him as I rose to my feet then moved closer, so my chest was against his back. I started to slide my hands around to the front of his body, pressing myself more fully against him, and that was when his control broke.

He spun in place, sending spray everywhere as he grabbed me and pulled me tight against the full length of his body, at first just holding me, one large hand splayed out at the base of my spine as he moulded our hips together and the other around my shoulders as he pushed his face into my neck, muttering my name repeatedly.

After touching him with only my hands for so long, the full body contact felt incredible and I shuddered in his arms, reaching up to hold on to his shoulders in case my legs went again.

He was moving his mouth up my neck now, still talking, although over the noise of the water falling on us and the roaring in my ears, it was difficult to make out what he was saying. He reached my lips and started kissing me, but they were fairly brief kisses, interspersed with words; I tried to focus.

"John. John, I need you." Kiss. "Can I have you, John?" Kiss. "John, I've got to have you." More kisses. "Please John, let me take you." I'd never known him so desperate for me, it was exhilarating. His hands were running up and down my back now, gripping me so tightly it was as if he were trying to absorb me into his body and he was kissing all over my face. "John, I want you." He didn't even seem aware of what he was saying.

I tried to get a word in. "Yes, Sherlock," I told him. "Yes, of course."

He pulled back his head to look at me, bringing both his hands up to cup my face. "Are you sure?" he asked me seriously. "I thought you wanted..."

I shrugged. "Knew you'd take over." I smiled at him, aware that he would cede control if I asked for it, let me take him, let me do anything; but he wanted me so badly, that was enough for me this time. His hair was falling into his eyes, his wet skin gleaming and his face so hungry... hungry for me. He was magnificent. I loved him. I told him so.

His smile was blinding. "Better than chocolate digestives."

"Much, much better," I confirmed.

He kissed me properly then, pulling me tightly to him once more, his tongue stroking and exploring my mouth as his hands roamed over my body for long minutes until I was quivering and shaking in his arms. Then he turned me until I was positioned similarly to how I had first found him, redirecting the shower spray so it was hitting the wall, the steam still rising and swirling around us. He produced a bottle of lube from somewhere – God knows how long he'd been anticipating this situation; my mind flashed over all the times he'd tried to get me into the shower with him.

He was careful at first, gentle with me, but I could tell he was struggling, that he was holding back. That wasn't what I wanted from him. I wanted his hunger, I wanted his desperation, I wanted his need for me to override his intellect and his reason.

"Harder, Sherlock," I demanded. "Take me...if you want me?"

I made it a question and he growled, his hands tightening on my hips as his force increased. I straightened my arms against the wall and pushed back against him. "More!" I urged, the pressure coiling and building low down in my belly.

He leaned over me so that his chest was against my back, wrapping his left arm tightly around my waist to hold me to him and using his right to stroke me in rhythm with his thrusts.

I was getting closer, feeling totally owned and possessed by this man who was invading my body the way he had invaded my life, my heart, my everything. It was as if with each thrust he was driving out the memories of previous relationships, overriding and eradicating until there was no-one but him. Sherlock Holmes was all there was, he was everything, he had taken me over and I didn't care; I was exactly where I wanted to be.

I lifted my head, and gasped his name, trying to warn him. He bit the side of my neck and I came, my body convulsing violently around him, legs shaking, heart racing, my mouth open in a wordless cry of pleasure, of joy, of complete and utter satisfaction. He followed me almost immediately, his hands gripping my hips once again as he bucked into me forcefully, groaning my name. I was sure to have finger shaped bruises tomorrow; the thought made me smile.

My arms were trembling with the effort of holding myself up off the wall and Sherlock held me still for a moment, withdrawing from my body carefully, then he angled the shower back over us and sank down to sit on the floor of the bathtub, taking me with him, so we ended tangled together.

"Bloody hell!" I closed my eyes and leaned back against the ceramic. "You were right about the shower."

"Well," he pointed out, modest as always, "I am a genius."

"That you are." I grinned in his general direction. "You'd best think how we're going to explain to Mrs Hudson about her water bill."

Much later, when we were both dry and sated and he was curled around me in bed, he asked about my meeting with Mycroft. I explained my realisation of his brother's involvement in our split, and recounted our conversation, with the exception of the last part, which I was still not ready to think about.

He was silent and I twisted round to face him. "You don't seem surprised," I pointed out. "Did you know?" This was what I didn't understand; I would have expected him to be furious with Mycroft for what he had done, whatever good intentions or justifications he may have put forward.

He looked ashamed. "It was a test," he said quietly. "At least..." He paused. "Mycroft's never said so, but it must have been." He wouldn't look at me. "That conversation." He shivered slightly just mentioning it. "He was pushing me, trying to establish if I would ever get here on my own, if I could make the jump, admit how I felt about you, let you in..." He glanced up at me then dropped his gaze again. "It was a test... and I failed."

He swallowed audibly. "I'm so sorry, John. It would be easy to blame Mycroft, but really it was my fault. Everything you went through, all that pain, it was all down to me – my arrogance, my selfishness..." His breath was coming more quickly; he was becoming distressed, tangled up in the past again.

I put my hand to his face and raised it. "Hey, we're here now. We're together... really together this time, no more games, no more secrets, right?"

He nodded, giving me a small smile.

I kissed him. "I just had the best sex of my life, in a shower, of all places, and it was with you."

His face brightened. "Really?" He looked proud of himself.

"Absolutely." I nodded. "I'm happy. I have no doubts and I love you. What do you say we just put it all behind us and go on from here?"

He looked at me carefully, bringing his hand up to my face to match my pose. "Can we really do that, John?" he asked me doubtfully. "Can you really forgive me for what I did, for what I put you through?"

I considered what we had now, how happy we were and what a long way we had come and I remembered Mycroft's words. I smiled at Sherlock and brushed my fingers through his hair. "To be here, with you, like this..." I kissed him. "If that was the price, then it was worth the wound."

He made a low, choked, noise and buried his face in my neck for a moment, hugging me tightly. Then he pulled back to look at me and his eyes were blazing. "John Watson," he said. "I am in love with you." He smiled at me and touched my face. "I don't deserve you," he said. "But I'll take you anyway."

A few weeks later, I was leaning against a wall and watching as he strode around a crime scene in his usual commanding fashion. We had raced to get here and I was out of breath, knowing that any minute he'd want to dash off somewhere else.

Seeing him reacting with the others - squashing Anderson like a bug, talking over Sally, even winding up Lestrade, although in a more good-humoured way now, made me think about how he had changed since we had been together. He was still himself, still the magnificent, impatient, genius Sherlock Holmes who did not suffer fools gladly or, indeed, at all. He still loved the game, the chase above almost everything else.

The difference was most noticeable between cases. The black moods, the desperate, despairing boredom, these had all but gone. They had been replaced by me. I had filled up the holes in his life and he was endlessly fascinated by me, by us, by his investigation into the nature of love which, he assured me, was a constantly evolving preoccupation.

Sometimes I worried that I was too ordinary, too pedestrian to hold his attention for long, but he always seemed to know when I had these moments and would remind me that love wasn't sensible; I guess he was right. He still thought that the vast majority of the human race were idiots, and no doubt I was still essentially counted in that group. The difference was that he had let me in; I was now his idiot and that was just fine with me.

He looked up and caught me watching, giving me a brilliant smile. His eyes were alight with the thrill of the chase; the game was most definitely on. "Got your breath back?" he asked, reaching out to pull me up.

"Ready when you are," I replied, and put my hand in his.

THE END

(-ish! See Author's Note below)

Artwork for this chapter:

Desire and Untie, both by the amazing soma chiou.
Got Your Breath Back? by khorazir

Author's Note

Well, that's really the end of the story proper, next in the series is an epilogue which is set two years later and from Mycroft's perspective - it is very fluffy though, so be warned!

TRANSLATIONS

Chinese, by uuuuhlhl, at: http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=12975

The Christmas Special, in Chinese, by newsherlock, at: http://tieba.baidu.com/f?kz=1005649673 

Catalan, by Grissina, at: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6449816 and http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7088839

Czech, by miamam, at: http://johnlockpositive.wordpress.com/2013/04/01/the-road-less-traveled

Spanish, by Itsaso Adhara, at: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6709620

Russian, by Niobeya, Elijah Bailey, Lex and also by Anfisa, at: http://sherlockbbc.diary.ru/p183351209.htm

Korean, by PasserbyNo3, at: http://passerbyno3.tistory.com/16

French, by peneloo, at: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7408040

Italian, by agnehalf, at: http://www.efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=968153&i=1

Polish, by kassumi, at: http://fiki-od-kasss.livejournal.com/16204.html

German, by Aranel Cullen, at: http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/4fe1f6f9000133c506713c6a

Hebrew, by sealilis, at: http://www.tapuz.co.il/blog/net/ViewEntry.aspx?EntryId=2359413

Turkish, by berithalkolikes, at: http://fanfictioncevirileri.tumblr.com/tagged/the-road-less-traveled

VIDEO: http://www.tudou.com/programs/view/Dxm4C0MiJwM

MUSIC: Fanmix by adrianneb78239: http://adrianneb78239.dreamwidth.org/72227.html

ART WORK

Cover Art by xistentialangst

Cover Art by griffindorandproud

Chapter 1: Jealous Sherlock by Zenyr

Chapter 2: Very Odd Morning by  br0-Harry

Chapter 4: Date Night by SkyWing

Chapter 4: Date Night by 0redwolf0

Chapter 7: Hope by  br0-Harry

Chapter 9: Hugs Before Toast sketch,  and Hugs Before Toast, both by tigerkatz.

Chapter 10: Milk For You, by krusca

Chapter 10: On The Stairs, by 0redwolf0

Chapter 12: No More Secrets by  br0-Harry

Chapter 15: Fall Apart by soma chiou

Chapter 16: Separation by Giftstift

Chapter 16: End of the Separation by wuhaya

Chapter 16: I'm home by wuhaya

Chapter 16/17: Reunion by  br0-Harry

Chapter 17: In The Bathroom Doorway by soma chiou

Chapter 18: Desire by soma chiou

Chapter 18: Untie by soma chiou

Chapter 18: Got Your Breath Back? by khorazir

Epilogue: The Wedding by soma chiou

Christmas Special Part One: Merry Christmas by  br0-Harry

Christmas Special Part Two: TRLT Christmas by Zenyr