Unravelling Sherlock

by Kr_Nl

Summary:

John's curiosity is triggered by the simplest of the comments: 'Don't be alarmed... it has to do with sex', and Sherlock's quick reply 'Sex doesn't alarm me.'

This fanfiction will remain true to the story, using John's blog as reference, might contain some references to the books as well.

EDITED:
BETA process.

Notes:

Disclaimer: Of course, main characters do not belong to me, nor John Watson's blog.
Main story is based and inspired on the BBC canon and the books canon.

Thank you to my betas,
silver cat 777 - enterwithalohamora - SongOfStars
You guys are the best!!

--
Edited:
I know this is not the best story out there, I tried to make it good, though. I started this as a challenge to learn this language and then... it sort of got out of hands, I am now working in a full beta process. Thank you to those who have commented letting me know my mistakes, I promise I'll do my best to make this better as soon as I can. Thank you so much for your patience!

Chapter 1: Truth

Notes:

Beta: the great Lita Kelly. Thank you, dear!

John was perplexed; he was there, in Buckingham Palace, talking about sex with... Mycroft Holmes. Well, not actually talking about it, just naming it. Still, this plain action was more than enough coming from the older Holmes' brother. The simplest of the comments, 'don’t be alarmed… it has to do with sex,' and Sherlock's quick reply 'Sex doesn't alarm me,’ exposed to John more than he ever wanted to know about his flatmate. Especially after Mycroft's little comment 'How would you know…’

Sitting alongside Sherlock, John could have sworn he saw little white fonts floating around the taller man: 'Sex doesn't alarm me' 'No, not really my area' 'I know it's fine!' 'I consider myself married to my work…' '…although I feel flattered…' 'How would you know…'

John shook his head as if to shake his thoughts. 'The task at hand, the task at hand!' He took another sip of his tea and peeked at the images in Sherlock's hands.

"...photographs of whom?" Sherlock asked his brother.

Two men in suits, one of them being Mycroft, explained the case to them. John was having a hard time focusing on his tea. He concentrated on trying to catch the most relevant bits of the meeting. His mind was still elsewhere though. Little white letters continued to float around Sherlock, but he tried to ignore them. He wondered if that was how Sherlock saw the obvious things in other people. Actually, something obvious under Sherlock's eyes could even be the most insignificant detail to a normal eye. But under John's scrutiny, every detail about his friend repeated in his mind; the jokes, the awkward moments, the constant teasing. He knew Sherlock had nerves of steel, but they kind of failed when there was a situation regarding human emotions. He had the tendency to lose his cool, like a few weeks ago at the pool. Maybe that was the reason he preferred to call himself a functional sociopath.

After the meeting they got into a cab... John was finally able to concentrate on the case.

He expected this to be another solved and unimportant case: they would find the photographs, give them to Mycroft and be done with it.

**...**

A couple of months later, with the case solved, John sat in his armchair with his laptop over his knees, determined to write the final details about The Woman's case. It was only a little past ten in the morning and the fireplace was on in the livingroom.

"The Woman

I can't say much about the actual case because of the Official Secrets Act but the country was nearly brought to its knees by one person - Irene Adler. She's now under a witness protection scheme so we'll not be seeing her again. And Sherlock seems fine with that.

Sometimes I wonder if Sherlock had ever loved someone, not that I dare to ask, but I mean, in the romantic sense of the word. There is one girl who works in the morgue – I won't say her name – and she seems to be interested in him, but he doesn't make any move. She’s pretty, and isso obvious with him that everyone knows it. How could Sherlock misunderstand when she invited him to coffee?! It seems so ridiculous when he just says 'black, two sugars' every time she asks him out, as if he doesn't understand, as if he doesn't follow. If everyone else gets it, of course he has to as well.

But this time, The Woman seemed to have an impact on him, I can’t put my finger on it… but I certainly can't call it love. It's more like mutual interest in the mind, not in the woman herself…"

John stretched a bit in his chair and took alarge breath of air. He eyed around the place, coming out from the trance of typing his emotions down. He knew he had been typing like mad.

He spotted Sherlock, who was watching him from the other side of the room with a tiny smile on his lips. Why was he writing this? Why was Sherlock so hard to understand… and the worst of all, why was it so frustrating? John thought he could play the game of deduction too; he had learned a lot from Sherlock, so why not to use it on the man himself?

John kept his gaze locked on Sherlock's eyes for a moment, but the detective broke the stare to look down at the violin in his hands. Silence was good with Sherlock. Those peaceful moments they had after a case were not the kind of awkward silence, but a nice, soothing silence. John knew this time it was different though. Several times he had caught Sherlock re-reading Irene's phone, and seen Sherlock with a lost look in his eyes more than once, and weirdest of all: looking at him, as if searching for something.

Sherlock stood from his sitting position and played a lovely melody. Again, his eyes were fixed on John's; two pale pools of energy staring at the doctor. John smiled lightly and his eyes immediately closed, tilting his head back, sighing silently. Yes. He was enjoying the peace.

But too soon, Sherlock groaned, frustrated, and the melody was over. John snapped his eyes open. The violin was placed carefully on the couch and Sherlock started to tap his right shoulder with the bow in a nervous gesture. John rolled his eyes: Holmes was bored. Again.

Snorting, John read the entry he was about to post in his blog. He rubbed his temples and suddenly felt a heavy stare over his left shoulder. Somehow, Sherlock had positioned himself behind John and was now reading carefully the contents of the blog with a deep frown. A chill went up John’s spine at the sudden closeness, even though being this close was more than normal for them. His mind snapped back to what he had written: what was he thinking? As if he could just go around, posting these things for the whole world to read? Without even talking to Sherlock about it first? He regretted what he had written as he watched Sherlock's eyes dancing around the screen.

"You're right." Sherlock moved quickly, sitting in the leather chair in front of him. John opened wide eyes and sighed, rubbing his temples again.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I shouldn't…" he pressed the delete key of his laptop.

"Don't do it." Sherlock made a gesture with his palm down, reaching out his arm to the man in front. "You're right, there."

"Do... do what? What do you mean?"

"I see you pressing the delete key. Don't do it, it's... fine. You're right, every word." Slowly, the detective supported his elbows on his knees and brought his palms together, resting his chin over his fingertips.

John stared at him with a frown, not quite understanding what Sherlock meant. In his mind, those white little letters floated around the man once more, only this time, they showed more questions than answers. The same phrases as before, but now with a couple of phrases from the last case with The Woman; 'and somebody loves you…' 'I think he knows exactly were (too look)… not sure about you…' 'You jealous?' 'We're not a couple!' 'Yes you are…' 'Who the hell knows about Sherlock, I'm not actually gay.' 'Well I am… look at us both…' 'AT him, he never replies…' 'Does that make me special?'

Maybe unconsciously, John adopted the same posture Sherlock had, his laptop was now balancing on his knees, his palms together and his fingertips below his chin. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow to him. John observed him carefully, his mind was running at a speed he didn't know it had.

"You’re not going to tell me, then?” John started his little analysis. This was not what he wanted to know at first, but he couldn't miss this opportunity. He craved information about the man in front of him; he always had, since the very first day. Sherlock knew so much about his private life, and yet John knew so little about that of the other man – almost nothing – and that fact made him, in a way, jealous? Yes. Jealous.

"You can deduce, John. Go ahead and try. You know what I do; you've learned quite a bit." Sherlock didn't move, the corner of his lip just curved up a little, defiant eyes staring intently.

"Is this going to be a test?" John smiled against his will. It was incredible how Sherlock inverted the situation. Sherlock was supposed to be the one feeling exposed, but now, with those little words, he was the teacher who wanted to test the student, so John would be the one feeling exposed instead of him. Amazing, really. "I am not going to go ahead just because you asked me to, Sherlock. If I do it, it's because I want to." Sherlock smiled genuinely this time. "And I'm not going to shoot in the dark, you know..."

"Oh, I would expect no less." Sherlock stretched his back and rested both of his arms at the back of his chair. He placed his left thigh over his right one, his chin dipped down to his chest and he stared up, almost in aninsolent gesture.

But he didn't count – or maybe he did – on Dr. Watson's behaviour when being challenged. John stared back at him, blatantly. He observed him from the tip of his shoe to the top of his last curl. He wanted Sherlock to feel watched, naked if you will, defenceless. Sherlock followed the intense gaze with ease. It seemed a battle of wills. After a couple of seconds, John stood up and placed his laptop on the chair. He took a few steps, closing the distance to the detective in front, his eyes never leaving the pale ones observing him back.

Sherlock felt his pulse rising at the proximity of the other man, he couldn't help a little surprised smirk. It was a quirk of the corner of his lips, but it didn't escape John's eye. The doctor seemed reluctant; his walking pace was secure and so deliberately slow towards the other man, until he suddenly stopped and Sherlock let out a suppressed sigh. John's lips curled into a little knowing smile. He was almost touching Sherlock's knees with his own, taking him out of his comfort zone, and he was enjoying it far too much.

"I know you think you're a sociopath…" John started; Sherlock noticed how he hadn't cleared his throat as he usually did when he was insecure.

Sherlock tried not to move any facial muscle as he listened to his flatmate, but he couldn’t help but to interrupt. "A highly functional sociopath."He corrected, his voice not sounding convincing at all; he mentally cursed. John didn't show any sign of being perturbed.

"… and you think you can't feel anything." John was talking fast, just as Sherlock did when he was making a deduction. "Yet, you got upset when Mycroft said you could be alarmed by sex. Oh, how do you know that, John?" he added mockingly, "just because you answered too fast, Sherlock, as if to defend yourself. He said you wouldn't know about it. That leads us to the woman. Oh! The woman, Sherlock. You knew from the beginning Irene and Mycroft had a previous relationship; she knew so much about you, and she teased you just like Mycroft did; as if they'd talked about it before. It was so...clear; she even commented you didn't know where to look when looking at her naked. Then there is the moan in your phone. You could have changed it easily, oh but you didn't. You wanted us to hear, you wanted us to notice how one erotic sound was something you could handle straightforwardly. But you don't think I didn't notice the flinch on your face every time you’d receive a text. Therefore, that meant you wanted to prove to us something. Prove something you are not, almost as if you're ashamed of not knowing about sex. Or... maybe you do know about it, but you've never done it, am I right? Maybe you do know many things about it, but never experienced it yourself. You probably think it's just an act for procreating, and deleted from your hard drive. Or maybe you think you're too above us to let us know that you actually want to find an ideal partner, you don't want to take it lightly like most people do. You are waiting for… whatdo they say... Mrs. Right. Which of course, could be an issue from youth, most likely a girl, or a boy for that matter, who used the word 'love' with you, then you knew they didn't feel it... probably she... or he even tried to get physical with you, making you actually think the way you do now about sex. Am I wrong?"

John lifted his eyebrows trying not to reflect on his face the little party inside his head right now. Mentally, he was shaking his own hand for not losing the calm there. He could understand why Sherlock felt so triumphant every time he did it. Indeed. It felt... amazing.

Sherlock released a breath of air he had restrained in his lungs, coming out far too shaky for his liking."You did very well, John". His tone wasn't angry or surprised. He was just stating it as a matter of fact.

"That's it. That's all you have to say?" John cleared his throat now, going back to sit in his armchair. Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he watched John; he put his laptop back over his knees and pressed the delete key for a while.

"Oh, sorry. I meant…" Sherlock put on his best surprised open-mouthed smile and John looked up at him, knowing Sherlock was waiting for him to watch. When he had his attention, the detective made every syllable slip from his lips slowly "Fasss-cinating".

John’s brows darted up and his little smile turned into a light chuckle, it was soon followed by a deep one from his companion. He couldn't stop shaking his shoulders from it. Soon he and Sherlock were doubled over laughing. Every time they looked at each other the laughter became more uncontrollable. John tried to form words still gasping lightly.

"That felt… bloody amazing." He said still giggling.

Sherlock absently rubbed his eyes. "I know." He stated matter-of-factly, amusement still evident in his voice. His lips remained curved in a smile as he watched John type something on his laptop. Then the doctor clicked loudly on the touch-pad, letting Sherlock know the entry was posted.

Sherlock brought his laptop onto his knees and browsed the blog. He found the new entry:

"I can't say much about the actual case because of the Official Secrets Act but the country was nearly brought to its knees by one person - Irene Adler. She's now under a witness protection scheme so we'll not be seeing her again. And Sherlock seems fine with that.

Of course, he isn't fine with it, not really. But he'll get there."

John knew Sherlock was curious about the blog, even if he would never admit it. So he just waited there. John knew he would leave a message. After a while of fast typing, another loud click was heard in the flat, this time coming from Sherlock's laptop. John pressed F5 and read the new comment.

"Really, John, what's the point in this post? If you can't detail what happened in a case because of some ridiculous law thing then why bother?" Sherlock Holmes 12 March 11:32

John looked at Sherlock over his laptop. He was waiting for an answer. Very well, then.

"It adds context. Gives people an idea about the real you." John Watson 12 March 11:35

Again, a loud click. He saw, without lifting his eyes, how Sherlock pressed F5, rolled his eyes but in a humorous way, and typed again.

"How does it? And why should people want to know the real me? What's the point?" Sherlock Holmes 12 March 11:37

When the loud click was heard, John pressed F5 again. He lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock and furrowed his lips to a side.

"You're right. There's no point."

"John, I don't really care what people think about me."

"I have no doubt…" John cleared his throat and questioned suddenly, "Was I right?" Sherlock smiled. There was the insecurity again. "You know… about what I said."

"Most of it. It wasn't me, though."

"I… I don't think I follow…" John tilted his head a bit with a light frown, very curious now.

"It wasn't me… you know, she didn't try to get physical with me. It was…" Sherlock made a disgusted face, wrinkling his nose.

John nodded knowingly and pulled the laptop closer, "Mycroft." he added.

Sherlock nodded as well and continued, "Well, he started his politics career when he was very young, so I guess he was a good prospect. I used to look up at him. One day, I entered the living room in our house and there was this girl all over him. He was almost giving in."

"And how did you know she really wasn't in love with him?" John was curious about the situation, forgetting almost completely to congratulate himself for being almost right.

"Because… she uh…"

John smiled and finished the sentence, "…she had confessed to you, first."

"Yes... but still John, we were really very young." Sherlock took a hold of the notebook in his lap and pressed a lot of keys in the process, the blog reloaded.

"Are you two writing messages to each other when you're in the same room?" Mrs Hudson 12 March 11:40

Sherlock let out a throaty giggle looking at the screen. John frowned and pressed F5 to see what had Sherlock so amused. He saw the comment and typed down an answer with a little giggle of his own.

"And where are you Mrs H?" John Watson 12 March 11:45

The answer came immediately.

"Downstairs :) (That's a happy face by the way)" Mrs Hudson 12 March 11:46

John laughed hard this time. Sherlock pressed F5 on his computer and smiled at the screen.

"She got into a fight with Mr. Chatterjee, maybe he finally told her he has a wife." Sherlock said.

"Wait… how do you-"

"Haven't you noticed she's wearing perfume early in the morning? Who else finishes a job that early and gets here with warm bread, smelling like a bakery in the morning? He is planning to take her on a cruise, but he probably hasn’t said a word about it yet. Cruise season starts in a couple of months; maybe… maybe he's waiting for his wife's answer before hers. That way if his wife doesn't go, he’ll take Mrs Hudson instead…" Sherlock moved his eyes to John, who was staring at him with wide eyes.

"You're making that up."

"Oh come on John!" Sherlock was typing away again. "You really haven't noticed how he gets here? He’s been coming about half an hour later this week, probably because he's going to the port every day to check on the prices to go down…" Sherlock pressed a key loudly, sending the comment. John panicked.

"I certainly hope you didn't write that down to Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock glared at him. "That was quite... amazing." He whispered. Sherlock's expression changed to a satisfied smile.

"Are we really doing this?" Sherlock Holmes 12 March 11:48

John snorted at the comment. Really, now he could see how silly this situation was. He ran a hand through his hair and stretched his neck, letting out a soft groan.

"You in pain?" He startled a little at the comment. Was Sherlock always this conscientious of his actions?

"It's just a gesture, Sherlock."

"Oh." Sherlock pressed F5 key again.

"It's all very clever isn't it! Do you think in the future people will stop talking to each other face to face?" Mrs Hudson 12 March 11:50

"Can you imagine that, John?" He said waving his hand to the screen. John pressed F5 and a somewhat sad smile crossed his face.

"Sadly, I can."

"But we are still talking, John." The comment and the tenderness of his voice made John look up and stare into Sherlock's clear eyes. The white glow from the window at his right gave him a phantasmal aura; his eyes were too shiny and... he really had to stop staring.

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Through a computer." He rubbed his neck once more.

"But not now." Sherlock had a smirk on his face and was still staring intently at John. They locked gazes for what seemed an eternity. John broke the visual contact. Sherlock wasn't planning on leaving more comments, but the look in John's eyes made him want to shake the doctor up a bit.

"That's something to live and hope for." Sherlock Holmes 12 March 11:55

John gave Sherlock a side glance.

"You are taking the piss." John shook his head and blinked slowly. Sherlock didn't say a word but just kept on staring at him. That stare always succeeded in making him a little nervous, he knew he was being scanned and read. So he betted for his best resource to make Sherlock think about other things, and just because it would irritate him: food.

"I'm starving. Anyone fancy going out for brunch?" John Watson 12 March 11:57

"Brunch! Fancy!" Mrs Hudson 12 March 11:58

Sherlock smirked and started typing again, muttering something John couldn't quite understand but sounded suspiciously like 'Urgh, transport again.'

"Can't be bothered. Bring some food up, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:01

"I'm not your housekeeper!" Mrs Hudson 12 March 12:02

Sherlock and John's eyes were glued to the screen now. They were, either too lazy to do something else, or had finally come to a conclusion of how childish this whole thing was. Mrs. Hudson was enjoying the game and, John knew, Sherlock loved the lady, she was the closest thing to a mother to him.

"But you've just come back from the cafe which means you've lots of cakes you won't eat." Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:04

"That was going to be a surprise!" Mrs Hudson 12 March 12:05

They both could hear the groan of frustration downstairs; they looked at each other and giggled.

"Well, stop typing and surprise us!" Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:07

"Sherlock!" John threw his hands in the air and gave an exasperated sigh.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson. John's given me a look. Apparently that was rude." Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:09

"So much for brunch." Said John aloud, stretching in the armchair.

"I screwed it up, didn't I?" Sherlock had a very unapologetic face. John couldn't help but giggle for what seemed the 100th time today.

"Yeah, well played indeed." John sat up straight. Sherlock typed again.

"Please, Mrs Hudson. I'd really love some... brunch." Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:13

"It is a little late for brunch now, isn't it?" Sherlock said yawning. Then he covered his eyes with his hands and threw his head back in the chair.

John observedSherlock for a while. The way the man stretched in the couch was feline, his arms and legs were long and well formed. He remembered his comrades in the army and smiled. Sherlock didn't have the contour of army guys; he was more… elegant than that. He remembered the times he had seen him fight. He wasn't strong and rude but his style was closer to martial arts. He recalled the punch he had given him when they were about to go to Irene Adler's. It was quite a punch. He smiled at the thought of the little wrestle they pulled. He remembered then again Irene Adler's words 'And somebody loves you… if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your noise and teeth too.' He shook his head. He was spending way too much time with him. He was shocked most when the word beautifulquickly crossed his mind while watching Sherlock stretch there; his head thrown back, his long neck exposed.

"Do you realise we've done nothing this morning but chat with each other and Mrs Hudson, who is downstairs... and here's the sad part: we are in the same room?" John asked typing absently.

"It's lunchtime now. We missed brunch." John Watson 12 March 12:17

"Yes." Sherlock seemed relaxed. His mind was absorbed thinking about how he found himself enjoying this. Doing little nothings with John, chatting with him, through the computer or in real life really distracted him. He wasn't bored at all. He was pleased with him, especially after he impersonated him so accurately some hours ago. And he was right. He was right about everything except that it wasn't him, but all of the other things he said: John had realised Mycroft and Irene had a relationship before. He knew they’d been talking about him and also knew he'd never had a sexual partner in his life and, of course, knew the exact reason behind that.

It surprised him most though, that now John knew something about his private life and he wasn't upset, quite the contrary. John was the first person to ever pay him that much attention;enough to now read his subtlest reactions. John was aware of everything, even in the slightest flinches of his brows. John knew how to recognise all of his moods. And, most importantly, John knew he could feel. A pleasure - a luxury - he had denied himself for years, but John knew it now. It made him feel exposed, but, again surprisingly, it didn't bother him.

"John?" Sherlock didn't have to take his hand off of his eyes to know John was lookingat him.

"Hm?" John cleared his throat. Sherlock grinned.

"Stop staring at me." He took his hand off his face and in one fluid movement he was back typing on the computer in his lap.

"I'm not..." John eyed the kitchen and saw the mess on the table, he moved to clean it up a bit.

"This is incredibly tedious. Is this how you people talk to each other? What next, the weather?" Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:25

Just when he had pressed enter, the door opened and Mrs. Hudson entered the flat with a couple of trays in her hands. John quickly reached out to help her. He turned on the kettle in the kitchen, arranging the mess on the table and muttering something like 'damn experiments'.

Chapter 2: A Trigger

Notes:

Many thanks and kudos to my beta Lita Kelly!

It had been two days since John and Sherlock's little conversation about the latter's sexuality issues, and neither of them wanted to bring it up again.

For starters, John felt he might have stepped onto a very personal subject for the detective. Even so, he was secretly hoping Sherlock might open up a little, maybe they could even talk about it... but again, what was the point? He already knew what he wanted to know, there was no need to keep digging into it. Still, he felt there were a few pieces of the puzzle he couldn't sort out yet.

They were at the Yard talking to Lestrade; there was a case the DI hadn’t been able to solve in three weeks. Sherlock solved it in ten minutes; they arrived at the station, talked to Lestrade, read the files about the case, Sherlock talked with John about an idea and soon the doctor was interrogating the prisoner, Sherlock observing every detail of the process.

"He didn't do it, it was his brother." Sherlock walked out of the interrogation room rubbing his hands absently; London was chillier than usual these days, and the police station had no heater or at least if they did, it was off.

"How…?" Lestrade had his hands in his pockets as he talked to the detective. John was buttoning his jacket up, smiling. He knew Lestrade didn't doubt Sherlock; his questionings were always out of curiosity. Sherlock's lips curved up a bit.

"You did notice, didn't you, John?" John nodded. He’d caught a glimpse of the prisoner telling the truth, but maybe it was just his guts. He was sure, though, that Sherlock had seen much more.

"It's cold in here…" Sherlock said, turning to Lestrade and eyeing an open window "…and he was cold. Don't you get it? Cold!"

Lestrade just made a frown and looked over at John for answers, John just eyed Sherlock. The detective made an exasperated frown and kept on explaining.

"How can you be cool when you're lying? He was asking about his brother every three minutes! Each time John inquired about something his eyes moved to his right, not to his left; he wasn't looking for something to convince John about a lie but he was clearly remembering facts, facts!" Sherlock made a gesture pointing his index finger to his head, "when you try to deceive someone, usually you seek for something in your questioner or around the room... or wherever for something, anything, that could help you sustain a lie, but he was looking to his right. Obviously! He’s worried about his brother, probably because he thinks we may have found evidence incriminating his brother rather than himself. That's why he's just stating the facts but clearly not defending himself, he never said he was innocent, did he."

John's grin widened as he listened to his companion. "Extraordinary," his voice showing his evident surprise as he stared at his companion. Lestrade cleared his throat and John unlocked his gaze from the taller man. Sherlock just smirked, already used to John vocalizing his admiration.

"So, how do we proceed from here?" Lestrade eyed the inside of the questioning room through the blurry window embedded in the door. "He’s crying… well his father has just passed away."

"And he didn't do it. I assume you can ask Anderson to be useful for once and gather enough evidence to incriminate the brother…" Sherlock walked to the exit at the end of the hallway, flipping up the collar of his coat, preparing to leave.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade really was at a dead end, and the evidence they had already was enough to find the guy guilty in front of a jury.

"What!" Sherlock was already by the exit door when a young lady entered the room with a folder in her hands searching for Lestrade.

"Sir? This just came in." She handed the folder to the DI and waited. John looked at her with evident interest. Sherlock just followed John's gaze and rolled his eyes, teasingly.

As Lestrade turned every sheet of paper inside the folder, Sherlock faced John and took a hold of the girl looking at him. John also noticed, so he lifted an eyebrow to Sherlock and tilted his head to her. The girl didn't see John's gesture, she was absorbed staring at Sherlock.

The detective smiled at her, a fast gesture, but he didn't say a word. Instead, he positioned himself behind Lestrade and eyed the papers in the folder over his shoulder. The girl never stopped her staring. John got closer to her.

"Hello." He started, Sherlock heard the hushed greeting over Lestrade's muttering and smiled to John, knowingly. "I don't think we've met."

The girl came out of her trance and turned her face to John. She was shorter than him, had big green eyes. Her hair was long, brown with a shade of red. 'Very nice', John thought.

"No. No, I don't think we have." She turned a bit to face him directly this time. Sherlock and Lestrade were talking in the background about a new photograph taken by Anderson. John was focused on the girl, while never taking his mind off the case; he didn't miss a detail of Sherlock and Lestrade's conversation.

"John Watson" he said smiling, offering his open hand.

"Amanda Green" she said, shaking hands with the doctor and smiling gently. "So…" she added eyeing Sherlock, who now had the folder in his hands and was explaining something to Lestrade, "… is he your partner?"

"Oh God… why does everyone…?" John rolled his eyes up, looking for the answer somewhere on the ceiling. "Yes. Yes, we are partners, but only in the professional sense of the word." He smiled and shook his head, the girl giggled at John's line of thought.

"Oh I didn't mean it that way…" she turned to look at Sherlock again, he seemed absorbed in a paper in his hands now. “Is he single?” John couldn't believe it. Another girl at Sherlock's feet and the detective seemed unaware of it! 'Lucky handsome bastard', he thought with an amazed smile. 'Wait, I didn't mean…' John tried to stop his internal fighting. A frown was evident on his face. He returned his gaze to the girl in front of him hoping she hadn't noticed, but she was too interested in Sherlock to care. 'Right, of course.' He rolled his eyes again.

"Yes. Pretty much." He informed her. She only smiled, never taking her eyes away from Sherlock. "I’m single too, if anyone cares…"

The girl didn’t hear since Lestrade was talking to her; she got closer to him and the DI immediately realised what was going on. He lifted an eyebrow and smiled wide at her as he handed back the folder.

"Please Amanda, ask Donovan to prosecute this and to talk to the judge; tell her we’re making an appointment for tomorrow morning…"

"Sherlock…" John got closer to his companion and made a gesture tilting his head, making the taller man to follow a couple of meters away from Amanda and Lestrade. Sherlock still held a photograph in his hand, but he walked away with John. "It's bloody obvious. Don't tell me you didn't notice it."

"I did." Sherlock stared into John's eyes, knowing John’s line of thoughts. "But I won't talk to her."

"Why the hell not? She’s nice, and she was all… devouring you with her eyes! Don't tell me you don't want to try…" John muttered.

"John." Sherlock gave a step closer to him, their faces were very close, but neither of them moved. 'Great, suddenly my name means shut the hell up.'

Sherlock's eyes danced along John's face. The doctor was hypnotized with them; his eyes followed when Sherlock's eyes slid from his forehead to his chin. John didn't move, he completely forgot about Amanda and Lestrade; they were quiet now, probably looking at them. Wait.

"Sherlock." His voice didn't come out as he expected to. There was a certain breathy undertone in it, making it sound way too intimate. They were close enough, that justified it, didn’t it? Did it?

Sherlock moved away, softly and casually brushing John's nose with his own, a little smirk on his face. It made John flinch silently. A knot formed inside the doctor's stomach and he hoped Lestrade didn’t notice the change in his posture. If he did, he knew he would mock them for the rest of their lives.

"As you may know, Lestrade, and John’s just confirmed it, the man's cause of death wasn't overdose; heroin levels in the man's system weren't high enough to kill him. It was a cardiac arrest, caused by the younger son when he told his father he was getting married. Of course, a catholic man wouldn't want his son to marry a Jewish girl, but that wasn't the worst part. The worst is that he recognized his future daughter in law, because he’d had an intimate relationship with her in the past… probably because he was her teacher and she was the student who would do anything to get good grades…" Sherlock got closer to the girl who had lost the colour from her face. "It's truly denigrating to witness people relying on sex to achieve their goals; little confidence is something that only proves how low we humans can hit bottom…" Sherlock was staring at the girl once again. She was pale, uncomfortable with Sherlock's gaze and proximity. John realized Sherlock was talking to her, not to Lestrade. Greg had his arms crossed over his chest, with the folder hanging from one of his hands, eyes glued on Sherlock with a 'this is unbelievable' kind of expression. The detective continued, turning to Lestrade now, "… of course, that wouldn’t have been much for the old man's heart, but the little amount of heroin helped to build the scenario we all already know."

Then Sherlock turned to John and nodded.

"There is nothing more to do here, John. Case solved. It's nearly ten now... dinner?" John’s eyes were battling between the girl and Sherlock. A single tear was escaping from one of her eyes and Lestrade couldn't help but frown, he was as confused as John.

Sherlock opened the exit door and waited for John to go through. The doctor was waving an awkward goodbye to Lestrade and Amanda, who was silently trying to fight her tears.

As Sherlock was about to step out after John, Lestrade stopped him grabbing his arm. "What the hell did you do to her?" he muttered to the consulting detective; anger and confusion evident in his voice.

"I think you will find out quite soon, when she resigns... or when she asks for relocation in the Yard." Sherlock’s expression was of little help; it was as if he was talking about the weather.

Lestrade released his arm, making a frustrated sound in his throat. Sherlock made his way out, following John into the chilly night air. The lights were on, and there were just few people walking by. John put his hands inside his pockets and started to pace, Sherlock walked next to him on his left.

"Are you going to enlighten me, what was all that about?" John saw how his breathing produced little white clouds in the air as he spoke, which only proved how cold it was.

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock's tone was cold, bitter. He was walking faster now and John had to jog a bit to follow.

"Sherlock." He stopped. The detective stopped two meters in front of him.

"John, are you coming?"

"I want to know everything. I'm going to ask questions now."

"Well the case almost solved itself, John. You saw the photograph." Sherlock turned to look at him. They were near a park, trees moving with the wind around them. The detective walked to John as he kept on talking, "It was clearly the photograph they found in the garbage; the girl was wearing an emerald ring, smiling, next to the younger brother. Engaged. The same girl was in the photo hanging on man’s wall, when he was about five years younger and she was one of his students."

John didn't want to ask about the case but Amanda, yet it seemed it had something to do with it, so he followed the proper order of things. Sherlock stood in front of him, not as close as before, but close enough so they could hear each other over the street noise without yelling.

"And... how did you know he had an affair with the girl?"

"It was obvious; he divorced that same year, at the end of that class. He had way too many photographs of that particular class, when he was a university teacher for about, what… ten, fifteen years? There were too many, John, like a trophy, surely what those meant to a man like him." Sherlock looked away and repeated, whispering with disgust '...just a trophy'.

John placed facts in place, solving the puzzle.

"So," John said with a thoughtful expression, gesturing a bit with his hands still in his pockets, "the son knew the girl before, when she was still his dad's student… now I get it… that's why the girl didn't want to let her fiancé's father to know about the engagement." John nodded at the realization and they started to walk down the street. John moved his hands from his pockets to his back and Sherlock's hands slipped inside his coat’s pockets.

"Correct."

"And you knew that all along…"

"Obviously."

John shook his head with a smile, Sherlock never failed to surprise him. "You are, amazing." The words escaped his lips before he could realize it, he was about to regret it but he felt a puff of air coming from Sherlock's direction.

"You do realise you do that out loud, don't you." Sherlock was containing a smile and John snorted at that.

"What about the girl… Amanda." The doctor asked.

"Oh. She’s sleeping with her boss."

"What? Wait…" John stopped and looked at his friend. "Why? How can you tell?" Sherlock lowered his gaze to some spot behind John's head and made a noise with his tongue.

"It's easy to deduce, John. You saw where she came from and I suppose you observed, right above her left buttock a fresh wet stain of..."

"Okay okay okay! I get it." John shut his eyes and wrinkled his nose. Sherlock smiled wide. "But... she was all over you." John seemed taken aback.

"Well John..." Sherlock pulled a very serious expression, "...imagine I go out with some random woman and fall in love with her…"

John felt a knot inside his stomach and flinched visibly. Sherlock got closer to him again. "…imagine then, that I bring her to our home in Baker Street…" he gave another step towards John, who didn't know why, but hated the idea right away,"… and imagine then, I seduce her, have sex with her, ravish her…" Sherlock stopped, again his face inches from John's, his voice deep and throaty, "…and every time you come home, you find an erotic scene with me and some random naked woman spread all over me…"

John gulped silently and cleared his throat, looking away. His vivid imagination could almost see Sherlock with a woman. The detective kissing random female body parts, licking passionately at a random woman's neck, Sherlock moaning deeply as the situation goes further. Wait. Stop, John. Stop it. Really.

He felt something below his stomach and he knew his pulse had risen quite a bit. It was silly, really, but he had never thought about Sherlock in a sexual context before. He was pretty sure it wasn't normal for a male to imagine his partner – also male – in a sexual situation and get aroused by it. He had seen it live in the army; guys making out in the rooms or tents. But at the moment, nothing was bad enough to disturb him. His mind was blocked-up, leaving emotions completely out of it. But now…

He knew he had to get out of the situation. Fast. Sherlock wasn't moving from his position and was still staring at him. John just smiled weakly.

"Well…" the doctor started, "that... would be a little awkward, and you should actually do that kind of stuff in your bedroom, you know, behind closed doors." John cleared his throat once more and locked his eyes on his partner's. Sherlock slowly moved his face a millimetre closer.

"But, you’d still hear the sounds, the moans…" John, out of reflect, lowered his sight, concentrating on his partner's lips for a second. Sherlock stopped when their noses were about to touch and moved away casually.

"So, Chinese? Italian?" Sherlock was walking away again. John shook his head and tried to calm his breathing. If Sherlock saw it or not he never knew; he put his index and middle finger on his left wrist and checked his pulse. It was going too fast. His mouth felt dry and, once again, he cleared his throat.

"You're right." John wanted to be the one to finish this conversation. Even when a bit aroused, he didn't want Sherlock to know how shaken he was. "I could still hear you and I wouldn't like it." Sherlock giggled shortly and seemed both; surprised and satisfied with the answer.

They walked then, chatting friendly and had dinner in an Italian ristorante for a change. Sherlock was trying to stay focused on the conversation. John was letting him know he had a shift in the hospital next week, they should stop by the store for milk, they were out of tea and… lots of flatmate stuff. Sherlock's mind was elsewhere, though. Usually, if he needed to think, he found other people’s talking – or thinking – annoying... but John's voice lulled him, it encouraged him to keep going. He wanted to hear John's voice, so he kept on asking about the most trivial things, following the conversation.

Since the other day, when John reminded him about the incident with Mycroft from years ago, he took a hold of all of the opportunities he’d had to have a partner. There was Molly, for example. He remembered she had joined Bart’s mortuary staff when she was very young. But even though he was five years her senior, he trusted she could handle everything right. There was nothing odd about her, and she was easy to scan. He liked her for being so natural. He was really fond of her... as a friend. Every time she asked him out for coffee he tried to act clueless, he tried to avoid the contact. He knew, someone like her being with someone like him, would make her no good. She was the kind of woman to expect a lot of attention, and he couldn't give her that.

A lot of random women had insinuated to him through the years. Even The Woman. He couldn't understand how sex had to drop into a big banality. It was such a large commitment; a vow of the body and the mind, not only to procreate, as John had pointed out, but also to find in the other what you can't give to yourself. Self-pleasuring was way too easy. He had tried once and never did it again as he found the act to be dull, empty and pointless.

At first, he thought it was bit odd that John tried to find a sexual partner, but then he found it kind of obvious. John had a concept similar to his, as he had noticed, but he also listened to his body’s needs, like everybone else. Sherlock paid attention to his mind's needs. If an action couldn't stimulate the mind, what was the point of the action itself?

When he had gotten closer to John, every time they shared the same space, he felt something in his mind palace. Mentally, he imagined the walls getting thicker around them. Sharing moments with the man in front of him seemed far from pointless. He enjoyed when John did something out of character, or how he could be worried about trivialities but at the same time, be focused on the deeper things around him. Of course, if John learned how to stop thinking about trivial things all the time, he could be a genius, even. But again, he wouldn't be here. He would have gotten himself killed after one day only in Afghanistan, and he would have never met him. Never met him. That hurt.

They were outside their home when Sherlock came back from his thoughts; he realised they had everything they needed in different bags; he was holding a couple of them too. It seemed his body was on auto pilot somehow. John had managed to buy their supplies from the only places open at this hour. He had bought milk, tea and sugar.

"… and Sarah told me, that maybe I could fill the doctor’s shift next week... seriously though, being a pediatrician doesn't suit me, but again... we have to pay the rent and it would be for only a couple of days, a week, at most."

"Oh I don’t know, I can imagine you as a pediatrician." They walked upstairs and John put the bags on the table. "You're a huggable man, I'm sure kids tend to love you."

"You're joking, right?" John turned the kettle on and took two mugs, Sherlock immediately sat on their large couch, turning on the telly and changing rapidly to the news’ channel.

John lit the fireplace as he waited for the water to boil; he eyed Sherlock then, who was now comfortable in his homey attire; a white shirt, dark trousers and a blue robe covering it all, his bare feet in his slippers.

"No, I'm not joking, John." He flipped around the channels and stretched over the couch.

"Right." John made them tea and again, there it was: the comfortable silence. It was only disturbed by the noise of the news’ channel. There was a reporter with a very anxious voice, throwing away the news about a minor earthquake in South America.

"Earthquakes are boring."

John gave Sherlock his cup of tea and sat next to him with an expression that only meant 'Here we go…'

"Yes, I know. No control over them, there is no way to know when they're going to happen and even if you did know, there is nothing you can do about it." John sighed and took a sip of his tea, settling into the cushions, next to Sherlock.

"It's nature, John. Easier to explain it." Sherlock smiled and sipped his tea as well. John glared at him playfully and smiled. Sherlock instinctively got closer to his companion and moved a little, making himself comfortable.

Last thing John saw was the time on the news, around 00:20.

**..**

Sherlock found himself running to their flat in a hurry. He needed to find John. He hadn't seen him all day, and knew John should be there. Lestrade had informed him, in a weird voice, that he had to find John... soon. Nothing made much sense.

He opened the door slowly; Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be found. He remembered the time when they had her as a hostage waiting for him. He assumed the story would repeat so, from nowhere, he grabbed a can of pepper spray and hid it inside his sleeve.

Carefully, he entered the flat and the first thing he saw... John, sitting on the large couch, looking out of the window.

"John?" he said carefully, the doctor turned his head slowly and looked at him. There was no clear expression on his face, but all Sherlock knew was the relief he felt to see John unharmed. After the incident at the pool, he was having so many nightmares regarding John's safety that he, for a moment, thought he was inside one of them. They always ended with an explosion, a gunshot, a scream... anything that had him waking up with a start, drenched in sweat.

Sherlock couldn't think much about it, he focused only on the calm he was feeling inside his chest and mind. His arms were immediately around John; he felt the doctor hugging him back, tightly.

"Sherlock…" John's voice was merely a whisper. Sherlock moved apart from John a little so he could observe the doctor's face. Slowly, Sherlock brought both of his hands to cup John's jaw and pulled him closer, closing the space between them.

Sherlock kissed John deliberately slow; he could feel John breathing hard through his nose. John’s hands grabbing the shirt at his back. Sherlock had to steady himself so, never breaking the kiss, he placed one of his palms on the backrest of the sofa, right behind John's head.

In a flash, John was kissing his neck, taking his shirt off in the process. Sherlock tilted his head back and a deep moan-like sound was the only thing that could be heard in the flat. John's hands roamed lazily around his body, touching his chest, slowly, lovingly. The hands slid down, pressing his hips playfully and finally John lowered the zip of his trousers. Sherlock was too aware of the erection slowly forming inside his pants. His knees began to fail so he had to use the sofa for support with one knee between the doctor's legs. John took his erection and stroked him slowly, kissing his neck again, licking his cheeks, his jaw, nibbling his lips, his earlobe...

"God...! Sherlock… you are amazing…"

"John... John...!"

**..**

3 am, 221B, Baker Street.

John opened lazy eyes to find the glow of the screen in front of him bothering his pupils. His head was tilted in a very uncomfortable position over something very hard at his right. When he turned his head, he was able to see Sherlock deeply asleep; his head was tilted back and his face had a peaceful expression. John was mesmerized. He’d never had the chance to see his flatmate so out of his usual composure. One would think that, with more of a year of cohabitation, you’d see your partner like this often, well, unless you have Sherlock Holmes as such.

He was so absorbed observing Sherlock's restful form that he completely forgot about the way they had been sleeping; John’s head was resting on his companion's shoulder. Before falling asleep, Sherlock had thrown a blanket over them and, apparently, he had slid one of his arms behind John's neck, above the backrest of the sofa, and his hand fell languidly over John's shoulder.

Even if this was out of the usual menu, John felt oddly comfortable with the familiarity of the gesture. And surprisingly, even for himself, the first thought after he realised it, was: 'If Lestrade decides to make a drugs bust right now, we're cocked up for life'.

He wanted to turn off the telly; looking for the remote, he passed his arm over Sherlock's stomach and felt something weird about it: it was tense. John eyed Sherlock’s face again, but it was still relaxed. 'That’s odd...' he thought. Grabbing the remote he pushed the OFF button. The flat remained completely silent and dark, only illuminated by the orange glow of the street light outside, right in front of the window.

John sighed. He needed a glass of warm milk. After that, he would wake Sherlock up and make both of them go to sleep in their corresponding bedrooms.

In the kitchen, with a hand over the handle of the fridge, John was getting mentally prepared to open the appliance and find a head staring at him, when he heard a noise from the sofa area.

"You okay there, Sherlock? Want anything?" as he got no answer, John poked his head out of the kitchen, with the lights of the street and his now dilated pupils, he was able to see Sherlock; he had a faint layer of sweat over his neck and he was stretching uncomfortably over the couch. "Sherlock?"

John moved closer, carefully.

"Mmmhh…" Sherlock had his eyes tightly shut; a pained expression on his face, his pulse rising visibly, was panting lightly, lips were slightly apart. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The layer of sweat was thicker all over his forehead and a few drops trailed down his neck and disappeared inside his shirt.

John's first thought was a very professional medical one: 'Shit! He's got a fever.' He turned to go back into the kitchen to get some water and aspirins - but a single word made him stop.

"John."

The way it was said was a painfully, throaty moan. That single word echoed the room and into his stomach, going dangerously down his belly.

"Yes, Sherlock… I'm going to get you some med…"

"John…!"

That tone made him turn around completely, slowly. He froze at the scene in front of him, he felt himself blushing from head to toe.

Sherlock's head was thrown back, long neck exposed, lips carefully apart looking silently for air. His right hand was pressed over his erection and the left grabbed one at the cushions John was sleeping previously on. His shirt was opened three buttons at the chest, and John could see how it was plastered to his skin thanks to the sweat. The robe – dressing gown – was completely open.

John's mouth had suddenly gone dry, he felt how he was shaking hard, his knees were going weak and his pulse was elevating to an absurd level, an erection was slowly growing in his pants.

He saw Sherlock touching himself over his trousers, his open palm moving up and down unhurriedly, a sleepy movement.

"John…" Again, his name. John was at loss… what to do? His first impulse was to wake Sherlock up and lie to him, telling him he was having a nightmare. The second thing he could do was let him be; everyone has a wet dream once in a while, don't they? And the other option was to… help.

He walked closer to Sherlock and placed his palm on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock unconsciously tilted his head to it, seeking the caress. John slid his thumb over Sherlock's lips. At the same time, he got closer to his ear and whispered "Sherlock. I'm right here."

Sherlock lifted his arm, removing his hand from over his trousers and cupped John's face, shaking, apparently still in dream land. He turned John’s face until their lips brushed. Sherlock let out a moan against the doctor's mouth.

"God! John…!" this time, Sherlock's body tensed and his back arched up for a moment, the grip on the cushion was firm, his arm even shook from it. Sherlock was panting heavily and his frown suddenly disappeared. His body relaxed back to a normal sleeping posture. His breathing went back to a normal rate and, after a couple of seconds, he was peacefully sleeping again.

Chapter 3: Crime... was it?

Notes:

Lita Kelly, you're a wonderful beta! Thank you so much!

[...]His breathing went back to a normal rate and, after a couple seconds, he was peacefully sleeping again.

But John Watson wasn't in a peaceful state of mind, quite the contrary, in fact. The realisation of his body’s position came slowly to him; he was bending in a very awkward, not to say, uncomfortable way over Sherlock. One of his hands was supporting himself on the back of the sofa next to Sherlock's head, the other hand was gently cupping Sherlock's jaw, thumb pressing lightly under his lower lip. His own lips were millimetres away from Sherlock's and John was panting softly. He tried his best not to panic at the scene.

Quickly but carefully, he stood up straight, squaring his shoulders right away. He couldn’t calm his heavy breathing. Had John been holding a knife in one of his hands, he would look like an assassin who had just killed his victim.

But John couldn't stop staring. Maybe, under different circumstances he might try to restrain himself but not now, not in the state his body was in. He could tell Sherlock had come. He found it weird at first, seeing as he had only touched himself a little bit and wasn't doing it at the end, but his mind was powerful enough to make him come without touching, it seemed. Unconsciously, John started to stroke himself over his jeans as he observed the sleeping figure before him. No, he couldn't do this. He withdrew his hand and just remained there, frustrated, not knowing what else to do. He loved Sherlock, no doubt about it. But still, despite all the awkward situations, even if other people noticed the constant sexual tension between them, he still considered Sherlock his best and only friend. He didn't know for certain about Sherlock, but he felt, deep inside, the detective actually cared about him. All of this only proved him right.

In fact, there were two voices in the back of John’s mind; one was telling him it was the most completely normal thing to happen... after all, all of the most thrilling and exciting moments along this last year had Sherlock involved some way or another. He knew it had been the same for his friend. It could be just a simple muddle, Sherlock claimed, after all, John was 'stimulating' to his mind. So it wasn’t impossible that the great mind had focused on one source of stimulation to create this wet dream fantasy. Actually, that little nagging voice left him a bit down. The second voice was more like a fangirl; it reminded John of all those comments he had to delete from his blog. All of them going in the line of 'Sherlock I want to have your babies!1!1!11', before he had to change the settings to only receive messages from known users rather than anonymous ones. That last voice was telling him that Sherlock was human, and he was a man younger than himself. That voice also told him he should take the fact as they were and no give them so much thought: Sherlock simply was having a wet dream about you, John. He had moaned your name and maybe there were dirty things you two were doing in that great mind of his.

John shook off the thought and took a hold of his breathing and heart rate being a little calmed down. But he was still hard.

Sherlock made a little movement in his sleep.

"Sherlock?" The word slipped from his mouth without his mind's permission. Sherlock responded with a throaty, incoherent noise. John released the air he was holding, threw the blanket back over Sherlock, and silently climbed the stairs to his room.

He took his shirt and trousers off, immediately getting in between the sheets, sighing deeply. The images of Sherlock were vivid, tattooed in his retina. His ears could still listen to the throaty voice, his lips could still feel the warm breath whispering his name in the most erotic way he had ever heard. Not one of all of his sexual partners were ever able to do to his body what Sherlock did with only with two senses: sight and sound. John considered himself a man hard to please, and he often needed lots of touching and stimulation in bed. After Afghanistan, he actually thought he might never be able to feel any kind of sexual arousal anymore.

At first, he used to get a hard-on when listening to some of his companions making out in the field, moaning sweet nothings to each other or simply touching themselves. He was a boy back then. After a couple of months, he could sleep peacefully next to a bloke who had the tendency to wake up at four in the morning, pull his porn out and wank for hours.

But tonight, everything was different. He was very aware of what he felt and was still feeling. And he also realised that the feeling wasn't going to go away easily.

John took his pants off carefully. He kicked the duvets away so he lay completely naked in his bed. He no longer felt the cold of the night on his skin, in fact, he welcomed it. Again, all he could concentrate on was Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's lips, Sherlock's fingers around his own erection, Sherlock's slow strokes. It was all too much.

He touched himself slowly at first; he couldn't recall when the last time he did this was. He took the base of his erection and stroked up slowly, making it last, he tilted his head back with a muted moan. He cupped the head then, moving his thumb over the fluid accumulating there. It was sticky by now, which only meant he’d been hard and wet for quite a while. His memories from earlier replayed; Sherlock had told him to imagine. He could only catch a few phrases '...imagine... and every time you come home you find an erotic scene with me...' 'John.' '...you could still hear the sounds, the moans...' 'John...' 'John...!'

"Sherlock..." his own shaky whisper and unsteady panting met his ears and, somehow in his mind, the sounds combined. He could almost feel the trembling hand on his cheek again and the hot panting against his lips. His strokes became harder and his panting became urgent. With his eyes closed, he could almost feel Sherlock's lips on his, whispering his name in the most delicious way his name had ever been said. He could almost feel it was Sherlock's fingers around his erection. His imagination was vivid, yes, but never like this. In his mind, all of his senses had mingled somehow and suddenly he was no longer alone in his room, it was no longer cold.

Sherlock's lips were on his neck, licking and nibbling there, his hand was still stroking slowly, at his own rhythm.

"Faster... oh fuck, Sherlock...!"                     

'Come for me, John.' Sherlock's voice echoed in his mind. Suddenly, the image of Sherlock arching his back, his hot breath against his lips once more and his name on those delicious lips invaded his mind in an endless loop.

'John...!'

John Watson came hard, hissing through his teeth, grabbing the sheets beneath him. His hips were thrusting into his hand and the cool air. His release was all over his stomach and chest... and he realised he didn't care anymore.

It took him a while to catch his breath. He felt heavy, his eyes and mind were shutting down inevitably. Carelessly, he wiped himself with the sheet and just threw a duvet back over him. All of his life, being so clean and correct, he could slip this once. His mind was racing, again. One rational part tried to talk aloud, but John shut it up with a pillow over his head.

**..**

Sherlock stretched on the couch and regretted it immediately; the blanket slid to the floor and he could feel the chilly air all over his torso. It felt as if he’d been thrown a bucket with cold water; his shirt was wet - not dripping wet - but still, the contact with the cool air, without the blanket on, gave him chills up his spine. He tilted his neck slowly, the movement made him aware of the bad position he had been sleeping in. Still half asleep, he heard a vibrating noise over the coffee table. His eyes got bigger when he saw it was a text from Lestrade. A case?

"You were right. She resigned this morning. Crying badly. What happened? - GL"

A sigh was heard in the flat and then a couple of beeps. "You’ll find out, eventually. - SH"

Sherlock stood up and realized his legs were a bit shaky. He felt as if he had been drugged, he looked over at his forearms, no nicotine patches... nothing. He walked to the bathroom and closed the door. He knew he had to remember something, but couldn't quite make out what it was.

Observing his reflection in the mirror, Sherlock did to himself the same scanning he was used to doing to everyone else. Little white letters started to circle around his image, starting from head to toe. [Hair] 'Tossing in sleep', [Eyes] 'Not necessary, they feel heavy anyway', [Lips] 'Dried. Sleep talking', [Face] 'A different pattern of sweat between the right and left cheek and jaw, probably John tried to wake me up', [Shirt] 'Covered in sweat, mind stimulating dream', [Trousers] 'Had an erection and stroked it over the...’ Wait.

Sherlock froze and turned his back to the mirror. He saw the hour in his phone; almost half past seven. John's alarm would be sounding in thirty minutes.

"I need data." Sherlock muttered to himself and, with fast moves, he was back on the couch. He needed to think, so he would benefit from the opportunity to go into his mind palace before John awoke.

He closed his eyes and recalled last night's events; he clearly remembered the news he was watching, John had fallen asleep next to him. He had thrown a blanket over them and John had tossed, still sleeping, supporting his cheek on his shoulder. He had moved his arm over John's shoulders and behind his neck so he could sleep better. After that... he dreamed. He couldn't recall the dream. He had to go further. In his mind, he started to scan through his files and since he found nothing, he started to evoke all he could with his senses; there was John's soft breathing and the background noise of the news channel, the weight of his head over his shoulder, the smell of his aftershave and something unique that was John Watson's own scent, John's hair tickling his chin, the back of his head over his upper arm, telly light over his eyes... nothing. With all of his senses in harmony, he started to breathe just like when you go to sleep; peacefully and slowly, using the lower half of the lungs. His mind went into a slumber state and then there it was. Everything.

He had gotten a call from Lestrade because he needed to find John. Again, he felt the fear of going upstairs, Mrs. Hudson wasn't there. He hid a pepper spray, John was in the flat, he felt relief, he had hugged John and then he had kissed John.

"Oh."

As his mind went further, he could remember something his ears had actually heard: 'Sherlock. I'm right here...'

Sherlock felt something go up and down in his stomach quickly. He opened his eyes with a snap. He recalled the pattern of the sweat over his face and his eyes searched for something rapidly, although he didn't know what was he looking for. John had touched his cheek when he was dreaming... that. He ran to the bathroom again and this time he followed the pattern of the sweat, bringing the magnifying glass from his trousers' pocket to his face, observing himself carefully on the mirror. The pattern wasn't obvious to a normal naked eye; it was just a change in the way the drops should have fallen normally, going from his lower lip to his jaw. He swallowed nervously. He could only imagine the way John had touched him, he felt something fast going down his belly again.

Better not give it so much thought. He turned the shower on and quickly stripped his clothes off, tossing his slippers near the sink. His robe followed, shirt, trousers, pants... and he stopped. He had been feeling something out of place from the beginning, but never imagined what it was. He had come. Sleeping. Dreaming... about... John Watson.

As the realization took his mind completely, he slowly stepped under the shower. It was way too hot for his liking, but he didn't care. He just let the water fall over his body. He didn't dare to touch himself, not even for rinsing. He felt, in a way, betrayed by his body and he was a little angry with it and his senses. He had always trusted them to do as his mind said and now...

At this thought, he stilled under the shower, making the same gesture when finding the answer to a mystery: his palms were facing each other and he was smiling, his lips forming an o. Last night, his body was doing exactly what his mind was commanding it to do! Since everything started there, his body only followed his mind’s instruction! This was brilliant...!

...

His smile faded slowly until being completely erased from his face. Now: talk to John. It was the only possible solution. Knowing for sure that he was, unconsciously, searching for John's proximity he had to make a little experiment. Of course, John didn't have to know its track or results. He was certain he loved John, as a friend; felt the need to be close to him as he had experienced before, but certainly not that way. His mind must have been confusing things. He had to admit, that after all, even he could get the wrong idea sometimes.

He washed himself quickly and stepped out of the shower. He realized he had forgotten a change of clothes, so he put the wet towel around his waist and threw the blue robe over his shoulders. Now the flat seemed warmer. He organized everything in the bathroom and got dressed rapidly. He was ready to start a little experimenting: he had to know what John knew about last night, he had to discover what his mind was really up to and, most importantly, he had to stop the body-stimulating dreams.

As he sat on the sofa, he saw John coming out of his room with a yawn and going into the bathroom as well. He heard the shower turn on and a little curse. He had also noticed the water being hotter than usual. After a while, he didn't have to look up to notice John had seen him on the sofa.

"Morning." John's voice was barely a whisper and he cleared his throat. Ah! Nervousness.

"Morning. Did you sleep well?"

"Incredible." The word just slipped out of his lips and he eyed Sherlock, he still wasn’t moving from the sofa. John eyed him for a couple of seconds and then started the plan he’d prepared this morning in bed. Yes, it had to be done. He knew Sherlock knew about the wet dream, he would have scanned himself this morning, it was easy to deduce... even after a shower, as he had pointed out to Lestrade once.

"Sherlock..." John went to the kitchen and started to boil water. Meanwhile, he grabbed two mugs from the shelf, and checked their contents just in case; beginning the morning routine of toast and tea. "...you had a dream last night."

Sherlock's brows darted up, and again, he felt a knot inside his stomach. "Go on."

"I think it was a nightmare, you were sweating and tossing... I tried to wake you up but you didn't hear me." John's voice was calmed, as if talking about something trivial and not important. After he settled everything for breakfast, he got closer to Sherlock, who had a shocked, frozen expression.

Sitting next to him, John searched for Sherlock's eyes; they were widely open and the pupils moved frantically; a typical look when something didn't fit in the mystery.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I'm only worried about you. You know, I think... that even a great mind like yours needs to have some fears. You are capable of feeling after all, but really, I want you to talk to me about it. Are you still troubled about Moriarty? You know, I've had nightmares about the night at the pool, too."

Sherlock faced John and focused in the deep blue eyes of the doctor. He scanned John’s face, but found nothing there that might be of help. John was genuinely worried about him.

"No... no, it's not that." Sherlock didn't have to fake anything here, he remembered all of those nights when he really was having nightmares and tried to focus there. John really thought he was having a nightmare after all. All of the pieces fit in the puzzle, but there was only one thing out of place. "I need to recreate the scene..." he muttered. John was taken aback now.

"Sce-what scene? It's not a crime, Sherlock."

The detective positioned himself like the previous night, only this time, he was neatly dressed.

"I was like this, correct?" Sherlock motioned to his body with his hands and John tried to suppress the heat running over his cheeks.

"Correct."

"Now, how did you exactly try to wake me up?" Sherlock tilted his head back; it was all just like last night but now it was under a completely different context. John smiled to himself. How unfair life can be.

John knew that, if he wanted to leave this behind them, he had to do everything just like last night, even the whispering in Sherlock's ear. If he was asking to this level of detail he had to be very cautious. Any little thing out of place would have Sherlock doubting the authenticity of the nightmare tale. Then he would ask and ask until he had a satisfactory answer... then maybe John would have to explain something a little embarrassing, going along the lines of 'Oh, I just saw you having a wet dream about me, it made me rock hard, so then I simply masturbated thinking about you.’ And perhaps a shrug at the end would complete the effect.

"Do we really need to do this?" John was walking towards Sherlock with a tired expression.

"Yes! Yes, we do. There is something I uh... need to recall from the nightmare and for that, I need you to do exactly what you did last night."

'Shit.'

John rolled his eyes in an exasperated gesture, getting closer, he did exactly what he had done last night; he supported his left hand at the back of the couch and moved his right hand to Sherlock's face. With a firm grip, as if examining a patient, he shook Sherlock's cheek with the fingers positioned the right way; his thumb right under his lower lip but this time, he used a firm pressure. He was being very careful to leave a considerable space between his face and Sherlock's.

Then, John leaned a bit to his right ear and paused. He opened his mouth to talk but couldn't. He sighed and lifted his head a bit.

"That's it, Sherlock. Then I told you I was here, but really, I'm not that good of an actor."

The detective looked up and their gazes locked. John's pressure on his jaw softened and he backed up, leaving Sherlock with an appreciative grin.

"Thank you very much, John." Sherlock got up quickly and walked to his room. John had just started to prepare tea and when he saw Sherlock disappearing, he let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. His heart was racing and he knew his cheeks were hot, maybe even flushed.

"I must look like a bloody teenager..." he muttered to himself, suddenly a bit angry. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock came back out from his room, his usual self, looking pretty much as if he had just solved a case.

It felt as if everything that had happened last night was part of a dream, only now John knew something new about Sherlock, maybe it was time to keep unravelling him.

 

Chapter 4: John Knows

Summary:

Please notice that the part of John's blog remains the same than the website. Doesn't belong to me.

Lita Kelly, you are wonderful. Another chapter edited by her!

John stepped into the flat only to find it completely dark. It was nearly eleven p.m. and he had just arrived from his shift at the hospital. Today was his last day replacing the paediatrician and he was exhausted, but happy. He saw lots of children today and enjoyed seeing how happy and normal their lives were; their only worry was the flu. The last time he’d treated kids was in the war; all of them badly injured due to gunshots, bombs, or even hit by cars. Today with all of the kids he was constantly reminded of one little boy in Afghanistan, whose parents were never be found. The boy stayed with them for about four days and took to calling the soldiers taking care of him uncles, actually sounding like ankles.

As he turned on the kettle, he grabbed two cups from the cabinet, examined the contents out of routine and made one with sugar for Sherlock and the other without for himself. He ate some toast and a salad and turned on his laptop, bringing the cup of tea with him.

Sherlock had had an exhausting week as well. He hadn't slept in three days. At this point, John was actually considering using some sleeping pills so the man would get some rest, and hopefully in his bedroom this time. He hadn't been prepared emotionally for… anything, really. With what happened with their case last week, the Hound, as they called it, he had not been prepared. He had never seen Sherlock emotionally shaken like that and didn't want to see it ever again. John closed his eyes and remembered what had happened; this last week had been crazy when they got back from Dartmoor, he didn't have the time to think, let alone post on his blog. He was glad his blog had the option to post out of date, that way he could keep things in order.

The morning after 'The Wet Dream', as he mentally called that case in his mind – not that he would ever post it, – Sherlock had been extremely insufferable, so it had been easy to shrug it off. They'd had breakfast that morning, Sherlock had stabbed a pig, apparently, and a little girl was telling him about a glowing rabbit. He even had threatened to play Cluedo again. Good thing for John, a little later the same day, they were in Dartmoor and next day they were solving the case about the hound and the glowing rabbit.

There, at the inn, Sherlock had made clear John was his only friend. Even when John had been angry – and he had the right to be – he was incredibly happy. The feeling was mutual, and he knew it for sure at last. Now about the other feeling…

John was very aware of the 'change' in the air after the wet dream case; now every time they got close he felt both his and Sherlock's pulse rise a little higher. Neither of them said or did anything though. It was abundantly clear that neither of them wanted to do anything about it… at least for now. Last night, for example, John was about to start writing the Hound of Baskerville case and couldn't; Sherlock was staring intently at him and that, of course, was very distracting. John opted to get up and escape to his room.

Even so, the moments in silence inside the flat weren't awkward or heavy, even when sometimes John cursed his own body for its reactions whenever near the detective. His body hadn't had those reactions before… had it? No… well… yes. And that's what John felt worried about. He was trying to keep his mind busy with work and helped Sherlock when he got home, mostly bringing him food and fixing them tea.

But now, after the shift at the hospital, he had the flat to himself. Mrs. Hudson had informed him she would be out for a few days and Sherlock… who knows what he was up to. John rose from his armchair and walked to Sherlock's bedroom. He had been there lots of times before but he still knocked. There was no answer. He opened the door and saw his coat and his usual clothes on the bed. The wardrobe was open and he saw lots of clothes scattered around the floor. He sighed. He wanted to put some order to this mess but he was way too worn out for that.

John walked back to his laptop and began to type down the case of 'The Hound of Baskerville'. There were so many things inside his head he wanted to express, but he tried to keep it simple.

'I've never been happier to see anyone than I was to see Henry Knight. Sherlock had been bored. And trust me, you don't want to be around him when he's bored. He's hyperactive, rude, arrogant and a real pain in the ass.'

As he continued writing the story, he found himself just about to write down the incident in the pub, about how hurt he had been, and the relief upon Sherlock telling him he was his one and only friend.

But he regretted it immediately. He didn't want other people to know how Sherlock could open himself up like that; he felt it was too personal for the blog; classified for John alone. But even so, there were things he wanted everyone to know. He wanted to show the world that Sherlock was human after all. That Sherlock was just a smart bloke and that he shouldn't be discriminated against for being brilliant… although he was kind of a dick at times. He remembered Donovan and all of the things she said the second day after he had met Sherlock. That's the way they saw him, then? As a freak? That's what they told everyone? He was always very aware that she was a woman, but there were times when he wanted to throw out all of his morals and give her a good punch. But then there was Lestrade, he could never forget what Greg told him on the Study in Pink case 'Sherlock Holmes is a great man… and I think one day, if we're very very lucky, he might become a good one.' And Greg had known Sherlock for five years before him, how had he not taken the time to see Sherlock as he really was? Sometimes it just pissed him off, the more he wrote on his blog about the case, the angrier he became with his own thoughts. It was stupid, but he couldn't help it.

When he was about to finish the entry he remembered something he just felt he had to write down.

'[…] And then Sherlock did one of the most human things I think I've ever seen him do - he made Henry look at the dog's body. He didn't need to, he'd solved the case but it was as if he knew that the truly important thing was showing Henry what was real and what wasn't. Maybe the fear and doubt he'd felt, and maybe his experiences with Irene Adler, had humanized him?'

At the thought of The Woman, there was a knot in his stomach; he couldn't quite place the feeling. He posted the entry and kept on thinking about all of the times he’d seen Sherlock behaving like a human being. Surprisingly, there were a lot. John had seen Sherlock doubt, he had seen him hurt, nervous, gentle, loving, caring… and he had even seen him… aroused.

"You should be glad I'm not a killer, you would be dead by now." Sherlock entered the flat with long steps.

"Jesus! Sher-" John was visibly startled and turned to yell at him - but was stopped by what he saw; Sherlock was wearing a black sleeveless shirt, black jeans, his right upper arm was wrapped in a piece of black fabric covering what seemed to be a still-bleeding injury. In his other hand there was a long-haired wig. Sherlock looked taller and paler than normal… and thinner. "…what the hell?"

"Incognito. I was homeless for the day." Sherlock tossed the wig near the desk and sat on the couch with a sigh.

"Is the injury part of the disguise too?" John left his laptop on the other armchair and walked to the bathroom to get the first aid kit.

"No. I was stabbed by a new homeless gang." Sherlock started to unwrap his arm and smiled, "but the other bloke is part of the net now." Sherlock eyed John who was coming out from the bathroom frowning. "What were you thinking about, you seem upset?"

"I was thinking about you." As soon as John realized what he had said, he regretted it and added quickly "How did you get the wound?"

"Oh that." Sherlock tried to smile and look elsewhere. "I was trying to get a new bloke to join the net, but the other gang nearly killed his daughter who was with him, I saved her so he would join." He eyed the injury and John nodded. After all, it was almost unheard of for Sherlock to get hurt in a fight.

"Oh, so you saved her only so he would join the net."

"Obviously."

John smiled and sat on the coffee table in front of Sherlock with the first aid kit, the piece of fabric was off, so he could take a look at the injury.

"God, Sherlock. It looks pretty bad." As John started to clean the wound, he noticed Sherlock was distracted. "You are really unbelievable... you know that?"

At the comment, Sherlock sat straight and hissed at the pain in his arm. He stared at John and sighed.

"You already know I'm a functional sociopath."

"No. I mean, you actually saved the girl because you care…" Sherlock smirked, staring at John's hands moving by his injury, in silence. John felt there was something missing in the conversation and added "…and I am upset because you barely take care of yourself."

Without much thought, Sherlock moved his own hand and positioned it over John's. John felt his heart swell at the gesture and stayed quiet, looking at Sherlock's hand over his own. His hands were large and strong and… ice cold.

"John… thank you for taking care of me… and for thinking so highly of me." Sherlock's voice was deep but sweet. It had something John had never heard but it made his heart ache. He felt his chest burning at the simple but honest gesture.

"I only state what I see, Sherlock." John moved his other hand and positioned it over Sherlock's hand above his own; he grabbed it gently and stared at Sherlock's eyes. For a moment in the flat, there was nothing but the feeling of warm hands trapping a very cold one. "And you need to eat."

"I ate a piece of toast last night." Sherlock made a goofy grin and John rolled his eyes and made a little pressure over Sherlock's hand, somehow, the gesture intertwined Sherlock's fingers with John's hand below it. Still, neither of them made the slightest intent to undo it. "Oh, and I had coffee this morning."

"You are going out to have dinner with me. Now." Sherlock's grin became wider. "And when I say dinner, I mean you are actually going to order something for yourself and eat all of it." John lifted his eyebrows and looked firmly at Sherlock's eyes, still with pressure over his hand and added "Doctor's orders." He released Sherlock's hand and stared straight into clear, pale eyes. Sherlock sighed, resigned and removed his hand from the doctor's.

"That's not a very romantic way to ask me out, John." He said lifting an eyebrow. John rolled his eyes and smiled, soon the smile turned to a light giggle and suddenly John and Sherlock were laughing while John finished putting on the bandages.

**..**

It was late in the evening and they were walking back to Baker Street, the street was deserted at this hour and extremely cold. They had a few beers, and Sherlock had eaten a normal meal, for once. John was surprised at how he had had to force Sherlock to eat all of the carrots on the plate, and had even given a little scientific explanation of how those vitamins are good for your health. John also forced Sherlock to eat at least some of the beef and tomatoes because he had found that his blood was too thin. Sherlock laughed at the excessive concern, and teased John how his work with the kids at the hospital had ‘turned him into a nanny'.

As they walked, Sherlock noticed a strange figure following them. Sherlock eyed John, who was completely unaware of the situation.

"Don't say my name, but keep talking." Sherlock whispered.

John was taken aback but took the hint on the second and kept going with the conversation; he was telling him about the boy in Afghanistan.

"So, this kid called us ankles, we were all his ankles. We never heard from the kid again... You know, Harry, we even tried to look him up." Sherlock's lips rose at the realization that John had used his sister's name. The detective used a showcase in front of them as a mirror and found the man following them confused by the name and begin to turn around. Sherlock sighed in relief; he recognized him as one of the homeless gang that stabbed him that afternoon. He couldn't have followed him to Baker Street, could he?

Sherlock turned his head to look back and, from the corner of his eye, he saw the man now convinced start to chase them. He didn't have time to explain, so he grabbed John's wrist and ran like hell. They turned into an alley where they were almost attacked by a huge dog; they climbed a gate and heard two shots, letting them know the chaser had a gun. After a couple of seconds running in every direction, they ducked into another alley behind a tall building with a fire escape. Sherlock immediately saw that right behind John there was a small opening between the stairs and the wall, so he grabbed him quickly by the shoulders and pushed him back against.

In a matter of seconds, Sherlock noticed John was visible in the light so he switched positions quickly, pinning John to the wall on his right and back, the stair at his left and Sherlock in front. The detective was over him, protecting him, covering both with his large coat. His hands were supporting his weight on the wall behind, at both sides of John's head, so as not to fall on the doctor. John's hands were unconsciously grabbing Sherlock's shirt at chest height, trying to maintain their balance.

They were panting hard but as the steps got closer, they both held their breaths. John saw over Sherlock's shoulder as the man searched frantically, when he saw nothing, he kept on running down the path they would have taken. After a couple of seconds, when they heard the steps getting farer away, John exhaled deeply and began to recover his breath as Sherlock did the same.

With the position they were now in, Sherlock's breathing was right on John's neck and shoulder. John thought painfully about the layer of clothing between his skin and Sherlock's mouth, but soon he shook his head, hard, still panting, trying to discard those thoughts.

"What… just… happened…?" asked John between intakes of air.

Sherlock supported his forehead on John's left shoulder.

"He was one of the men in the gang this afternoon, one of the gang that stabbed my arm."

"What does he want from you? Why is he chasing you?"

"I don't know." Sherlock raised his head slowly, never leaving his position or changing the way his body was glued to John's. Once they calmed down, they became very aware of the way their bodies were lined up in the little space. John was surprised at how well their bodies seemed to synchronize and blend together. They were even panting at the same rate.

"Do you think he followed you home?"

"I did it again." Sherlock's voice was shaking with emotion. John felt Sherlock's breath over his nose and could smell the beer they'd had before. There was something very stimulating about the way Sherlock was speaking, but then again, there was a little sadness behind the words.

"What?"

"I put you in danger. They saw you with me, now they know you."

"Sherlock…" John lifted one of his hands and positioned it on Sherlock's cheek. John was astonished at how the gesture felt so natural, but he didn't care anymore. They couldn't be seen right now and even if they were, he could care less. "I can take care of myself, you don't have to worry about me, okay?"

Sherlock seemed to calm down a little, he took his left hand off the wall and covered John's hand on his cheek with his own. It wasn't cold like this afternoon –'Good', John thought – but they were shaking uncontrollably… it was hard to say if it was because of the cold air or the nervousness both of them were feeling; they were both breathing hard again, but this time for completely different reasons. Sherlock moved John's hand near his lips and planted a chaste kiss over the palm. The gesture made John fell so vulnerable he couldn't speak; he couldn't help but stare into those eyes that were staring back into his very soul, and couldn't help but notice how Sherlock's body reacted to the closeness.

"John…" Sherlock breathed his name and John couldn't move. His lower body responded immediately, what was wrong with him? He was getting painfully aroused by only hearing the way he said his name. "…we need to get out of here before he comes back for us."

"Whah?" John was fighting hard against his body's urges, he wanted to kiss Sherlock, he wanted to take his face in his hands, pull it close to his own and capture those delicious lips with his. He wanted to touch the body before him and forget all the tension that had been killing him for the past week, and even before that, he silently agreed with himself. But Sherlock was right. "Yeah. We… uh… need to uh… right."

Sherlock released John's hand and smiled at him. Again, the smile made John's heart ache for a second. What was wrong with Sherlock? He couldn't put his finger on the feeling or the reaction he got from the other man, but he was quite sure he had to find out, it was all too much. He never expected Sherlock would kiss his hand like that, there was so much concern, so much regret, so much gratefulness, so many emotions in the way Sherlock was acting towards him these days that he had to find out what was going on. Soon.

They walked back home in the dark, taking a different path than the one they usually took.

"Sherlock, do you think they followed you?"

"It's possible."

"Do you think it's Moriarty?"

"No, this is a different man."

"Mycroft?" John stared at Sherlock in disbelieve. Sherlock just walked closer to John.

"I hope not…" he whispered.

"Sherlock… what is wrong with you?" this time the doctor stopped to look properly at Sherlock, who sighed and kept on walking, taking the sleeve of John's jacket, making him move.

"Let's keep on walking please… I have exposed you to too much already."

"No. Sherlock, I am a grown man, I was in the army for God's sake, I can take care of myself, I told you." John tried to free himself from the grip, but Sherlock was strong and quick, so this time he grabbed his wrist and kept on walking, John resisted but soon followed.

"Yes, I know, John, but Mycroft is a completely different story, you know… his mind works like mine."

"I don't need you to protect me, Sherlock."

They were outside 221B now and Sherlock eyed the area before entering the building.

"It's not about what you need, John, it's about what I want. And I want to be able to protect you this time…" Sherlock voice broke a little and after taking a gulp of air he started "I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you."

They climbed the stairs and Sherlock took his coat off, and started to pace around the flat.

"Sherlock…"

"You're my only friend" Sherlock stopped to look outside the window; neither of them had turned the light on and the one coming from outside seemed to suffice.

"I know, Sherlock. But as you're my only friend too, I can't allow you to protect me, really, I have my pride, you know."

John took his jacket off and moved closer to Sherlock, making the taller man face him, he carefully raised his hands around his neck and wrapped him in a tender hug.

Sherlock was paralysed at first, but soon understood the situation and wrapped his arms around John's back and waist, slowly at first and then adding pressure. His face was on John's shoulder and he let out a sigh, sounding very much like a repressed sob. John's fingers drew little circles in Sherlock's curls.

"John… let me stay like this a little longer... please."

"It's okay, Sherlock… it’s okay."

They were talking in little whispers, just loud enough for the other to hear. Sherlock applied more pressure to the hug and John sighed, content; he had discovered another thing about Sherlock and that made him happier than it should have.

Chapter 5: Interview over the phone

Last night, it was a whole revelation for Sherlock; John had hugged him and he had hugged John back as if clinging for dear life… he even asked to stay in the same position for a little longer. Sherlock had to admit; even he was surprised with his latest actions.

And maybe it explained, at least a little part of it, why the detective had woken up in a very cheerful mood. He’d even eaten the breakfast John made for him in the morning.

But it was also likely, that the reason for his cheerful mood was a call from Lestrade; there was a new case for them... even if Sherlock considered it a five. John couldn't believe how easily he was pulled into Sherlock's game sometimes.

"I told you before, John: I am not leaving the flat for less than a seven." He explained.

"Oh, and may I know, what is a seven to you?" John crossed his arms over his chest, giving him a side glance look.

"Serial killers, homeless' murderers, Moriarty and such… you know, John. Fun stuff."

"So you are going to stay here... resting, whilst I do the dirty job." John nodded with a resigned smirk.

"No. Actually, I‘ve got to go to Bart’s to check on some samples. I need Molly's help, I'm sure she can provide interesting data about the corpse".

"And what do you think that killed these people? Those are suicides, according to Lestrade."

"Every single crime in London is a suicide according to the Yard... it's too soon to tell."

John just smiled at him. "Alright... how do we keep in touch? You know, there's no WiFi at the lab and no signal on your phone...”

"I'm going to contact you whenever I need you."

"Okay..." John raised an eyebrow, "what if I need you?"

"You can text me. I will be stepping out of the lab every thirty minutes to check on my phone."

Sherlock finished putting his coat on and turned to John, there was something in his expression; he seemed at lost but somehow secure at the same time. "John… I… uh…" he started, his rapid eyes focused on the floor and then on John's face. "I need to ask for a favour, before you leave." John directed him a daring nod. "Can we… uh… hug again?" Sherlock seemed a little embarrassed and so out of character if not for the petulant lift of his chin; almost as if asking for cigarettes.

John's eyes snapped open at the question. It was difficult to find his voice back. "Uhm… sure, yeah, why not." He opened his arms to welcome Sherlock and the detective hugged him slowly, circling his arms around the doctor's neck and shoulders, taking his time to accommodate in the embrace. He inhaled deeply, smelling John's aftershave scent. Even with the awkwardness of the unusual action, it was still a friendly hug; both were smiling in the other's shoulder.

After a couple of seconds, John gave Sherlock a couple of strokes and pats on his back, the detective mimicked him.

"Sherlock..." John's voice sounded muffled by the other's shirt, "...if we keep on doing this, people will definitely talk."

"They already do… and I don't care since it is... you know. Pleasant."

John snorted lightly at the comment. "I won't see you for two days straight... it feels a little odd." He released his grip around Sherlock's torso with a tight smile.

"Yes..." Sherlock said, "But you will be staying in a four stars hotel, thanks to the Yard and a few strings pulled on Mycroft..." his eyes smiled at that and added, "it's useful to have relatives once in a while."

John snorted and shook his head.

"Are you bringing your gun?" Sherlock asked, suddenly changing the topic and turning around to get his scarf.

"Yes." John put his jacket on.

"Ammunitions?" Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"Yes." John put his gloves on.

"Battery charge?" Sherlock did the last check on his coat.

"Yes." John took the bag with clothes and needed items for two days out of the flat.

"Condoms?" Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat up.

"Oh come on!" John threw his unused arm in the air. "I seriously doubt I'm gonna get laid whilst working on a case for you."

"You can always obtain information that way." Sherlock let out a throaty chuckle and John smiled in surprise.

"Yeah sure, and you can do the same."

"I observe, John, I don't need sex to obtain information."

"So, what am I then... a gigolo?"

"Come on, John. You're a handsome man and you could always be a gigolo, but I don't think you have the nerves to actually do it." Sherlock opened the flat's door and went downstairs.

John held an amused smile directed at the stairs. Sighing, he locked the door and followed his companion. "Sherlock, I am not going to recur to sex to gain information!"

"But what if the opportunity arises?" Sherlock asked, his eyes searching for a cab.

"Nope. Out of the table." John answered, shaking his head in denial.

"Ok then. I’ll be seeing you soon. Make sure you don't get injured or shot... or dead."

"I won't." John sighed again and locked his stare with the detective, "I should be the one concerned. You need to take care of your arm and you have to eat. I texted Molly already and Mrs. Hudson will be back tomorrow."

"I do take care of myself…" Sherlock said frowning.

"Oh, shut it."

The detective directed a smirk to him as he stopped a cab. As soon as John got in, Sherlock couldn't help but reach for the other man; John gave him his hand, it slipped through Sherlock's fingers. The taller man felt something go up and down inside his stomach, he told himself that he shouldn't be concerned about John. Immediately afterwards, he thought how he really should be paying extra attention at the actions his body was doing without his mind's permission.

**..**

In the airport, John mentally checked everything he had to do; the things they talked about earlier this morning and what was needed to solve the case. He had to go to The Netherlands, talk to the DI over there, check the corpse, to interview the suspect there... and think like Sherlock as much as possible to gather the information they needed. He tried to practice a bit as he waited in the customers’ line.

He focused his eyes on a couple a few meters ahead of him; she was carrying a medium sized pink bag and there was a white little dog in her hand bag, it seemed a living stuffed animal, the man next to her was young; he had a camera hanging around his neck and a bag on his back. He was holding a couple of papers in one hand. Journalists. They're having an affair. She is married and he is younger than her. He deduced by the way he placed a hand on the small of her back as he guided her to walk in front of him.

Hiding a little his phone and making it look as if he was browsing for something, he took a photograph of the couple and texted to Sherlock, attaching the image.

'Little experiment in the airport as I wait. What do you think of this couple?'

It was less than a minute later when he got his reply, he smiled as he read the answer.

'Let's see, what do you observe, John? – S'

'Journalists. Affair. She's married. He’s younger. She might be his superior.'

After a minute again, the reply.

'Excellent. Where are they from? – S'

'How could I know that!'

"Sir, your bags this way, please." John got a bit startled when he heard the voice of a young girl taking his bag; he left the phone aside and passed through a metal detector. His gun didn't sound. 'Mycroft' he thought right away. He checked the phone as he slowly paced to the stairs.

'They're taking souvenirs. Coming back. Netherlands it is. - S'

John eyed the couple and this time observed: in the guy's hand bag there was a flag, some local traits and goodies.

'Brilliant! To the flight now. Good luck today.'

'Almost at the lab. Nice trip. Good luck you too. - S'

"All of the passengers please, fasten your seatbelts…" as the flight attendant gave them instructions, John turned his phone off and waited patiently. He knew the flight wouldn’t last long and that today it would be a very long day. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a little nap.

**..**

"John, I need to text Lestrade, pass me the phone, in my pocket." Sherlock’s intense stare was over the microscope, analysing a blood’s sample. Molly was at his side and turned at him, clearly surprised at the words.

"Molly." She said quietly, Sherlock lifted his eyes for a second to look at her; he frowned and then his eyes quickly returned to the microscope.

"Yes. You were saying?"

"I said... nothing. You were talking to John..." Molly glanced around the lab. "Isn't he on a trip to Netherlands?"

"Yes."

"And you were talking to him?"

"If he can't hear me then it’s not my problem." Sherlock took another sample from his side and placed it carefully under the microscope for his scrutiny.

"You said you had to text Greg."

"Yes."

"You want me to text him for you?"

"Please."

"What do I write?"

"Found it. Meet me in the crime scene in an hour."

"Okay." Molly's thumbs moved over her lavender phone.

"Your phone… it was pink before." Sherlock never lifted his eyes from the microscope.

"Oh, it's only the casing, it's the same phone." She said with a nervous smile.

"Oh. Well, you should tell your friend you prefer pink over lavender, don't you think? Aha! There you are, you bloody drug trace, almost fading, but there you are…"

Sherlock took another sample to analyze, Molly was staring at him, agape.

"What… how did you know it was a gift from a friend?"

"Because, Molly, you never buy anything lavender... your lipstick is pink, your blog is pink, and if you're wearing anything like that, it's clearly because it's a gift." Sherlock examined the content of a test tube and threw a drop of a white liquid in it; it turned slowly to a shade of green. He wrote some notes down and continued, playing with his pencil around his fingers a bit. "If it is a gift from someone you don’t care about, you would never use it. But since it's from a friend, you use it all the time, because you could have an encounter with him, and you want him to know you care enough to have it." Sherlock saved some things into his pocket and took his coat as he walked to the exit. "You really should tell your friend your preferences. Don't leave them in the dark." He said, opening the door with a smirk.

"Sherlock?" she stopped him and he poked his head from the other side.

"Yes?"

"After you finish... with Greg... I mean, when you're done, would you like to go for some lunch?" Sherlock remained under the door frame with a confused expression. She continued, "I mean, since John is not here, I thought... maybe... you would like some company?" She smiled and toyed with her fingers.

"Molly, I really appreciate it, but you know I don't eat while I'm working… it slows me down…"

"Please don't take it the wrong way. I was just wondering, just... okay." She started to put aside the implements Sherlock had messed up, her hands shaking nervously.

His mind started to throw little phrases from the conversation with John earlier, 'I should be the one concerned...' '...you have to eat...' 'I texted Molly already...'

"Coffee will do. Meet me at the cafeteria at the end of the street. Two o'clock." Sherlock quickly stepped out of the lab, leaving an open mouthed Molly and an almost broken test tube by her shaking hands.

**..**

"Oh look! It's the freak." Donovan nicely announced Sherlock's arrival at the flat that was the crime scene.

"Lestrade, I need to check the place the body was left at." Lestrade's gestured him, tilting his head and they both walked upstairs. "Oh, and Donovan, you should really put a pillow under your knees when you clean Anderson's floor, you know... and that make-up is way too dark to cover your eye bags."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade punched Sherlock's arm playfully with his elbow, trying to shut him up. The detective smirked.

"I need to check the medicine cabinet, too."

Sherlock collected samples here and there and walked around the apartment, his eyes taking everything and his mind at full speed. Anderson waited outside with an exasperated expression whilst chatting with Sally. Lestrade just eyed the pair, but his mind was focused on Sherlock; the way he followed every smell, every trace on the carpet, the mental notes the detective was muttering in the process.

"These guys left the carpet full of foot prints and different patterns... oh! And they call themselves criminalists!" Sherlock's eyes spotted a pile of dirt near the door, he collected a sample of it as well.

Suddenly, a beep echoed in the room and Sherlock took his phone from his pocket.

'Hotel is great. Going to police station now.'

When he read this message, a smile formed slowly on his features. Lestrade took a hold of this and grinned widely.

"John?" The DI had a devilish smirk, of course Sherlock noticed this, and the meaning behind, but he played fool.

"He's on his way to the station now, we should be able to have more data soon."

"What do we need more information for? It was clearly a suicide!" Donovan stepped closer and, at the comment, Lestrade searched in the ceiling for patience with an audible sigh.

"Is that the way you people always do your job? Oooh! I'm not surprised then, to see how we have high suicide rates in London." Sherlock walked down the flat as he spoke, dramatically gesturing with his hands and arms. "Not enough data!" he claimed with a high pitched voice, clearly imitating Donovan, "and then you state it's a suicide! No wonder why you are the criminals' favourites."

"Oh, so if it's a crime I already have a suspect." Donovan said walking behind Sherlock and in front of Lestrade.

"Come on, kids. Please." Lestrade let out his throaty voice, full of controlled anger.

"It's transparent. I just need more data, Lestrade."

"Yes, Sherlock. Do whatever you need." Donovan glared when the DI said that, he just shrugged in response.

Sherlock hailed a cab to return to the lab, taking his phone and the sample of dirt in the process. It seemed to have little pieces of something resembling an onion. John answered his phone in the middle of the observing process.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

"John, I need you to go to the crime scene as soon as possible. Search for dirt, broken plants' pots... collect samples of everything and take them to the lab, tell them to run them ASAP. I have one here as well. There is something that just doesn't fit."

"How so?"

"I am sure, whoever did this, has to have some connection with the victim here and there. Come on, John! Think! How do you think two men get killed almost at the same time, under the same circumstances, right here in London and then in Netherlands, without any sort of connection?"

"Hang on... I thought those were suicides..."

"John."

"Okay, okay. I’ll search for the connection then... and the samples." John let out a sigh and Sherlock frowned at the other side of the line. "You scared me, Sherlock."

"How come?"

"I thought you preferred to text."

"I do. I just wanted to hear your voice for a bit."

Silence.

"Sherlock, I am all right, really. Nothing’s going to happen."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, John..." he said in a breathy tired tone, John's stomach stirred completely at it; it was ignored. “How I would love to live in that little mind of yours... so naive..."

John laughed shortly. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

"Yes... please." Sherlock heard the other man giggle again.

"What are you up to, now?"

"To the lab first, I need to check the dirt sample to relieve a suspicion I have... then depending on the hour, I have to go lunch with Molly."

Silence again.

"Molly." John's statement wasn't a question or a surprised exclamation. It was just a name. Sherlock frowned again at the phone.

"Yes, she asked me out for lunch and I said yes."

When there was no answer, Sherlock smiled, looking at the phone as if it was John Watson.

"Sherlock, you barely eat whilst on a case..."

"John, I just arrived to Bart’s now, got to go. Let me know if anything happens." And with that, Sherlock hung up; there was a little smirk on his face.

**..**

At the cafeteria, Molly nervously awaited sitting in the nearest table by the door. She had applied light make-up on, knowing deep inside Sherlock would realise it... then probably she would get even more nervous. She would ending up cleaning it off anyways... but she didn't care. It was the first time Sherlock had accepted any contact outside Bart’s, by himself at least. That same nervousness made her arrive ten minutes earlier.

She checked her shirt once again. She was happy she had chosen this attire today; a white shirt exposing a generous amount of skin below her neck and shoulders, her hair was down and she knew, if the looks from the few walkers outside and the people inside the cafe were anything to go by, how gorgeous she looked.

Two minutes before two o'clock, Sherlock stepped inside the place. A few men glared at him but he didn't seem to mind, Sherlock always noticed everything. In his head, he could see white little fonts around every single person inside. He concentrated on Molly's.

'Hair down, a change from the professional look, she thinks this is a date.'
'New make-up, she wanted to look natural but provocative enough.'
'Shoulders uncovered and large amount of skin exposed, she is trying to impress with a show of female sensuality.'
'Polished nails, she didn't have them like that this morning, she really thinks of this as a date.'
'Toying with her fingers, she is nervous but she likes the attention of the men's stare.'

"You waited much?" Sherlock sat down in front of her.

"No, no... it's okay, I just got here too early." Sherlock smiled at her. Molly never took her eyes out of Sherlock's. Deep inside, very deep inside, and not like she would acknowledge openly, she was waiting for him to look at her... to really look at her. She hoped for his eyes to stare at her exposed skin, she hoped for him to lower his glance from her eyes to other parts of her. She knew she was pretty, she knew, if Sherlock was any other man, she would surely have a chance with little effort.

"Did you order?" Sherlock rapid eyes were fixed on hers', changing quickly his stare to the menu in front, at the other second his eyes were looking outside the window, then to her eyes again. "Well?"

Molly had to step out from her trance. Sherlock was fascinating to look at; his quick movements, his eyes which never looked where she wanted them to, his lips that moved in a lovely way as he spoke.

"No! No... I mean, I was waiting for you, so we could order together..." She was aware of how nervous she was. She had to fight the urge to stand up and disappear.

Sherlock did a little gesture with the corner of his lips and fixed his eyes on the menu again.

"Molly, I know John asked you take care of my meals. But you don't have to force it, you know." Sherlock never took his eyes from the menu; he could sense the confusion Molly was feeling. She was seriously taken aback by Sherlock's words; she wanted to get mad, to get up and leave. But she also knew Sherlock. She knew this opportunity wouldn't present itself again, even though she understood Sherlock wasn't doing this for her, he was doing this for John. That thought alone made her stomach knot, but she tried to stay calm.

"I am not. I really wanted to..." she was mumbling, her eyes fixing at some spot on the table.

"That soft make-up is a big improvement." Sherlock said absently, checking the menu once more. Molly felt heat going up to her cheeks, she knew she was flushed, but she couldn't help it. "All right then, are you ready to order?" He didn't wait for an answer; he called the waite; Molly hurried to ask for her usual meal, since she came here often. Sherlock asked for a coffee and a sweet pie.

As they waited for their order to arrive, Sherlock took his labs' notes from his pocket and stared at them for a couple of seconds.

"Any news about the case?" Molly adventured to ask, making Sherlock look up and stopping his mumbling at the notes.

"Yes, almost solved. I just need the results from John's samples and compare the data... do you mind if I make a quick call?"

"Not at all." Sherlock dialled Lestrade's number.

Molly didn't pay attention to the conversation; she concentrated on Sherlock once again. The way his large fingers held his phone and how little the device looked in his hand, how his lips moved again, the gestures he made as he spoke, the frowns and the way his eyebrows responded to everything, that amazing voice... Molly felt her cheeks growing hot again. Just at that moment, the waiter arrived and placed their orders on the table.

At first, the meal was a little awkward, but soon Sherlock broke the ice talking about the case and the experiments he conducted earlier in the lab. Since Molly's field was science, she got interested quickly on the matter, asking and commenting about them. All in all, even Sherlock had to admit those forty minutes of meal and waiting went smoothly. Molly couldn't help but notice how Sherlock was checking his phone every five minutes, frowning lightly every time; he didn't get any news from John.

**..**

In 221B, Sherlock sat in the sofa at the dark living room. The place was only enlightened by the white screen of his laptop, placed over the coffee table in front of him, and the faint light from outside.

It had been a long day between the lab and the Yard. His body was exhausted. His mind, on the other hand, was working frantically over some digital documents that helped him solve the case. He started to put the data in order; the 'onion' he had found at the crime scene was a tulip bulb. John had found bulbs from the same tulip species at the victim's house in Netherlands. They were producing bulbs to sell since those, combined with other chemicals, produced a very powerful and almost untraceable poison.

The bulbs were imported from Netherlands, and the black market's head was here in London. They had poisoned the informer here and there and then made it look like a suicide, planting a bullet in their skulls. The shot was post-mortem. Both victims were recurrent florists... after that, easy to track down.

"John, could you make some tea?"

Sherlock got startled by his own voice resonating in the empty flat and sat straight. He sighed, running his finger over his curls. He was blankly looking at some spot near John's armchair for who knows how long, when he heard a too familiar voice.

"You are getting weaker, dear brother."

"Hello, you too." Was the deep answer, Sherlock didn't move or seemed surprised at his brother's appearance. He knew Mycroft would be coming now that John wasn't around, he wouldn't let this opportunity slip.

"You knew I was coming." The younger man felt a weight next to him on the sofa but he didn't move, still with his hair between his fingers, elbows on his knees. "And I knew you would solve the case I had for you."

"It was way too easy."

"But you enjoyed it."

"And I gave you back the name of the head in the plants’ black market."

"Ah yes..." Mycroft supported his back on the couch. "And I thank you for that, it really was a big help... you know, a black market of plants is really a big issue... as you could contemplate yourself, you can easily kill a man..." Mycroft let out a small giggle "...or two, for that matter, only with the right knowledge about something so innocent and full of live like a tulip bulb..."

"It is a powerful poison... in the wrong or the right hands."

"Indeed, my brother..." Mycroft's voice was calmed and slow, Sherlock listened patiently. "Nature... has so many ways to tell us humans to stay away from the things that are not into our power, in our reach."

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, apparently his patience had limits.

"Why did you send that homeless gang?" Sherlock released his head and lifted his eyes to look at Mycroft. The older brother's face was only lightened by the street light outside the window. Mycroft wasn't moving. His posture on the sofa was casual, almost carefree; his head was thrown over the backrest. Sherlock noticed how he and his brother actually had some things in common, despite being so different.

They were brothers after all.

"I didn't. I heard about it, but I didn't."

"What did you hear?"

"That you're way too fond of that John Watson fellah." Sherlock felt that phrase like a knife through his skull. There was something in the way his brother spoke, it even made him get a physical reaction.

"We're flatmates and colleagues." Sherlock let out between his teeth.

"Friends." Again, Sherlock felt that word, the word he used with so much care, that powerful word, like a kick on his stomach. It should be declared a dangerous weapon on Mycroft's lips. Before Sherlock could reply, Mycroft started again. "You should really be careful, brother. You are a very important person, even if you don't realise it. Having a person getting so close to you is a disadvantage for yourself... and for that person as well."

"Are you threatening me?" Again, Sherlock spoke through his teeth, anger evident in his voice.

"I am not. I am, after all, your older brother. Not a threat or menace, only an advice. I care for your well being."

Mycroft started to lift himself from his sitting position, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist quickly, making him sit back.

"I swear, if anything happens to John and you have something to do with that, I swear to you, I am going to forget we are related."

Mycroft released himself with a forced movement of his arm. "Don't think so lowly about me."

"I've been given enough reasons to do so... retract your doing with the homeless' gang."

Mycroft stood up and walked to the door, he turned to face Sherlock once more. "Please!" he said somewhat sarcastically, "do have in mind that this is my way to carry on with your safety." His voice was small as he left the flat. Sherlock heard the main door slam behind his brother. By the window, he saw and heard a black car disappearing.

Sherlock supported his back on the sofa and tilted his head back. A bitter smile ghosted over his lips; he realized the similarity of his posture with his brother's.

"John..." He whispered to himself.

**..**

Doctor Watson was lying in bed, awake. It had been a long day... and it felt so weird to be in the dark, in silence, without Sherlock.

Those last days had been strange; he allowed his mind go through a few moments shared with Sherlock after the case that was repeating so freely around his head; the wet dream case. After all, it was not a minor thing he had masturbated thinking about his friend, his colleague... whom happened to be male.

He was now very aware of the sensations the younger man was awakening in his body and mind, and with such simple acts; his cold fingers intertwining with his owns, or at the alley, the way their bodies touched... the way Sherlock's body reacted to his closeness. He had felt, very well, the aroused state of the detective pressed against his hip. He had felt the heat of Sherlock's lips over his palm, the hot breath over his neck, the warmth of his body and arms around him as they hugged this morning. He could almost feel again the desperate way Sherlock had wrapped his arms around him last night...

And now, John was gasping, alone in bed. Only with the memory of those events his body was reacting again. 'Damn that bastard...' he muttered to himself and smiled fondly, his gaze aimed at the ceiling '...I really look like a teenager...'

Suddenly, another thought appeared in John's mind. The homeless from the gang. Was it really Mycroft's doing? He had said, so many times that he cared about Sherlock... John could actually understand that. Way back, he and Harry often had gone into big fights regarding her safety, until John grew tired of them.

Also, the fact Molly had lunch with Sherlock was bothering him... a lot. Of course, he asked her politely to keep an eye on his food, but he never imagined Sherlock would actually agree in having lunch with her.

He rolled to his side and found he still was a little hard from his previous thoughts. 'Shit.'

He reached for his member which wasn't completely erected, and recalled the previous sensations. Sherlock's smell, hands, warmth...

"Sherlock..." the whisper just escaped his lips. By the corner of his eye he saw the watch on the nightstand; almost three o'clock in the morning.

He cursed his own body that wasn't letting him have a good night's sleep. He stroked himself for a few seconds and he stopped. He felt like an arse, almost as if he were defiling Sherlock's friendship. He almost felt like if he were imposing the other man. Again, two voices were nagging him inside his head; one telling him Sherlock were his friend and he shouldn't do this; it's not correct to touch yourself whilst thinking about your male best friend. The other telling him, to hell! Who the fuck knows about Sherlock Holmes' but his body had needs and he ought to satisfy them.

His phone rang, the sound loud in the silence of the room. In his mind, instead of the ringtone, there was Sherlock's voice in a high pitched tone 'Answer me! Answer me! Answer me!'... Who else would call at this impious hour! He should ask Sherlock to say that in a funny voice, so he can set it as a ringtone... ah. No. Bad idea. He could almost hear the laughter at the Yard when Sherlock calls him... and the voice 'Answer me!'... Almost laughing at his own stupid thoughts, he finally answered.

"Sherlock." John heard panting at the other side of the phone, he quickly supported himself on an elbow, frowning. "What is it, everything's okay?"

"Are you all right?"

"Sherlock? What's wrong!"

There was only panting in the other side of the phone for a few seconds, then a cough. "You weren't sleeping." The loud breathing seemed to calm down a little.

"No, no. I couldn't sleep... what is it, Sherlock." John flopped back on the bed, putting his hand over his forehead, relieved. He was trying to calm down his heart; it was now racing inside his ribcage with fear.

"Sorry..." John heard a snort, "I had this bloody nightmare and I called you before I realised it..."

John let out a reassured sigh. It was just that, then. "Oh, I see." His lips slowly formed a smile. But soon, he couldn't help but recalling Molly and their lunch. He wanted to ask so badly. Even when they had already talked this afternoon about the case, they didn't bring the lunch time matter. His smile faded.

"Sorry, John. But you weren't sleeping. I hate to repeat myself. Are you all right?" At the question, John closed his eyes in the dark and sighed yet again.

"Yeah, I'm all right. I was just thinking about the case."

"Liar." Sherlock said. John frowned.

"Tell me then, why am I lying?" John heard a little chuckle and his frown deepened.

"You never do that... keep on thinking about a solved case. You only have to declare tomorrow at court and come back..."

Silence. Sherlock was right. He had forgotten than you have to be with your mind working two hundred percent to deceit Sherlock.

"Sherlock, can I ask you a couple of questions?"

"Depends..."

"Okay... can you promise me to answer with the truth and nothing but the truth?"

John heard a bit of rustle, surely Sherlock was getting comfortable.

"Everything I can answer, I will do with the truth."

"Are you sleeping on the couch?"

"No."

"Liar."

"I am awake on the couch." John heard a throaty chuckle and soon he followed. Taking a little gulp of air, he continued.

"What was your nightmare about?"

"You..." Sherlock took a gulp of air, "...you tried to kill me. I tried to stop you and somebody shot your back. You..." he took another gulp of air, this one sounded shaky, "...you fell over me, bleeding all over..." at this point, John's throat was a knot, listening to Sherlock talk like that made him want to get inside the phone and hug him. "When I tried to wake you up, you just put your hand on my face and said you were sorry."

"Sherlock..." John's voice was merely a whisper.

"I held onto you, there was nobody around to help us out." Sherlock's voice came back to normal as he kept on talking. "I was holding you and you were getting cold, people at the Yard just looked at us, sprawled all over the floor, and they didn't do a damn thing... I screamed, but they didn't listen." A sigh. "It was awful, John."

"Shh... it's okay now, Sherlock."

"I know. When I have this kind of nightmares, I usually hear you snoring all the way downstairs, so I keep my mind at peace with that..." John heard a deep small laugh and he couldn't help but smile.

"I don't snore that loud...!"

"Yeah you do."

"All right, okay."

"I'm sorry I called you this late, John"

"It's okay, don't apologise so much, doesn't suit you."

"Can I ask now, why were you awake?"

"I told you..."

"No, no, John... Don't lie to me."

John sighed. He really didn't want to say his thoughts out loud, but he couldn't lie to Sherlock. "I was thinking about you..." There was a pause over the phone"... and Molly."

"Why?"

"I was just wondering, since you accepted her invitation to lunch... I told you I was going to ask you some questions, don't turn it on me." John smiled.

"I'm listening..."

"... well, you like her. I mean, you like her?"

"And why does that amuse you so much, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock's voice was calmed and under control, but John was under control of his own situation too. There wasn't the trace of insecurity his voice held when he asked something from Sherlock.

"Because... it would be the first time I see you interested in a woman, besides Irene Adler..."

"I told you before, John."

"What-"

"Can you really imagine me falling in love with a woman?" There was only a sigh for answer. "I was only there with her because you told me you’d texted her."

"I know, I know, Sherlock..."

"If I didn't know you better, I would think you're jealous, John."

John snapped his eyes open and his heart started to beat faster at the comment. He looked at the ceiling for an answer to that, but he didn't find any.

"John?"

"Yeah."

"Are you all right?"

"Perfectly fine."

"Are you aroused?" Sherlock's voice was deeper than before. John could notice the teasing tone in the voice of the detective.

"What?"

"Your breathing is heavier than before."

"You just scared the hell out of me with that statement!" John didn't realise how much his hushed voice raised its pitch until he spoke.

"John."

"Yes."

"Really, close your eyes and imagine me."

"Imagine you doing what?"

"A woman."

"No." John felt kicked in the stomach.

"Why not?"

"This is not normal, Sherlock. This conversation, this context... it's just... not."

"So you have never thought about me that way, then?" Sherlock was talking now in a very breathy voice, John was breathing really hard, his heart about to explode.

"Of course not!"

"You told me, you were thinking about me and Molly..."

"Yes! In the restaurant. As a couple. Going to lunch. I think it would be very normal if you do it, that's it!" John was whispering desperately.

"Until three o'clock in the morning."

In 221B Baker Street there was Sherlock, quite amused, talking with John. The fact of having him at the other side of the phone was enough to put his mind at ease. He didn't know why – or how, for that matter - all of this game had started, but he was beginning to enjoy it. Sherlock heard John clearing his throat quietly.

"...when you say that way, what do you mean?" the doctor asked.

"Seducing, for example, a partner?"

John sighed at the other end of the phone, "Who knows..."

"So, you can't imagine me, John, with anyone? You think I'm incapable of any kind of sexual arousal?"

"Are you-? Wait, why are we even talking about this..." John tried to sound curious and cool there, almost defiantly.

"Of course... and I'm sure you know it as well."

John froze. His mind went blank for a while and then started again like an engine. 'Sherlock knows about the wet dream, he knows I...' "Sherl-"

"I know you noticed in the alley..." At Sherlock's words, John released a gulp of air restrained in his lungs "...how hard I was back then."

"Sherlock! What the-" John pretended to sound mad there, but there was something in his voice giving him away, his aroused state from before came back full force.

"It might only be a natural response of the body to another source of body heat, John..." Sherlock let out a throaty sound and added, "... but that never had happened to me before."

"No. Sherlock..." John didn't know what to do. His state was precarious. And what was that sound? Was Sherlock touching himself, right now, on the phone, talking to him? Sure thing, the conversation had varied a little – a lot – from its original purpose, but to come this far. John was going crazy with the sound and the deep, throaty voice at the other side of the line.

"To have you pressed like that against me... I'm sure you noticed how bad you had me right there..." there was another sound in the phone sounding pretty much like a muffled moan.

"Sherlock..." John's free hand moved to touch his erection. It was hurting already.

"Have I succeeded in seducing you, John Watson?"

John paused. He frowned and his lips moved into a quick smirk, an audible snort making the air go out from his lungs. His hand stopped right before he could start a stroke. "And are you touching yourself, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock let out a little giggle at the question. "I could be doing that. Are you?"

"I could be doing that as well." John giggled, he found this situation amusing if not a little frustrating, infuriating, as the man himself; he didn't know if Sherlock was being serious, but he still wanted to play along. Sherlock had made his point there, though. "But I did notice how hard you were, in the alley." He just couldn't let this opportunity pass so easily.

"I was."

"And what do you have to say in your defence?"

After a couple of seconds of nothing but breathing, there was an answer. "I am human." 'A person getting so close to you is a disadvantage for yourself... and for that person as well.'... 'I'm sorry, John'

"I know you are, incredible as it is, but I know you are." Surprisingly, John's voice didn't sound mad or angry; Sherlock could notice a little bit of frustration in it, but fondness as well.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"It's four o'clock in the morning."

"Crap... yes it is. And I have to be at the court tomorrow, eight in the morning."

"Want me to wake you up?"

"I have my alarm on."

"Right... goodnight, John."

"Sleep well, Sherlock."

Chapter 6: John's self control

It was finally a bit sunnier and warmer outside, John entered their flat around six in the afternoon. Mrs. Hudson was going upstairs, holding a tray with cookies and two pieces of cake. As soon as she saw him coming, she hurried up as much as she could to place the tray onto the kitchen's table. She waited for him under the doorframe.

"Dear! I thought you were coming home later!" She smiled tenderly and helped him out of his jacket. John smiled back and gave her a brief hug as a greeting.

"You're too nice, Mrs. Hudson."

"What? What have I done?" She eyed the ceiling, playing innocent.

"I saw you coming upstairs with a tray..."

"Oh! It was going to be a surprise! I tried to run but you know... my hip..."

"It's okay, Mrs. Hudson, thank you so, so much." John looked around the flat, "Sherlock hasn't arrived?"

"I don't know dear, I just got home about half an hour ago... it's everything okay? How was the trip?"

"Fine, actually... everything's okay..."

"Good..." She saw the tired expression in the doctor's eyes and with a little smile added, "I'll leave you to rest now," she stroked his upper arm lovingly and paced to the door.

"Thank you so much Mrs. Hudson," he repeated, "you're a saint."

John smiled gently at her once again as she walked downstairs. Then, bringing his bag with him, he walked up to his room and left his stuff carelessly on the floor. He sat in the edge of the bed and his mind began to race on how to deal with it all... with Sherlock. He didn't know how to proceed after last night. After the conversation, in which John heard Sherlock say things he'd never imagined, not even in his craziest fantasies... he'd had a wet dream. But once more, he didn't do anything to relieve his state. This morning he had stepped into the shower, his will resolved to finish it once and for all, but he couldn't. He just had stared to the water falling over the tiles and down his own body. Instead doing anything else, he opted to turn the cold water on.

There was no way he could stop thinking about the things Sherlock said last night. It is true you might loosen up a bit at night time; it is also true that, being over the phone, you can say things you usually dare not say face to face. But this is Sherlock we're talking about; he isn't the kind of person who would just not to gather the courage to say things right on your face.

It was a sure thing Sherlock would bring up the topic any minute today. And John was nervous as hell. 'Bloody teenager...' he was muttering to himself over and over. The voice which usually calmed him down, the little white good-John over his right shoulder, was telling him Sherlock were his friend. Sherlock had said that only to prove a point over the phone. Yes, it was you, John, who had brought that up, about Molly, and yes, it was you again who had started the entire thing about his sexual issues. But he'd never imagined Sherlock would take it at heart like that. Little red evil-John, over his left shoulder, was telling him he could play the game of seduction with Sherlock too... he is the most experienced of the two after all. Yes. He could just test how far Sherlock is willing to take this. Little white-John answered it was not good to sexually impose your friend... hell, very male friend. Red evil-John answered back that it didn't matter, since Sherlock started it so he was at fault as well. Yes, but still it was you who brought up the topic! Okay... but he was the one to pursue it!

"Shut UP!" John screamed out loud and lowered his head to his hands. His own voice echoed against his ears and the shout kept on resonating inside his skull... it was almost painful.

With a loud sigh, he walked downstairs and turned the kettle on, grabbed two mugs, checked the insides, put one tea bag each, added sugar only to one of them... routine. He saw the tray Mrs. Hudson had left; cookies, two sandwiches and two pieces of what seemed to be a chocolate cake. He smiled gently -'Mrs. Hudson is a sunshine... she really is'- and took one cookie with two fingers. He lifted it to eat it but stopped halfway, realising he wasn't really hungry. Placing the cookie back to the plate, he supported his lower back on the counter behind him, pressed his palms over the cold surface at both sides of his hips and tapped at it with his fingers.

After a couple of minutes in silence, only interrupted by his arrhythmic tapping, the kettle whistled annoyingly and he turned it off immediately.

The minutes passed by and a knot was slowly developing at the base of his stomach. Again, he eyed the contents of the tray, appetite wasn't his friend today, definitely. Where the bloody hell was Sherlock? He had told him he shouldn't take long with the lab papers of the case.

After more minutes that seemed hours, he heard some steps at the stairs... finally. His face lost all colour and the knot in his stomach became tighter. Clearing his throat, he poured hot water in both mugs. The shaking hand doing that simple action only served to prove how really nervous he was.

He heard the door opening and the steps ended there. Sherlock had stopped for a reason. John didn't want to move or speak. Then there was a little rustle of clothes, surely he was shrugging his coat off. He finally heard the familiar call.

"John?"

"In the kitchen." He had to clear his throat again.

Sherlock stepped in and smirked. He had taken his scarf, coat and blazer off and he, like John, was only in a white button-up shirt. It wasn't chilly outside and the flat was still illuminated by the first hours of sunset, giving the place a comfy, cosy feeling.

"Mrs. Hudson came back, she brought this tray for us."

"Yes, I saw her downstairs." Sherlock walked closer to the table, standing right in front of John, with only the large piece of furniture between them. He stared at John intently, his side smile never fading. "How was the trip? Last thing I knew you'd gotten into the plain, but never received a message informing you were back in London."

"I didn't..." John grabbed the phone from his pocket and checked the screen, "...I turned it off inside the plane, forgot to turn it on again." As soon as he turned it on, four beeps announced the incoming of four texts. John read them out loud, lowering his voice, trying to impersonate Sherlock.

'John, did you land? -S'
'Are you here, John? -S'
'What's taking you so long! -S'
'In the Yard, will be home around 8. -S'

"And...! Five missed calls." John chuckled shortly and Sherlock smiled widely.

"If you read them out loud like that, it's actually a bit embarrassing, John."

John lifted an eyebrow and furrowed his lips to the side, "okay, you're not the one to talk about embarrassment, Sherlock..." he handed the cup of tea, Sherlock took it, his smile in perfect place.

"You never answered my question last night." Sherlock supported his hip on the cabinet behind him, adopting the same position John had; one hand on the counter and the other supporting the mug.

"What question?" John sipped his tea, mentally preparing for what was about to come.

"Were you aroused?" John smiled at the tone in which it was asked; as if Sherlock was asking about something as trivial as the weather.

"Why is it important?"

"I want to know if I succeeded seducing you, on the phone." Sherlock was staring at John intently. The older man didn't trust his voice. Even if he were prepared, never seriously thought about Sherlock approaching the issue so soon and so bluntly.

"Why don't you deduce, then." The doctor was over the edge. He wanted to dig a hole in the flat floor and disappear. Of course, his facade was perfect. At plain sight, he showed nothing of the turmoil inside him; he wanted to be interrupted by Lestrade and a drugs bust. He wanted to get a text from someone, Harry, anyone, to excuse himself and get the hell out of there. But at the same time he was curious... curious about Sherlock's behaviour about last night, curious about his deductions and, most importantly, about how do they go from here.

Sherlock smirked again, the same gesture John had come to get so used to when Sherlock found a new challenge. He placed the cup on the table. This time, the deduction was not spoken frantically like he was accustomed to; it was calmed, his voice throaty and low.

"You haven't touched the food so you're not hungry. Probably lifted that misplaced cookie on the plate but you couldn't eat it. So you're worried about something... you slept in the plane, but you lied about forgetting to turn your phone back on. You didn't want to. You actually took the phone from your pocket when you landed, but you put it back." John made a frown, clearly saying 'how the hell did you know?' Sherlock answered the silent question with a proud smirk, gesturing his own clothes, "it’s in the other pocket... you usually sleep on your left side, but you also save your phone in your left pocket. It's obvious you had to change it to the right one so you could have some sleep, else you should have a mark in your wrist... which you don't have... now back to the topic, why are you worried and didn't want to turn your phone back on? Embarrassment. You were actually aroused last night."

John gave a small snort and an amused smile, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. He nodded, his eyebrows high in his forehead. Even in this situation Sherlock was amazing. It was pretty obvious he was aroused, but he never imagined Sherlock would realise he hadn't turned on his phone because he never really wanted to.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes. Now, you tell me..." John cleared his throat once more, placed the empty cup in front of Sherlock's forgotten one and crossed his arms above his chest, defiantly, "...were you touching yourself last night?"

The side smile on Sherlock's face was smug, his lips curling to a side as he said what John was almost fearing... or not. "No, I wasn't."

And of course at the answer, John's triumphant smile faded, his expression quickly replace by one of surprise. "But... the noises I heard...?"

"Oh." Sherlock said casually, his brows almost touching his hairline, "I was changing positions actually, trying to get comfortable in the sofa. I was in the lab all day and fell asleep in a bloody anomalous position and my neck hurt, obviously..." he made a gesture with his hand at the back of his neck, grimaced and groaned; a sound similar to last night's "...still does."

John couldn't help but smile widely, he eyed Sherlock all over, incredulous at his own pervert thought. After all, he seriously believed Sherlock had been touching himself but never occurred that he could be in any pain. Talking about pain, he needed to check his arm.

"How is your arm?" John asked, trying to sound unimpressed, also trying not to be disturbed by Sherlock's little knowingly snicker.

"Mm? Oh the arm..." Sherlock was still massaging his neck with the other hand. He waved to the injured arm, "I'm not sure... it should be all right, I haven't seen it since the shower this afternoon."

"Okay then, let me have a look at it." John moved as if to walk out of the kitchen and Sherlock walked in front, to the living room area, sitting in the sofa.

But John didn't follow immediately; he stopped halfway with a shaky sigh. The situation wasn't moving the way he expected, but all in all, things were going smoothly. At some point, he wanted to pursue the topic about the alley but desisted. He was certain, if Sherlock wanted to talk about it then there would be no stopping in him doing so. John was pretty much aware that, this time, he couldn't be able to hold back if the stimulation grew to be too much.

He really regretted, perhaps for the 5th time today, not to release his body needs in the shower this morning.

John calmly went to get the first aid kit to the bathroom when he saw Sherlock opening his shirt and shrugging only his injured arm out of it. He observed how the detective undid the poor bandage he had done and smiled fondly at the precarious work.

"Oh, there is something the great Sherlock Holmes can't actually do correctly..." John sat himself in front of Sherlock, on the coffee table, their knees close. He continued in a very teasing tone, "...and it's to put on a band aid, no less." John had a devilish smirk, Sherlock's expression was very close to a pout.

"It's not a band aid, it's a whole bandage, John." The detective spoke in an already-familiar sulking tone.

John couldn't move his grin out of his face as he cleaned the wound, Sherlock hissed at the touch, making John look up, all the way from Sherlock's arm to his face, his eyes inevitably dancing along the rest of Sherlock's exposed body. The pale flesh, the lightly formed abs a little lower, the brownish nipples, the sharp collarbones... everything there, within his reach. By the corner of the eye, he could tell Sherlock was following his gaze, so he quickly turned his attention back to Sherlock's arm and made a worried face.

"Sherlock, you did an awful job... this doesn't look good."

"I know... it itches." Sherlock's voice held a little amusement, his lips curved in a gently smile, oblivious on purpose to John's change of topic.

"Yeah, and apparently you tossed around a lot."

"It actually bled last night." Sherlock said with an almost shrug.

John opened big surprised eyes, his gaze up to glare at Sherlock. "Why!"

"Remember when I told you I was having a nightmare? Ow! John!" Sherlock protested when some of the alcohol fell over raw flesh.

"Sorry. Yes, carry on..."

"Well, still half asleep, I reached for my phone so I could call you..." Sherlock's voice was dramatic, "it was under this coffee table, so when I grabbed it, I was so distressed that my arm..." he pulled a rehearsed apologetic face, wrinkling his nose, lifting his eyebrows and with a tight grin he added between his teeth"...kind of got scraped with the edge of it."

John gave a loud snort and a headshake as he applied cream over the injury.

"Seriously, you can be so stupid sometimes... now there. Don't do anything unnecessary until this is completely recovered, yeah?"

"What do you mean, John. Everything I do is completely necessary." Sherlock turned on the telly, flipped through the channels, sulking again.

"Ah. Yeah. Sure." John rolled his eyes as he moved the first aid kit.

When John stepped back into the living room, he saw Sherlock's good arm working on his own neck. John didn't know when or how, but his fingers replaced Sherlock's. He took a hold of his actions when it was already too late to step back.

"John?" Sherlock tilted a little his head just to watch John standing behind him, firmly touching the back of his neck with his fingertips and removing his own hand from there.

"Shhh... let me." John's voice came out in the form of a firm whisper; it made Sherlock go tense in a matter of seconds. John worked with his thumbs slowly, drawing little circles, applying the faintest of pressures at Sherlock's nape. John noticed, delighted, how little hairs there rose under his touch. He also noticed a shiver running up Sherlock's back as he dragged his fingers in between his shoulder blades. "Is it there where it hurts?" John applied a little pressure with his thumbs and was rewarded with a soft sigh through Sherlock's nose.

"Yes. There." It was obvious, even to the most inexperienced detective, how Sherlock tried to sound calmed. The vein at the side of his neck said otherwise, though; it was pumping vigorously under John's touch.

And John found himself enjoying this; having Sherlock's body under control brought a strange mix of calm, joy and adrenaline to his own; there was something almost forbidden about this, and even if he wanted to, he couldn't just place the name for the emotions running through him. There was a tight knot in his stomach being this close to Sherlock. Besides, as he observed how Sherlock was reacting to all this was driving him nuts. Again, one side of his mind wanted to step back, to never walk in there... yet the other part was winning over his will. Specially when he knuckled Sherlock's nape and perceived the soft breathing getting deeper... it left him with the desire to do more. Much more.

Sherlock grabbed the remote and turned the telly off. He sighed again.

"Why are you turning it off? I thought we were watching the news." John asked. He surprised himself at how calmed his voice sounded.

"I can't. You're distracting." Sherlock gritted his jaw at the breathless tone in his voice; even if it was evident he was still trying to control it.

"Why, I'm just massaging your neck... you said yourself it was sore."

"I know. John. Please..." at this point, John touched a spot near Sherlock's collarbone and Sherlock let out a throaty groan and he tilted his head back, watching John's face upside down right above him. Under this perspective, John could watch Sherlock's shirt, unbuttoned to mid-torso, the injured arm out of it, the other arm that remained inside the shirt. And for some reason, it was extremely annoying to John.

"Sherlock, take the rest of your shirt off. I can't massage your shoulders with this on." He said grabbing lightly the piece of fabric. He was tempted to do it himself, but he didn't want to add the extra tension to the current situation.

Sherlock sat straight then, unbuttoned the remaining four buttons of the shirt and made it fly somewhere near the coffee table in front of him.

With Sherlock shirtless, John had to concentrate all of his will power so not to kiss the creamy, soft-looking flesh of Sherlock's shoulders and neck. Sherlock lowered his chin, allowing John the easy access to the back of his neck. So John complied, massaging there carefully, drawing little and long patterns over the flesh. John's fingers touched lightly the base of Sherlock's scalp and a sudden need to run his fingers through that soft-looking hair possessed him. A bit unsure, with gentle pressure, he entangled his fingers in the curls and gave the scalp a soft but firm grip.

"Oh John..." Sherlock threw his head back again with a nearly dramatic sigh, his eyes closed in an evident state of relaxation, "... this brain massage is marvellous..."

John's hands stopped mid way and before Sherlock could turn around to see what made John stop, he heard a snort and a little laugh. Sherlock could have sworn he heard John's eyes rolling.

"Brain massage," he said in a humorous tone.

"Oh shut it." Sherlock couldn't help a smile in between his frown; his shoulders moved in a single short chuckle, his eyes were still closed. "Seriously though... you're the first person in my life to ever call me stupid."

"Well you are..." John stopped as Sherlock opened one eye and glared up, he couldn't help a smug smile "...sometimes."

"Your lips look so funny when talking upside down." Sherlock snickered at his own comment. He was rewarded with a soft pull of his ear and a chuckle from John.

"You never shut up, don't you..."

"Oh... but you like my voice, John." Sherlock closed his opened eye again and moved his arms a little, sprawling them over the back of the sofa.

"What on earth gave you that idea?" John began a little ghosting over Sherlock's neck with his fingertips, he applied a light pressure on both shoulders, a soft moan escaped Sherlock's throat.

"The state you were in last night on the phone." John exhaled at the comment. Sherlock continued, his changing voice adopted the purr undertone John knew so well. "You were aroused recalling how we were pressed in the alley..." Sherlock arched his back subtly; John's hands, unconsciously maybe, were pressing his shoulders a little rougher "...you wanted me to go on, last night."

"I did." John stated before he could catch his voice. Sherlock smiled gently but didn't open his eyes. John's hands moved below Sherlock's jaw and his own jaw tensed. The pale skin was flushed at certain spots John's hands had touched: neck, especially. The doctor could barely see the change of colour thanks to the faint light of the fading sunset outside. The flat was wrapped in a warm orange-like light, the silence was overwhelming; the only sounds being heard were their own breathing, Sherlock's voice, and that subtle whisper of skin dragging over skin.

"You actually realised how hard I was in the alley, didn't you, John." Sherlock kept on talking with the purred tone, sent shivers up to John's spine, "...just feeling your body pressed against mine... I also observed how agitated you were; I took your pulse when you touched my face..."

John gulped, wetted his lips and inhaled; the air was retained in his lungs for a couple of seconds longer than normal before being exhaled. Sherlock's voice was a trigger in his body, he knew, his plan of keeping himself under complete control was slowly failing. Perhaps it is pertinent to mention once again he regretted enormously not attending his body needs in the shower that morning.

"And what I told you last night... about that never happening to me before... it's true." Sherlock opened his eyes again, scanning John's face. He took a hold of the furious red in John's temple, starting at some point in his body, going up by his neck and ending in his cheeks. John's lips were firmly sealed but his nose flared allowing the entry to the extra air his brain needed, but his hands kept on working firmly on his shoulders and neck.

Sherlock let out a throaty sound when John's hands moved to his collarbone. The doctor saw how his friend's hand slid all the way from its position at the back of the sofa to the front of his trousers in a lazy movement, how he accommodated the erection forming down there. John gulped again, but didn't say a thing about it.

"Oh John..." Sherlock breathed out, "you really are stimulating."

"Am I?" John asked, surprised again at how soft and calmed his voice sounded, a little raspy though, "may I ask what the hell am I stimulating...? Is it your body, your mind?"

"Both." Sherlock stated. "It's no use to stimulate the body without stimulating the mind as well."

John couldn't say anything else. He was feeling how, just like the sun was fading in the horizon, so were the walls separating the little sanity he had left around Sherlock. His own messed up feelings and self control.

Without a word, he kept on massaging, squeezing Sherlock's exposed torso, this time he ghosted his fingers over Sherlock's collarbone and moved them up to his long, exposed neck. He brushed his fingers through his chin and then moved his thumb along his lower lip. Right then, John was nearly entranced. He observed how Sherlock's chest moved up and down according to his - surprisingly calm - breathing. He also saw how Sherlock's tongue darted out to wet the spot his fingers had just touched. He could see the slow movement of pupils against closed eyelids, how the younger man's fingers wrapped the fabric of the cushions as John's hands never stopped his massage, alternating between shoulders, neck and jaw. On top of that, Sherlock was fully hard under layers of clothe. The air in the flat was too heavy and thick to breathe for the doctor. There was some kind of force around them, John could feel the lust, the desire flashing through his veins, with such force making the way out of his pores...

He had to do something.

"Are you feeling better there, Sherlock?" John withdrew his hands from the detective's upper body, reluctant, with a tiny clear of his throat. He placed his hands on his hips as he backed a couple of steps away from the sofa. If Sherlock wanted to play, he was able to... but he had to be careful with the reactions of his own body. He wouldn't be able to hold on for much longer if things kept going at this pace. Sherlock had left him hard and frustrated last night. Now it was Sherlock's turn.

As soon as John stopped his massage and asked that question, Sherlock opened his eyes. He was about to make a quick scan on John but a command stopped him, making him really snap out of it.

"Lay on your stomach, Sherlock."

"Why? What for?"

"Lay on your stomach."

Before John could add doctor's order to his order, Sherlock did as he was told with a frown. He didn't understand what John was up to. He trusted him completely though.

Sherlock's head faced the door, his bare torso sprawled over the cushions. John looked down, still hands on his hips, next to him.

And suddenly, with a very professional move, John grabbed one of Sherlock's wrists and placed his other palm at the middle of the pale shoulder blades. He pulled the wrist back, hard. A deep, loud cry resonated in the flat and soon after that Mrs. Hudson was nearly running up the stairs and opening the door of 221B.

The scene in front of her was very picturesque; a semi dark flat, semi naked Sherlock over the sofa... and John on top of him, one of the long arms up in the air, and John supporting himself on Sherlock's back. And to add a little touch, Sherlock's had a hard grip to one of the cushions next to him and he was somewhat panting.

"Oh dear Lord!" she exclaimed, "You have to lock the door if you're going to do that kind of things!" She winked at John and added "Use some lotion, dear; I've heard is less painful if you apply some."

Chapter 7: Sherlock's Experiment

Sherlock woke up earlier than usual. After last night's massage he could barely get a good sleep. It was almost a miracle to see Sherlock going to sleep in his bed, and surprisingly, he actually wanted to. He had been feeling sore, even after John's massage.

John seemed worried last night after the cracking noise in his spine, he had told Sherlock to 'get warm, sleep under covers and in a lying position for once', since he often slept only a few hours sitting in the sofa. John had added 'Doctor's order' to strength his demand. Sherlock couldn't fight with that, now could he? So, obediently, he walked to his room, shrugged off all of his remaining clothes and wrapped himself in a sheet.

He loved that... the sheet.          

He loved the feeling of the soft fabric around his naked body; it felt like a caress that could very well replace human contact. Human contact. John.

Sherlock's mind raced with all kind of wonders when he slept like this. Especially now, when his body was betraying him way too often if John was around. There was a phrase coming often to his mind, the one John had written on his blog, at The Hound of Baskerville case:

'Maybe the fear and doubt he'd felt, and maybe his experiences with Irene Adler, had humanised him?'

'No John. It had nothing to do with Irene, it was you, who slowly humanised me'. That was actually his first thought when reading the entry. He wanted to comment that, but the rumours around them were already strong enough... not that he minded, but John did. Instead he commented in his usually humorous, sarcastic tone, mocking John's writing skills: 'Henry was a "normal-looking bloke"? Really, John, you should become a professional author!'

And last night, talking about humanising, he slept thinking about John's hands. He recalled the calloused and rough sensation, John's hands seemed always warmer than his body. And also the feeling of gentle, warm and strong hands. Doctor's hands. Caring hands, loving hands... and teaser-like-hell hands. In his mind, the events of last night repeated over and over; the ghosting of the fingertips over his nape and shoulders. The fingers moving along his neck, then to his chin... the brushing of a thumb along his lower lip.

His mind was vivid and tricky, because as it kept on replaying all that, it went deliberately farther and showed Sherlock the prospect of same hands, with the same touch, running over other parts of his body. His mind showed him how it would be if John's hands went lower, how would it feel to be touched like that in more intimate places, parts of his anatomy John actually didn’t touch.

But other part of his brain of course, noticed that wasn't feeling the same repulsion towards sexual sensations, like a few months ago. In fact, now his body welcomed the feeling, the intimacy, there was a certain need behind them. That part of his brain was very aware that sex had become something vulgar and mundane. He didn't want it to be like that. It was like the word friendship; use with precaution. But with John, all of those precious words and feelings felt just... right. Like one of those Lego pieces you fit together perfectly and firmly.

Sherlock had awakened in the middle of those sensations. He didn't have a good night's sleep; instead he had been in a state of semi unconsciousness for hours. He could hear the dogs barking in the street and could hear the wind hitting his window. But he could also feel the little show his mind was playing for him; John's hands, John's voice, John's deep breathing. But then, when the sensations were too much to bear, he opened his eyes and it was already clear in the morning. He couldn't hear the typical snoring coming from the bedroom above his. So Sherlock got up and walked to the kitchen, still wrapped in his sheet.

He found a note on the table, under an upside down cup. He took the note and read. A smile formed immediately on his face.

'Sherlock, I hope you had a good night's rest. There's a sandwich in the fridge (it’s next to the feet) and cake from last night. Forget about the cookies, those are mines now. You know how to make tea, right? I’d got a call from the clinic and will be home late. Wait for me and we'll have dinner together. See you. John.'

Sherlock sighed and put the note aside on the table. When he lifted the cup, a big spider was there, inside the inverted cup... and it was staring straight at him with big, red... plastic eyes.

"Jesus!" Sherlock almost threw the cup away, but realised it was a fake one almost immediately. A real one should have moved, right? He lifted the spider with care and saw, below it, a folder paper. When he unfolded it, he couldn't help a snort that was followed by a loud laugh.

'Now you can experience what it feels like.'

Still with this big smile on his face, he turned the kettle on. Not many plans for today, so he found himself enjoying the idea about being alone in the flat for a while.

There was an experiment he thought about last night, and for that, he needed to be... unaccompanied.

He walked to grab his phone and texted.

'Nice touch, the spider. – S'

He prepared himself a coffee. His phone beeped as he poured the hot water in the cup.

'Glad you liked it. Eat.'

When he was about to smile again, he became conscious of his facial expression; still there was this big, goofy grin plastered to his face and he frowned. Interesting. He texted back.

'Will do, momma. - S'

The wrapped man then took the cup and the cake. He paced awkwardly to the couch with everything in his hands; trying not to drop the sheet, the cup, the cake or the phone as he did so. Then, he placed everything on the table and put his laptop over his knees. He browsed for 'Hot lines'.

He found one that was cheap enough and made a call. He left his laptop over the coffee table and sipped on his coffee as he waited. After a couple of seconds, a recorded woman's voice greeted him:

'Welcome to Hot Line, if you want to talk to a woman, please press one, if you want to talk to a man, please press two.'

Sherlock pressed one muttering something like way to kill the mood.

'If your sex is male, please press one, if your-'

Sherlock pressed one.

'If you want to talk to a woman between twenty and thirty please press one, if you want to talk to a woman between thirty and forty, please press two, more than-.'

Sherlock pressed two. If he was talking to someone, he thought that the voice of a more mature woman could sound better.

'Please, wait online. An agent will get to you soon.'

After a couple of seconds, a lovely feminine voice greeted him.

"Hello! How can I help you?"

"Hello. I am conducting an experiment."

"Is that so? Well! My nickname is guinea pig, you know..." she laughed, it was really a lovely voice. Sherlock was impressed with both: the stupid but ice-breaker comment and the soft yet sensual voice. He smirked and she asked, "...what can I do for you, handsome?"

Sherlock frowned. "How can you possibly know, or imagine, for that matter, that I am a handsome man?" Sherlock asked, experiment already going.

"Oh... because of your voice. I have to tell you, dear, I want to hear much more of what that incredible voice can do."

Sherlock frowned again. This was all too predictable. There was no surprise, no... Nothing. Somehow, he predicted the girl was going to say something along the lines of 'by your voice' and 'I want to know what you can do'. Even with no experience in the matter whatsoever, it was the only logical way out. Sherlock concentrated in the background noise; there was a light tapping, some random voices.

"Oh I can do many things..." he purred, "but I want to know, what would you like me to do..." Sherlock began to toy with the cup of coffee in his hands, bored. He moved the liquid from one corner to the other. The woman talked nonstop. As she spoke, Sherlock muttered "...bored..." and then louder he added, "Boooring! This experiment is obviously not working... Sorry. What should I do if I want to end the call?"

"Just hang up... or I can pass you over to another agent if you like." The woman said, clearly irritated for the lack of response.

"All right. Pass me another one." Sherlock waited for a while with a high and annoying music in the background. He was actually finding this experiment dull and a little childish. The main purpose of this whole stage was to make sure about his body's reactions to a source of stimuli.

At first he assumed that, maybe a person with experience in the matter would be the right one to do this job. But this wasn't working. Maybe this wasn't the kind of stimulation he was looking for. His thoughts were interrupted by another voice.

"Hello. Who are you?" this voice seemed younger than the woman before. Early thirties, Sherlock deduced.

"Hi!" he started, friendlier this time, "you can call me... John." Sherlock was about to say his real name but he stopped. Maybe his name wouldn't be good for the experiment. He had to include John as a variable in the experiment after all.

"Okay, John." She said. The name, being pronounced by another person, had Sherlock wrinkling his nose, he started to toy with the cold coffee inside the cup again.

"Can I talk to you? What's your name?" Sherlock asked still with his friendly tone.

"Of course you can!" She said, "Do you want me to be someone in particular? My name is usually Abbey, but you can call me however you fancy...” Sherlock got genuinely confused at the question.

"Just be... whoever you want to be, you don't need to do much, anyway. I will talk to you."

"Okay... go ahead."

"Now, I am supposed to get somewhat horny with this conversation, yes?" he felt it as an alien word. He knew it was the word usually used, but it felt strange coming out from his lips.

“Well, yeah... it's the main idea." Abbey sounded really confused on the phone.

"Obvious. I will try and stimulate my mind by talking to you and you're going to help me, all right?" Sherlock said in a serious tone.

"Okay... you're a kinky one." She added after a brief pause. Sherlock heard a little giggle and frowned at the phone.

He stretched a little in the couch. He wasn't much into this as he thought. Maybe the experiment was destined to fail, but he had to finish it to get optimal results.

"Now I am going to visualize you naked. Can you please describe your body to me?"

"Well..." she said, her voice was seductive and full of life, "my breasts are B coup, people tells me that I have a nice figure. My skin is pale, really, I always have to wear sun block. My hair is dark and my eyes are light blue..."

"Alright, that's enough. Are you allowed to touch yourself in there?"

"Yes, we all are in private spaces to do whatever we want."

"Alright..." Sherlock took a brief gulp of air and lowered a little his voice and started to purr the words, "touch your neck..." he said, accentuating each consonant, "imagine that your hands are my hands going down there..." he heard a light rustle at the other side of the phone, "... go lower and touch your breasts, move your hands up a bit and down and around them, slooowly. Cup them in your palms, feel them... are you doing it?"

Sherlock heard a breathy, small voice: "Yes."

"Good." Sherlock played again with the - now cold - coffee inside his cup and continued, "Now, place your fingertips over your nipples. Move them in circular patterns..." he moved the coffee inside his cup in circular patterns as well, as if following his own orders, "...now with your thumb and index, nip them softly... gently. Can you feel that?"

A soft moan was heard over the phone and Sherlock smirked. He didn't feel anything at the noise. It was just that: a noise. He didn't feel that knot in his stomach, nothing.

He sipped the cold coffee silently and continued, in the same sensual and throaty voice.

"Imagine now... my lips touching your neck delicately. I am kissing slowly there, savouring your skin with my tongue..." Another moan was heard. This one was more intense but Sherlock didn't feel a thing yet. "Are you wearing any clothes?"

"Yes," she breathed out, "I have a black nighty on..."

"Oh, so it must be hanging from your shoulders with just... two... thin strings, am I right?" he said incredibly slow. He was, after all, an incredible actor.

"Yeah."

"Alright, now I'm going to take it off... is that okay with you?"

"Mmh! yes... John..."

Sherlock froze. He never remotely imagined that hearing someone calling for his friend that way, would make him so bewildered. He felt betrayed. Without knowing what else to do, he hung up.

He stared at the cold dark liquid in his cup for several minutes. He noticed that his hand was trembling for the way the liquid moved inside there. He was feeling something very close to rage... combined with the still lingering betrayal sensation.

He inhaled deeply. Maybe he just did the experiment in a wrong way. As a good scientist, he thought about the conditions of the experiment... probably they weren't the right ones. Factors and variables were certainly misplaced. They were pointing in the wrong direction of the result he expected to obtain.

Snorting impatiently, he redialled the number of the hot line. He heard the recording again. This time, he pressed the keys pointing out that he was a male, who was looking for another male, between thirty and forty.

"Hello there!" the voice was friendly; it made Sherlock's frown disappear almost instantly. The voice wasn't deep but wasn't high either. It reminded Sherlock of those infomercials with a friendly man with a friendly, smiling voice, telling you to buy a product, not those deep voices, but definitely masculine. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Hello..." Sherlock approached the situation from another perspective. If he wanted the results of the experiment to vary, he had to change the variables as well. "Oh, I'm sure you can do a lot of things for me." He purred again.

There was a gulp from the other side of the phone. "Man... your voice is... awesome."

"Thank you!" he said, "I get that a lot lately..."

"Well it's true. What's your name?"

"You can call me..." 'The variables, change the variables!' He thought. "...Sherlock."

"Oh, like the detective?" the man asked, and Sherlock scowled, confused. Soon he heard a little laugh at the other side of the phone "I read that blog, do you? Don't tell me... are you him?"

"Who... what detective?" Sherlock asked with the most innocent voice he could manage.

"Well, there is this blog, written by an army doctor, John... Watson I believe. I love detective stories, so I got hooked into that. He writes about a super cool detective, Sherlock Holmes. He lives right here in London."

"Oh, sorry I'm not from London." Sherlock lied.

"Ah! Now I know why you’ve never heard of them. They are amazing, the guy is amazing like, super intelligent."

"So, you like Sherlock, then?" Sherlock asked amused.

"Man... I mean, how could I not?"

"Well, since you like this fellow, Sherlock... how do I call you now?"

"Oh, I definitely want to be called John, then." Sherlock opened wide eyes. "They live together, can you imagine?"

"Wow, that's awesome!" the detective said, his voice held a rehearsed surprise tone.

"Yeah... so, you are going to be Sherlock and I'm going to be John."

"Alright." He sipped his cold coffee and moved his back on the couch, getting comfortable.

"Sherlock..." the guy lowered his voice. He seemed really enthusiastic with this "...what do you like?"

"Whatever you want to do to me is fine, John." Sherlock felt something in his stomach as soon as the name escaped his lips.

"Okay then... what are you wearing right now?" The question was vulgar, Sherlock though, but it wasn't misplaced in the context.

"Only a sheet, really, I have nothing else on." He heard a snort, probably a little smile at the other side of the phone.

"That's nice. Want me to take it off for you?" Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at the question.

"Do it."

"I'm right behind you, Sherlock..." the man began, Sherlock closed his eyes. His mind was trying to replace the bloke's voice with John's, but he couldn't. He tried to feel something, but couldn't. Yet it was an experiment, and he needed data to compare. "I am going to touch your shoulders now, over the sheet. I'm going to massage you a little."

"What do you want me to do, in the meantime?"

"Take off your sheet."

"Alright." Sherlock complied. He placed the cup on the coffee table and unwrapped himself from the sheet. He sat completely naked on the couch. Remembering last night, he quickly eyed the door making sure it was locked. If this worked, he didn't want Mrs. Hudson walk on him and have a heart attack. Door locked. Fine.

Sherlock tapped his toes over the rug with a rapid movement. He was getting anxious, it was normal for him to do so when about to start a new experiment. But aside from the known adrenaline, he felt nothing to compare to his sexual arousal's data. He decided to wait and take it to the end.

"Are you naked now, Sherlock?"

"I am."

"Now, with your free hand, touch your chest, slowly." Sherlock did as he was told; he moved his palm over his torso. "Move lower and touch your hip now, you will find a bone there... press over it, gently." Sherlock did. "Now, slide your hand and touch your inner tight, rub all the way up from your knee."

"John." Sherlock realised his own voice sounded alienated; the John he was talking to wasn't John. He felt the name empty, he couldn't actually explain it, so he discarded the thought almost immediately.

"Yes?"

"Touch yourself, too."

"Okay. Where do you want me to touch?" At the answer, Sherlock opened his eyes. He really didn't know what to reply.

"Uh... if you get aroused, you can always masturbate. I would like to hear you doing so."

"Well I am... aroused."

"Really." Sherlock said surprised.

"Yeah."

"So, touch yourself. Now."

"Okay." Sherlock heard the familiar sound of a belt and a zipper.

"Do you think that being excited... sexually aroused, is a mental state, John?"

"I don't know, I just get excited quickly whenever I'm keen about a conversation... and if I picture you, Sherlock, naked in front of me... at my reach, being able to touch you wherever I want... it’s more than enough to keep my mind going." Sherlock just listened. The guy at the other side was touching himself, Sherlock could tell that the movement was slow, but firm.

"What are you imagining now, John?"

"You, Sherlock. I saw your picture at the blog... so I have the idea of Sherlock Holmes appearance... he's a hottie." The guy giggled.

Sherlock laughed genuinely at this. He had asked John to erase those photographs from the blog, but the blogger had insisted: 'Criminals need to tell us apart', John had informed blatantly.

"I don't know him..." Sherlock lied again, "...but it's a good thing you think of me as a handsome man, isn't?" he smiled and then added, "And this other guy, John, can you describe him for me?"

"Sure! There is a photograph of him at the blog as well... he wrote something for the criminals, so they can identify you both" the guy laughed shortly, "really nice move there." Sherlock giggled silently, his shoulders shaking. He recalled that day clearly. The guy continued his description, "He's blonde, older than Sherlock apparently, but he has handsome and manly features. His nose is well formed and he has a nice smile, thin lips... He was a soldier, so I can imagine a nice and well formed body... maybe a little worn out from age, but still nice."

'Indeed.' Sherlock thought for himself. "Now, are you still touching yourself?" he asked.

"No, I stopped when we changed topic."

"Alright. Visualise, John, that I'm naked in front of you... so you can do whatever you want to me."

"Oh, Sherlock, I am visualising you alright..."

"What would you like to do to me?"

"Everything."

"Explain yourself."

"I want to run my fingers over your cheeks... touch your neck... I know your skin is almost alabaster, but I can almost see how it flushes under my touch. I would love to run my hands and fingers over your collarbones, your shoulders..." the man was clearly touching himself now.

"Carry on." Sherlock made his voice to sound aroused, it held a breathy undertone. The guy groaned softly when he heard him.

"Oh and I would like to toy with your nipples... see how they react when I touch them. Mmmhh!... then I would like to map your neck with my lips and run my hands lower and..."

Sherlock sat there. Listening. The bloke went on and on, letting Sherlock know how he would like to touch him.

The detective envisioned a faceless body above him, touching all over. His reaction was just to be there, lying cold like a corpse. There were no sensations, no thicker walls around his mind palace... no arousal. There was no data yet to compare to what he felt over the phone with John. Because, even when he wasn't touching himself, there was no denying how much in a precarious state he was. Last night too, with the massage, only to know it was John, - his John - his body succumbed easily to the sensations the man arose in his body and mind.

As the guy kept on speaking on the phone, Sherlock answered automatically with the faked aroused voice. In his ears, his own voice was unexciting, the words were worthless. A little sensations of disgust formed slowly, materialising in a misplacement of sensations inside his stomach.

Sherlock noticed how the only bit of the conversation he actually enjoyed, was talking about the real John, the entries on his blog... even though, until today, he thought he hated John's blog; it was too romantic, not completely focused on his deductions skills.

And because it had more visits than his.

When the guy reached his climax, Sherlock waited patiently there, he heard him cry out his name in a very sexy manner. He then waited for him to recover his breath. Sherlock's face was expressionless.

"Did you enjoy it, John?" he said, faking a light panting.

"I did, Sherlock... did you?"

"Oh, very much." 'Yes,' Sherlock though, 'because surprisingly, I was thinking about the real John, in non-sexual related activities all the time.' He smiled for himself.

"Why Sherlock?" the other guy asked suddenly.

"Sorry, what?"

"Why, the name, why did you want me to call you Sherlock?" Sherlock smiled and thought about a quick lie.

"My ex boyfriend. His name was Sherlock, but he definitely wasn’t a detective."

"Oh, I see."

"Well, thank you very much. Good bye then, John."

"Armand."

"What?"

"My name is Armand."

"Alright, then. Bye, Armand."

The flat remained silent. Sherlock hung up and eyed down to his own body. He was naked, and cold.

There was no signal of sexual arousal. Nothing at all. Sherlock became even a little worried. So, hurriedly, he closed his eyes and evoked the sensations from last night again. His mind went to a slumber state, to his mind palace, and there it was all again. The dream from weeks ago, John's incredible hands, John's soothing voice... he remained immobile for who knows how long. In his mind could have been minutes or hours. It mattered very little.

When he opened his eyes again, he observed down to his own body. And made a quick check up: his pulse was elevated, his breathing was laboured, his member was semi erected and his skin was flushed.

Sherlock tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling and sighing audibly, frustrated. At least he had proved a point with the experiment.

He wrapped himself back in the sheet and took a newspaper.

**..**

Later, Sherlock was in front of his computer answering mails, still his sheet around him. There were some quick requests for cases in there; he was evaluating them when a scream downstairs made him jump with a start.

"What!" It was John's voice, a bit high pitched with confusion.

Then he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice, but the words got lost in the distance, he only heard a mumble.

"Nope. No!" John's elevated voice again, "I told you: it was just a misunderstanding! His back was sore and I just..."

John's voice was interrupted again by Mrs. Hudson's. Once again, he only heard a murmur soon followed by firm steps coming upstairs. The door opened precipitously and a furious John appeared.

"John! You are home early." Sherlock stated casually, not bothering about lifting his eyes from the screen.

"You!" John yelled, pointing Sherlock with his index finger, "You have to go after her and clear this misunderstanding! It's your fault after all, Sherlock!" John took off his jacket and placed a little bottle of lotion on the desk, right in front of Sherlock with a loud noise. The detective eyed the bottle, frowned, and then looked at John. "Mrs. Hudson! She gave me this bottle of lotion!" John added with a throaty growl. He stood mute for a minute, his glare locked with Sherlock's and then... he burst into laughter. His companion followed and soon they were laughing so hard that John had to support himself in the back of the armchair, leaving his jacket there. "Really, Sherlock..." he said, gasping "...you reaaaaally have to clear this!"

"Why? It wasn't my fault!" Sherlock was still giggling, his shoulders were shaking lightly.

"How was NOT?" John proceeded, trying his best to sound serious. "If you'd saved your stupid comment last night, we wouldn't be in this ridiculous situation!"

"I didn't say anything odd..." Sherlock started but was stopped by John's hand in the air.

"How was not! 'Sorry, Mrs. Hudson...'" John tried to imitate Sherlock, he lowered his voice and made a deep frown. "...I promise I won't be so loud next time.'"

Sherlock gave John a very comical glare, John knew the glare wasn't serious, though. He had seen Sherlock glaring seriously and he had prayed, more than once, not to be at the receiving part. John lifted an eyebrow as a response.

"Dinner, Sherlock. Clothes. Now." He said walking to the kitchen. He gave a light headshake when he noticed that Sherlock had eaten all of his cake but not the sandwich.

"Just ask for takeouts, John. Chinese is fine by me. We can go out dinner tomorrow."

John stopped what he was doing in the kitchen and turned slowly to face his companion.

"Actually, Sherlock... I can't tomorrow."

"Hm? Why not?" Sherlock lifted his eyes from the screen, staring intently at John's eyes.

"I've uh..." John couldn't hold the stare, so he eyed somewhere else and added in a small voice: "I've got a date."

 

Chapter 8: John's mind date

Last night John was feeling devastated. Of course, Sherlock never failed in comforting him, on his own way. Just being next to the detective was good and enough. He knew that.

Now, he was in a pub-bar near Baker Street. Alone, a beer in his hand, loud music penetrating his ears and loud bass resonating inside his rib cage.

He was recalling over and over about yesterday's events, almost getting himself into a depressed state. He had finished his shift at the hospital earlier than expected, had talked to Sarah, since they stayed friends – not that they have much of an option, either – and they'd had a little fight. John had been distracted doing his job, and Sarah told him he had to 'stop thinking about your flatmate all the time, he's not a child'… and that was all he needed to explode.

He told Sarah she had no idea about their friendship, how she shouldn't step into his business. He also told her if she didn't want to be with him now, to not interfere with his private life... etc. It was all pretty shitty and John felt like hell. Especially after her little comment at the end 'Sherlock is the reason we could never work out'. John predicted what was expected for tomorrow: Sarah and he would apologize to each other; they would say it was only the heat of the moment and everything would be fine again. He knew that.

But still, today, he felt like shit.

Walking out of the hospital, he found a pretty woman at the waiting room, apparently waiting for him. A phone in her hands and she seemed to be texting something all the time. John recognized Anthea, even though he hadn't seen her in a while. She took him to Mycroft's.

There, the older Holmes' brother told John how the gang had been his idea, that he couldn't let him get closer than he already was to Sherlock... all in all, Mycroft was trying to protect his little brother. Or at least that's what he claimed. Mycroft had gone far enough to give him an advice: you should move out.

Moving out.

Away from Sherlock.

The simple thought gave him the chills. In his brain, the scene repeated again and again. Mycroft's voice, his posture, so carefree 'You're going to get him killed...' he had said with a smile, playing with the suitcase in his hand, '...and yourself', he added.

Even so, John knew there was something else there. He could sense that Mycroft knew something nor he or Sherlock did. He thought then about Moriarty. Somehow, the idea of Mycroft being conspired with Moriarty gave him the creeps.

A single, silent and almost invisible tear escaped John's eye slowly. He felt like hell.

Last night he'd told Sherlock he had a date today; it was the only excuse so Sherlock won't be interested enough not to start asking. Not quite a lie either, since he felt this was a date with his mind. Something he should have often, according to himself. If Sherlock could go to his mind palace, he had all the right to go around dating his mind, didn't he? Sherlock had looked at him with a hurtful expression for a second, but then he acted as if that was no big deal. Of course, John had asked for the Chinese takeout and they chatted comfortably whilst eating. Well... comfortably enough, since Sherlock was still wrapped in his sheet. He had informed John about an experiment he ran in the afternoon, but then avoided the topic the rest of the night. He also told him that he had been asking some cases' request from his mail, and had resolved three cases online. Everything was... normal.

John tried to fight more tears that menaced to fall freely. He tried to concentrate on the people around him. There were a few men chatting across the place. They were around Sherlock's age, and even he could tell that they were handsome blokes, 'office workers' he noticed. He looked at them by the corner of his eye; observed them carefully, trying to find something sexually appealing in them. Nothing. So he was straight, really, he was. Then he watched some girls that, apparently, were flirting with the guys across their table. Three of the four men were married and they were flirting anyway. Two of the five girls were married as well. He observed them too. He observed the generous amount of skin they were exposing, one of the women even wore a transparent shirt, brassiere visible. That awoke things in him and had to clear his throat, drink a gulp of beer to dissimulate. There was another girl, with a very short mini skirt, John observed the smooth legs, the nice shape of her buttocks when she stood up, walking to talk one of the guys in front. He definitely didn't find anything on the blokes. He had only eyes for the girls, it was definitive.

Again, little white good-John was telling him 'So you're straight. You always knew. But remember, Sherlock is a man'.

As this last thought escaped his mind, he saw, by the corner of his eye, Sherlock walking through the front door of the place. The reaction in his body was immediate; first thing he felt was a horrible knot in his stomach, a burning feeling in his chest, his palms sweaty and a sudden urge to cough. He saw how Sherlock spotted him and floated through the crowd, to him. The detective was expressionless. John saw how he made his way easily to his table and sat down carelessly next to him. He gestured the barman, ordering a beer for himself.

Neither of them talked. Sherlock was obviously sulking. He just sat there next to John and looked around, his lips sealed. The silence between them, even with all the noise around, felt intense. John's hands failed each time he wanted to gulp down his beer.

A big bartender walked to them and placed Sherlock's beer on front. Then he yelled, intending to be heard above the noise "On the house!" and pointed to John's beer and Sherlock's. Sherlock smirked quickly and then yelled back "Thanks, Jack. This is John." Jack nodded as a greeting to John and left.

"You know him." Was the first thing John had said to him today. Sherlock hadn't been around the flat all day. He was at the Yard, helping Lestrade. John had been at the hospital.

John sighed then, since he really needed this night out, needed to clear his mind. Away from 221b. Away from Sherlock.

"He was from the net. I got him this job." Sherlock stated quietly, John barely heard over the loud music, but nodded to indicate he had heard.

The doctor toyed with his glass of beer; moving it from one hand to the other, clearly uncomfortable. Sherlock was expressionless still. His eyes scanned everywhere but he was not really paying attention to anything. For the first time, it was an awkward silence.

John became aware of how close they were. When Sherlock sat, he did it so very close, even with the plenty of room left at the table. Their shoulders were millimetres apart and their knees were brushing softly.

John moved his leg away from Sherlock's and he saw, with his peripheral vision, how Sherlock suddenly turned his head to look at him. He didn't move. Sherlock face moved closer, his lips almost touching his shoulder. John fixed his eyes on the girl with pretty ass. His other leg was flickering in a nervous gesture.

"John."

John didn't say a thing but tilted his head further to Sherlock, never looking at him.

"What happened to your date?" Sherlock inquired, there was no surprise in his voice, no expression evident whatsoever. John felt naked, as if his mind was an open book, right there on the table so Sherlock could read it at will.

"There was never a date, Sherlock, and you know it." He said, never changing his position.

"So, what is... this?"

"Sherlock..." John faced the man next to him finally and when he did, he took a hold of the pain those light eyes held, a certain longing there, something misplaced, not normal. John couldn't put his finger on it.

They were very close now, his noses centimetres from brushing, so he didn't need to talk that loud. "I needed to think, I needed time to myself." John added.

Sherlock looked down at the table, at his untouched beer.

"It's Mycroft, isn't it." 'Jesus, Sherlock', John thought. 'You really can read minds, do you'.

John just sighed and fixed his eyes at some point in front of them. He saw how a couple of guys were looking at them suspiciously but he didn't mind that much, really.

"It's alright, Sherlock..." John said out loud. Sherlock supported his elbows on the table, his eyes fixated on the beer between his hands. John mimicked his position; his right arm and Sherlock's left one were lined up, glued together. "I just had a little chat with him yesterday... I needed to uh... clear up my mind a bit."

"What did he tell to you?" Sherlock asked with a frown, lightly tilting his head to his left, to John.

"Well..." John frowned at his realization: talking with Sherlock about it was a lot easier than he thought, "...he told me that we could get killed... and the homeless gang was his call."

"I knew that, John." John snorted at that and shook his head lightly.

Sherlock felt how John's leg returned to his original position next to his. Their knees brushed again, he heard a loud sigh coming from John. All of this time he couldn't drink his beer because of a knot in his throat... and inside his stomach as well. With John being this close, it was enough to put his mind at ease. It was clear as water to him, last night, that John didn't have a date today. So Sherlock had been a little worried – not that he would ever admit it - thinking about what John was really up to. He had been working with Lestrade all day long, but his mind was thinking about his friend the entire time.

"John, uhm..." Sherlock turned his head again, moving his lips closer to John's shoulder once more. John tilted his head to listen, "... I uh... I don't want you to leave me... I mean, leave Baker Street."

John startled a little, he sat straight and his eyed widened up. He wasn't sure how to interpret that sudden declaration. His cardiac rhythm increased considerably. Slowly, he turned his head to face Sherlock, who tilted his to John's side. Sherlock got a little suspicious of Jack, who might be playing the music louder, so they wouldn't be able to listen to each other.

John wanted to say something but he failed. After Sherlock's words, all of his doubts were thrown out of the window. Of course; he could never leave Baker Street, he could never leave Sherlock.

"Sherlock... I am not going to leave you. Ever." He said firmly. To make his point, the back of his left hand brushed Sherlock's right one over his glass of beer, Sherlock's fingers flinched at the sudden and quick contact, but he didn't move it away.

"John." Sherlock said tilting his head further. "Did I ever thank you for uh... that thing at the pool. You were willing to give your life for me... that was uhm... really..." John smiled at the detective's loss of words.

"Sherlock." John turned to look at him and Sherlock tilted his head even further, his ear almost over John's shoulder. "If we continue this, people will talk, you know." The detective moved his eyes to John and smirked with a light frown. John's lips curved into a small smile. They were really close now. "You know, you and me, in the dark, talking into each other's ears..."

"People do little else." Was Sherlock's repeated reply. They remembered that time at the pool and they both smiled, looking at each other.

With one fluid movement, almost mirroring each other, both of them took a big gulp of beer. John grimaced when he tasted his dark one.

"Damn..." he muttered. Sherlock's face got closer to catch it, never moving his gaze from his own glass "...it's extremely warm now. Bloody awful."

Sherlock giggled at this and soon John followed. 'This is definitely nice', John thought with a smile. Being with Sherlock and talking his frustrations out really helped him to relax.

Suddenly, he felt Sherlock's right hand over his left one. With a quick motion, he squeezed it lightly and let it go.

"Of course your beer is too warm, your hands are burning up." He took John's glass away from him and stood up, he got closer to Jack. He was a big, muscular man, taller than Sherlock even, John noticed. Then he saw how Jack gave him a new glass with dark beer. Sherlock made his way to John gracefully. "Here" Sherlock placed the new glass in front of John. "This brand is way better than the one you had. No wonder you couldn't drink it."

"Thanks..." John flashed him a little, surprised smile as he tasted his new glass of beer. He made an approval sound and a nod. Sherlock smirked and sat again, the same position he was before. Their shoulders supported each other. They finished their drinks in silence. Again silence, that comfortable silence. The silence and quiet they both loved so much, even with the loud music behind.

After a while, Jack got closer to them and replaced both empty glasses with new ones. Dark beer for John and light beer for Sherlock. Soon John noticed Sherlock staring at him for a couple of minutes. He lifted his brows at this, surprised.

"You okay?"

"Yes." The detective answered, still his glance over John’s face. "I was just wondering... how can I convince you to massage me again?" Sherlock seemed inquisitive. John's eyes danced along Sherlock's face, surprise was evident on the doctor's face.

"Five more beers and I can give you a whole..." he gestured with his hand to Sherlock's body, "...full... body massage if you want." John smiled and, taking another gulp of his beer, he added, "Not that I'm gonna remember tomorrow anyway." John burst into laughter at his own words and Sherlock followed the contagious sound. It was like they were tickling each other with each look; it was really hard to stop. They usually had that effect on each other when they started to laugh like this. After long seconds, they were finally able to calm down and stop. Sherlock lifted his glass and bumped it lightly to John's. John followed, they drank another gulp.

"Really, Sherlock. Are you still in pain? It could be something serious, you know... you should go to see a doctor."

Sherlock glared at him at the comment, "don't I live with one?"

"Oh... Yeah." They both burst into laughter again. "This is awful..." John gasped, "...sad thing is, we haven't been drinking that much at all."

"True." Added Sherlock with a throaty chuckle.

"Sherlock," John said, coughing silently, "if you want... when we get home I can check what's wrong with your spine. It wouldn't be surprising if we hear that ugly sound again. Especially if you were in that bloody lab all day long."

"Alright..." Sherlock still had a little smile on his face, "I promise not to be so loud this time." They laughed again.

"And I promise," John gasped out between his laughter, "I could use some of that lotion Mrs. Hudson gave us." They laughed shortly this time, "Okay..." he added, clearing his throat, "remind me to do so..." John sighed, this grin still over his face, there was a little pause and he looked at the ceiling, with another sigh, "God! I'm so tired. I'm so glad you came."

"Me too." Sherlock couldn't stop smiling.

"I felt the weight of the world over my shoulders tonight." John stared at his half glass of beer. Even if they were really close, John still had to talk loud. "But you just enter here and threw it all away." He added, shaking his head with a smile still plastered on his features. Then he turned his face to Sherlock, who faced him back, the smile remained there. There was something very significant in John's eyes, Sherlock had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. "Thank you, Sherlock." John planted his hand firmly over Sherlock's thigh, giving a friendly squeeze there. "Really, thanks."

Sighing, Sherlock put his palm over the back of John's hand, interlacing their fingers. He gave John's hand a squeeze, the smile they had been wearing turned into something more serious simultaneously. They stared at each other's eyes for a long time. There were so many things unsaid. They both knew they probably looked a little ridiculous. But between so many people, the dark lights, the loud music, anything else mattered very little. They could feel how their pulses went mad against each other, they could even feel the sweaty palms. But that wasn't really important.

Breaking the eye contact, Sherlock released John's hand reluctantly. He took his glass and drank the remaining beer in one go. John frowned at him, surprised at the action. He had never seen Sherlock so desperate for beer. But soon he found he needed it badly too, his lips were too dry, so he did the same.

"Sherlock," he said "I'll be right back." John stood up and Sherlock followed his movements with his eyes, then he faked a pout on his face. John laughed at his childish manner and told him, rolling his eyes "loo".

The doctor walked away and Sherlock's eyes roamed, looking everywhere. Little white letters were floating around everyone. Without John there he felt incredibly lonely. As if the whole place was settled in another planet. At the thought, he felt something moving in his stomach, a knot, maybe he had too much beer.

After a couple of minutes, a girl was coming his way. Sherlock didn't realise until she was almost over him. She was on her late twenties; she wore a short, tight, leather mini skirt and a tight corset. The woman was beautiful, even Jack had his eyes fixed on her as she danced her way to Sherlock's table, following the beat of the loud music. She had a margarita in her right hand, dark hair waving around her. A large amount of skin was exposed below her neck; bare shoulders and almost bare chest.

She sat on Sherlock's table – not the chair – and she positioned herself so one of her long exposed legs was at Sherlock's eye level, the tip of her heel pressing Sherlock's knee.

John came out of the bathroom when he saw that scene and froze. Headshaking, he got closer to Jack, who had a knowingly smile on his face. He was looking at Sherlock and the girl. Jack seemed to recognize John, he turned to him.

"Check that out," he yelled, "your friend always does that same thing..." Jack shook his head, amused, but still had this smirk on his face.

"That thing?" John asked, yelling back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Just observe." John got even closer to Jack to have a better view of the situation Sherlock was in. He noticed how the detective had a lot of glares on him, clearly jealous for gaining the attention of the young woman. But there were some others looking at him, maybe homeless people, with expectantly smirks on their faces. Like Jack's.

John saw, with little disgust, how the girl brushed long fingernails by Sherlock's jaw. His eyes were fixed on hers all the time. Sherlock eyes never moved to look more of her. In John's head, a scene from months ago was replayed. Irene, naked, in front of Sherlock. The detective had said 'I don't think John knows where to look' and she answered 'No, I think he knows exactly where... Not sure about you...' Now he understood what she was talking about. Really. It seemed that Sherlock was not interested, whatsoever, on any kind of exposed skin.

She moved her face even closer to Sherlock's, he instantly moved his neck back to add inches between their faces. She was talking to him, her lips were touching a spot below his ear and he was smiling. But that smile was closer to a smirk, John had seen that gesture. It was the same gesture he had when hearing something out of place... or plainly stupid. When she closed her lips, Sherlock moved his lips near her ear and they moved, talking to her. John felt a burning sensation in his chest. He knew exactly the tone his voice held now. He knew Sherlock's voice would resonate inside her body. He knew the voice was throaty and extremely sensual... but he also knew there was nothing but harsh words coming from those lips.

"He's doing that thing." Jack got closer to John, he startled. He was so into Sherlock that he had forgot about him completely.

"Thing?" John screamed back.

"That thing! You know... he's telling her off now. Maybe he's reciting her whole life, who knows. She will back up and run away eventually... just you wait." John smiled at that. His mind replayed another moment, almost when they were just meeting 'What do people normally say?' 'Piss off'. He smiled sadly at the memory.

"Has he ever done that thing with you?" asked Jack, now turning completely to look at him, he was cleaning a glass with a cloth.

"Oh yeah, all the time." John cleared his throat and placed his hands inside his pockets.

"And you didn't freak out?" Jack seemed shocked. John snorted with a smile.

"No! I really think it's quite brilliant!"

The big man paused and then laughed hard. He patted John's shoulder friendly. His left shoulder. It hurt a little but he smiled at the gesture. "You're weird man, just like me." Jack said, "I can't believe him most of the time, but he's indeed quite brilliant."

John eyed Jack quickly but his eyes moved automatically to look over at Sherlock again. He and the young woman were dangerously close. She even had tilted her face in front of him, with an adoring expression. His eyes were still locked on hers. She had placed the margarita on the table, now her hand was grabbing Sherlock's scarf; her other hand was still nailing his jaw. Her thumbnail ghosted over Sherlock's lower lip, but he never stopped his talking.

John saw when Sherlock's lips stopped moving and thinned. He was waiting. She started to move back, slowly, she withdrew her foot from Sherlock's thigh – she had moved it very close to his private area – and she also released the scarf. She took her margarita and stood up, looking down at Sherlock who now was looking at John, an indescribable look on his face. His bored face. John was walking over to them when then the girl gave Sherlock a loud slap on his face. Sherlock just looked at her and smirked arrogantly. Of course he knew she was going to slap him but he let her do it. She walked away fast and, as she passed next to John, she gave him a hateful glare and thumped him with her shoulder. John's curiosity grew when he saw her expression. 'What the hell did he say to make her so angry?'

When John was about to sit, a man behind Sherlock muttered 'freak'.

It was all it took for John to lose it. He had heard that word so many times directed at Sherlock... but since they were from the Yard, he never had the opportunity before and he certainly wouldn't let this one pass. He turned around and glared at the guy, faking calm.

"I dare you say that again." John said with a relaxed tone. Sherlock turned around on his chair to look at the scene and maybe stop John. It was too late. The bloke was sprawled over a table and his nose was bleeding badly. Sherlock smiled silently when he saw Jack, who had been watching the scene, coming to them. He took the bleeding guy from the collar of his jacket and literally threw him outside the place. Then he walked back quickly and patted John's shoulder friendly again. The right one. 'Thanks God'.

"Thanks man," he said to John, "I could never do that since I'm in charge of the place, but really. Thanks."

John looked up at Jack, and thanked internally he wasn't in the other's guy place. Jack was way too big. John smiled nervously and firmly patted Jack's shoulder as well.

With a content sigh and a proud expression, John sat next to Sherlock. The detective wore a serious, indescribable one.

"You didn't have to do that." He started, tilting his head a little to John. People around them continued to do whatever they were doing before. They had captured a lot of unwanted attention after all.

"Shut up." Shelock smiled at the reply. John cleared his throat and questioned "And what did you tell her...?"

"Well..." Sherlock got closer to John's ear again, "...I just told her that a woman so beautiful like her; with beautiful face, healthy skin, nice body, legs, and all... shouldn't be flirting around with a man like me."

"Aah! And why not?" John frowned, not that he wanted her to flirt with him, but really, he was curious.

"Because... she was flirting with me just to piss off her boyfriend with whom she'd had a fight minutes ago. And besides, she was cheating on him."

John snorted. That's why the girl had been getting closer and closer to him, sure thing, hearing all those attributes from Sherlock had raised her hopes up.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock said throatily.

"I've even killed for you, Sherlock, now shut it."

John played nervously with his glass, his leg fluttered up and down in a nervous gesture. Sherlock took the hint.

"Home?" He asked.

"Please." John quickly lifted himself from the chair and stretched. He eyed his watch and lifted his brows noticing they had been there for about three hours. Sherlock stood up as well and walked to Jack. John followed him and saw how Jack was refusing to take the money for the four beers they'd had. Sherlock grabbed the big guy from his shirt, some people even thought it was another fight, but he slid the money in Jack's shirt pocket and smiled. The big bartender glared at him with a smile as well. John saw when Sherlock turned around, how Jack rolled his eyes and grinned widely to the back of the detective.

After that, both of them left the place and walked home.

Chapter 9: Trade five beers for a cuppa

Once they were outside 221B at last, Sherlock eyed around their surroundings one more time. He had been constantly looking back or checking on the showcases, using their reflection, for anything indicating that they were being followed.

As he was finally convinced everything was alright, he opened the door for John and then entered himself.

Inside the flat, John took off his jacket; he was wearing a dark cardigan and a light plaid shirt below. Sherlock removed his scarf and John's lips twitched at the sight of a little stain of red lipstick right below the other's ear. The detective hanged his coat and his jacket on the hook at back of the door and then closed it... and locked it. John lifted an eyebrow at the action.

Sherlock smiled widely at him "We can't afford another misunderstanding now, can we?"

"Shut up." John had to gather all of his will power not to blush at the comment and to that devilish smirk. "Show me your arm, Sherlock. Still itching?"

"No, not anymore." Again, Sherlock unbuttoned half of his shirt and only his injured arm went out of it. He peeled the bandages he had managed this morning. John didn't miss a detail of this. He smiled tenderly when he saw the bandage done in a meticulous manner; it was perfectly cleaned and the cream was applied correctly. Sherlock saw John's proud face and bragged, lifting his brows "I am a fast learner". He slipped his arm back into his shirt carefully and walked to the bathroom.

Sighing, John tried to put a little order around the kitchen; lifting the cups Sherlock had left on different places and doing the dishes.

When Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, it was John's turn to claim the bathroom. Sherlock heard the door slam and, with fast moves, he grabbed five cans of beer from the fridge and placed them over the table. Then he turned on the kettle, he needed a cup of tea, who knows why. He also placed a cup, a spoon, sugar, everything at one side of the cans. Finally he supported his hip on the table and waited for John.

It was true that his back was hurting after all. The action John had done two nights ago had an incredible effect. He found himself comfortable each time he had to reach something far away from the microscope. Again, not that he would ever assume that out loud. He just made the mental note today in the lab.

When John walked out the bathroom he had the first aid kit in his hands. He stopped at the entry of the kitchen, saw the setting on the table, and lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"Well I am craving for two things." Sherlock raised his brows and talked like it was no such a big deal. "First is tea and then..." he tilted his head to the five cans.

John laughed, incredulous. He walked slowly to place the first aid kit on the table.

"Sherlock, if you want a massage so badly, you just have to ask for it, really." John turned to face him and gave a short headshake, "Now I am really worried, you might have something serious, the crack sound was awful last time. I'm not joking here... set aside your loud cry."

Sherlock's lips rose a little at the statement. "I am alright."

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, a silently 'yeah, sure you are'. He placed the kit over the table and prepared tea, getting a cup for himself. He also placed the five cans back into the fridge.

He was a little taken aback with Sherlock asking to be... touched – massaged, he corrected himself – since the man wasn't a touchy person at all. Even though, after some recent events, John could tell how Sherlock actually liked to be touched a little, even if he would never acknowledge it openly. He liked to be admired, to receive affect; he liked to be... stimulated, in body and mind, as he had stated himself. It was just he had never felt very comfortable with it.

John didn't realise how, lost in thoughts, he was staring at Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock stared back too, curious, trying to figure him out. John didn't pay attention to that, instead, his mind kept on wondering why he had felt so upset when he heard the guy calling Sherlock a 'freak'. It was the same with Donovan. Why had he beaten that man, he only knew that he needed to pull the pressure off his chest when hearing that... in that despicable tone... as if they totally forgot Sherlock was a human being too. They didn't understand Sherlock was like that just because he was repelled by the idea of people – a young woman, in this case – giving herself to someone she doesn't belong to, as if sex was something so irrelevant. [John...] He knew he would punch any another bloke badmouthing about Sherlock without a second thought [John?]. He clinched his fists - hell, he had even killed for this man, and would do it again, no second thoughts too. He would definitely protec-

"John!"

"What!"

"Come on... I've been calling you for ages! Where were you...?" Sherlock looked at him intently; John had the kettle in his hand and shook his head as he poured some water in the cups. "I really want my cup of tea, and you're not giving it to me."

"Sorry," John said, smiling amused at himself, "I was... just thinking."

"About?" John gave Sherlock his cup, who sipped immediately on it, making a face as he burned his tongue.

John smiled gently at him and answered with a small and truthful "You."

Sherlock lifted his stare from the cup and cleared his throat. "Look, John uh... if it's about the other day, I can completely understand if-"

"No, no. Sherlock. It's not about the other day... it's just..." John stared down at his cup of tea and sighed, heavily and tiredly. "I was so upset today. And then you were there, and everything was right..." John straightened his back and said, firmly "Okay, I'll just say it. It bothered me so much the bloke calling you a freak, it always does. Even when that... bitch-" he lowered a little his voice for it was getting louder with every word "... that bitch calls you that, too. I've been willing to... punch her so many times...!" John took a gulp of air and noted that Sherlock was looking intently at him all the time, patiently, as never, waiting for him to finish all he had to say "It's just... frustrating. That's it."

There was a prolonged silence as they drank their teas. John left his cup on the table and walked to Sherlock, bringing the first aid kit, a bowl with water and some clean cloths.

"Show me your arm again, Sherlock... it seemed better so now I will just clean it and-"

"Thank you, John." The voice coming from Sherlock wasn't the usual. There was something there, something John couldn't quite put his finger on it. The voice held something strong, Sherlock's eyes just proved the point.

"Sherlock, really. It's all... good."

John sighed, he found it troublesome to stand his companion's heavy stare. He waited when Sherlock moved to shrug his shirt off. For his surprise, Sherlock just removed it completely. The detective still had this look on his face, staring down at John, almost expressionless. Sherlock's eyes followed John's every move; his hands on his arm, his eyes that battled internally between the arm in front and the rest of exposed skin. He noted how John seemed very calmed, his hands weren't shaking, but his eyes and facial expression proved him wrong.

"You were crying." Sherlock stated suddenly.

"How can you possibly know that?" John lifted his face to him and glared, feeling naked under the scrutiny.

"You have a..." Sherlock brushed the knuckle of his index finger over John's cheek. He followed the pattern of a dry drop, all the way from his right eye to the corner of his mouth "...dry trail of a drop from here to here..." then with his thumb, he tried to make it disappear, even since from the beginning it was barely noticeable. Sherlock opened wide eyes. In his mind the drop remained there. He didn't want it to be there. With the same expression he had when doing an experiment, Sherlock wetted a little corner of the shirt he had in his hand with the water of the bowl. Then he rubbed it against John's face, with hard movements, but gently at the same time. He tried to erase the dry pattern of tear. The action seemed insane for anyone to see, but John knew what Sherlock meant.

"Sherlock..." the taller man didn't stop, he kept on rubbing his cheek."Sherlock! It's alright!"

"Urgh!" Sherlock let out a loud groan and withdrew his hand from John. He was breathing a bit heavier than normal, looking at the floor, almost dramatically. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to John, who had his cheek red from friction.

John wanted to laugh. He wanted to be mad at him, he wanted to ask, scream 'what the hell is wrong with you!', but he couldn't. He knew what Sherlock meant. He just... knew. There was no possible way he would be mad about it. Following his example, John took another piece of cloth he had in the bowl and cleaned Sherlock's jaw, right below his ear, with hard movements. There was a disturbing little spot of red lipstick there. Sherlock's brows darted up, but he let John do that.

"It's alright Sherlock." John showed him the cloth with a faint stain of red, Sherlock smiled. "Please. It's alright. I am alright."

"John..." Sherlock moved his arms around John's shoulders and squeezed him tightly. John left the bowl now in between their bodies – with great difficulty because of Sherlock's grip – on the table and, after a couple of seconds, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso.

That was something odd for both of them. John felt how Sherlock's heartbeat increased and he was pretty sure Sherlock could feel his too. They stayed like this for a while, just breathing, breathing in the other's scent. Both of their faces were buried in each other's juncture between neck and shoulder. "I reeeeally hope nobody sees us now..." John's spoke softly, his voice muffled by Sherlock's skin. John heard – and felt – a short deep giggle, his whole chest resonated at the sound.

"I've locked the door." Was the automatic reply. John giggled too. The hug became rather intense with every second. They could feel how a tension in the air went out of the roof. Even though, they weren't doing anything else but hugging tighter than before.

John roamed his hands by Sherlock's back. With secure hands, he kneaded between Sherlock's shoulder blades, and he was rewarded with a little groan, the sound made a – now familiar – feeling going down his belly.

"Really, I think I should look into it. You're making me worry."

"I'm not in pain."

"I'm checking anyway." John released Sherlock from his grip, Sherlock did the same. Both were a little breathless but neither of them said a word about it."Go get yourself comfortable and I'll examine your back... you can get that massage too if you behave." He added.

"I always behave."

When John placed the cups aside, he saw Sherlock pacing to the couch. The detective lay down on his stomach and tried to get himself comfortable. He tossed a little and had a battle to death with a cushion. Apparently, he decided he couldn't get comfortable there, so he stood up and walked away.

"I'll wait in my room!" Sherlock screamed as he stormed into said place. John heard a lot of noise, so much he was afraid Mrs. Hudson would wake up and come up the stairs... he mentally snapped himself; no. Mrs. Hudson was already used to Sherlock's blasts at ungodly hours. She just comes upstairs when she gets scared at something, like the scream in pain the other day. John smiled at the memory.

He knew Sherlock would be taking all of his stuff out of his bed. Usually, he had papers and books over it. John wondered if he even had arranged the closet’s disaster. He should take a look now, he might end up doing it anyways.

Sighing, he paced to the table in the kitchen and supported his palms over it. He tilted his head down, slowly, feeling at lost. He was aware of Sherlock's reaction last time he touched him... he was also very aware about his own body reactions when touching Sherlock. Okay then, he should do this very quickly; he would go in there, massage his back a little, elongate his spine, he would make sure everything is alright with him and... there. That should do it alright.

Nodding and squaring his shoulders to give self assurance, he walked to Sherlock's room. On his way, he took Mrs. Hudson's lotion and passed through the open door.

The first thing he saw was Sherlock, laying shirtless over his stomach, right on the middle of the bed, arms and legs spread to the sides. He had taken his shoes off and socks. The position reminded John of DaVinci's Vitruvian man. Then he eyed the closet, it seemed Sherlock had ordered only half of it.

He sat next to Sherlock on the bed, eyed the ceiling and gave a sigh, his parted lips smiling in disbelief at the current situation.

"What?" Sherlock turned his head a little to face John.

"You sure you locked the door?"

Sherlock giggled at this, the action made the bed jump a little, the muscles in his back moved lightly. John followed with a snort before pouring some lotion over Sherlock's back. The detective hissed at the cold.

John stood up from his sitting position and supported himself with one knee over the mattress, one foot still on the floor. He spread the lotion over shoulder blades and pressed his knuckles there. There was a very ugly sound when he made more pressure. Sherlock whined with an 'ouch!' and John grimaced. He kept on applying little pressure for a while, stroking the pain away.

John was fascinated. Sherlock's skin was firm, but soft. There were little, well formed muscles all over his back. Every time he touched certain spots, Sherlock's muscles would tense and relax rapidly.

"Good..." John cleared his throat since his voice didn't come out the way he wanted and repeated "... good thing we found a use for the lotion."

Sherlock smiled, half his face was buried in the pillow, he answered with a soft 'Mm-hhmm'. The sound made John smile, it was an amazing sound. The detective was completely relaxed under his touch.

With his thumbs he massaged his nape and pressed his fingertips below his jaw, wavering with slow movements. He heard a soft deep moan when he made a little pressure. Then, he moved tentatively his fingers to Sherlock's collarbones, pressing lightly. After that, he moved his hands back to the shoulder blades. He made more pressure there and was rewarded with another deep moan-like sound. After that, John felt as his hands and arms had life on their own. Still with a faint pressure, he moved them to a spot near the small of the back and pressed his knuckles there, hard. Sherlock cried out, the sound was muffled with the pillow and John pressed there again, this time harder. He heard Sherlock cry again, and he could catch the words 'Ow! John! Play nice!’ He laughed at the outburst.

He cleared his throat again, not trusting his voice anymore. "Like this?" he asked. This time, John removed his knuckles and replaced them with his fingertips. He ghosted over that same spot and he heard Sherlock mumbling something like 'much better.’

John kept brushing his fingertips over his back; they ran to the sides of his torso. He moved them below the armpits and trailed down. He could feel how Sherlock's muscles really tensed at that, his goose bumps making the little hairs on his nape stand up, as well as the hairs on his arms. John went lower until he reached the sided of his waist, almost touching the hip bone. There, he applied pressure with his fingers and rubbed the small of his back with his thumbs, one hand each side of Sherlock's waist. He made a lot of pressure there with only one movement.

The detective let out an incredible sound, like a loud groan, an octave lower than his usual voice. The sound made John's hands frozen right there, waking him up from an extraordinary trance. He took a hold on Sherlock's fast breathing, his back trembling with each gulp of air. Tentatively, he made more pressure there using his thumbs, and there was a softer moan, similar to the first, but not as intense. Sherlock fisted the sheets beneath him tightly.

"You like that, uh?" he asked casually, his own voice was a throaty mumble. His thumbs still massaged there, softer this time.

"Mmmhhh!... oh yes, John... Please..."

"Now you are the one apparently aroused..."

"I'm really sorry, John, but I am... aroused. Just ignore it and keep going. It's a..." Sherlock faced John, lifting a few inches his face from the pillow. There was a light sweat over his forehead and his mouth was asking for extra air "...a natural reaction."

"Hang on... ignore it?" John asked incredulous, as if that were the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

"Yes, keep going." Sherlock's face fell back to the pillow, but this time he kept his eyes on John. The doctor made more pressure as he lifted himself with both knees over the bed. He bent a little and then, supporting his palm over Sherlock's shoulder blade, he moved his face closer to his ear.

"How do you want me to ignore that I have my male best friend aroused because I am touching him?" there was a little growl under his normal voice, in a clear attempt to sound angry. Sherlock turned his neck and they locked their stares.

"Massaging." Sherlock corrected him.

"Yeah well... for massage you need to touch..."

"Well, I can't change this, John... and I want you to go on... so, what do you suggest?" Sherlock turned around completely. He rested on his back now and supported himself on his elbows. His eyes fixed in John's. His state was evident in his trousers. John opened his mouth to reply, but he stopped when Sherlock did something he had never seen him do before. Sherlock's eyes travelled over his face, he observed his lips, his neck, even tilted his head down to look at him properly. His eyes stopped on a bulge in John's jeans. John was muted, surprised how his body reacted way too quickly when it was about Sherlock. "You are nearly hard as well and you were very well ignoring it..."

"Yeah... well... it's just a natural reaction." John repeated with a shrug.

"But you don't want to ignore me."

"Sherlock..." John sighed and blinked slowly. "I am not... gay..."

"I know, John, neither am I..." Sherlock lifted himself higher with his elbows trying to get closer to John, who didn't dare to move. "Yet now you're reacting to me..." then, he fixated his eyes in John's neck. There was a vein there, barely visible under the collar of his shirt. It was pumping vigorously. Sherlock seemed fascinated with it for a moment and then proceeded "I reckon telling you, John; it's a state of the mind. If you succeed in stimulate the mind the body acts on its own. I'm aroused not because you're a man, just because... you are..." Sherlock motioned with his hand, "you."

As he spoke the last word, Sherlock brought John's hand to his neck. The doctor felt how the vein was pumping there. Sherlock's breathing was heavy, both of their light breaths were the only noises in the room.

"Sherlock..." He removed his hand from the spot. Sherlock never took his eyes off him. "Sorry, Sherlock... I..." He sighed and looked down to his knees, "I don't know what to do." He said sincerely.

"What would you like to do, John?"

John thought about the answer for a moment, never lifting his gaze. He wanted to do a lot of things, but he didn't dare to. He wanted to keep on touching Sherlock. He wanted to be touched back, too.

But he also wanted to run, to disappear. Sherlock's voice brought him back to reality.

"I want to touch you, John." John's head tipped up and his eyes locked with Sherlock's bright eyes. He felt how his soul left his body at that voice, "I want you to touch me," Sherlock continued, brushing John's hand with his knuckle, gently. "Do you want me to touch you, John? Do you... want to touch me?"

Silence. John eyed to the side and after a loud sigh, he answered truthfully.

"Yes... damn it."

Sherlock frowned, thinned his lips, he couldn’t part his eyes from John’s face. John had seen that look before. It was a time ago after he had said 'I've disappointed you'. John felt a knot in his stomach at the memory.

"John..." Sherlock sat in the bed with a fast movement, taking John's hands in his and placing them over his chest. The heartbeat was crazy. John stared at his own hands feeling the muscles there. He was still, he didn't dare to move. Sherlock was waiting for him.

"Mm... damn it." John muttered and sighed. He lifted his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, he moved their heads closer, supporting their foreheads together. "Sherlock... I just don't want you to... be disappointed or scared... for, you know... whatever happens..."

"John..." Sherlock placed both hands on John's jaw, cupping his face.

With a slow movement, he slipped his hands down to Sherlock's shoulders and upper arms. Even in this situation, he was being careful with the healing injury there. Sherlock's breathing was heavy, puffs of air coming out from his parted lips one after another. His forehead was still pressed to John's. His hands still on John's jaw line, his shaky fingers stroking lightly below his ear. Their noses were almost touching. John tilted his head a bit and slowly closed the inches between their lips.

"I'm sorry..." John muttered before closing the remaining millimetres between them. At first it was a soft touch. They both pressed their lips together, it wasn't really a kiss. Sherlock moved back a little. He opened his eyes and searched for any sign of regret on John's face. "Sherlock..." he said opening his eyes and then rolling them at him "Stop. Stop... this. Stop worrying about me. Please." Then he lowered his voice and added with a faint smile. "Really, doesn't suit you as much as you think."

Sherlock smiled back, his face completely relieved, and stared at John's eyes for a moment. To John, it was an eternity. This time, it was Sherlock whom got closer. He closed his eyes slowly, parted a little his lips and pressed them over John'. It was the first time Sherlock kissing someone like that by own initiative. He decided to enjoy the moment. Never taking his hands off John's face, he parted his lips further and felt John doing the same. Their lips moved together, slowly. Neither of them wanted to involve tongue. John moaned involuntarily, for it was the best kiss he'd ever had. It was slow and sensual, naive even. The dry sounds resonating in the room of lips against lips was nearly indecent.

After a couple of seconds, though, John tentatively darted his tongue to touch Sherlock's upper lip. Sherlock moaned deeply, his tongue soon followed John's. The wet touch brought a whole new level to the moment. Both of them were breathing heavily through their noses, never breaking the contact even with the lack of air. The kiss grew intense every second. Sherlock's hands were fists at the front of John’s vest now; John had moved his hands behind Sherlock's neck.

John was desperate. The kiss had turned into something he could barely stand. He thought that he had experienced almost every sensation regarding to sex, but apparently he was wrong. Very, very wrong. He was fully aware of his aroused state. He couldn't believe he could get like that only due to a kiss. But he knew it wasn't just that. The man before him, for whom he would die for, the most incredible human being he had ever known was there, in his reach, kissing back at him, craving back for him.

Never parting the kiss, John grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair and, with all the delicacy this action allowed, he threw Sherlock's head back. His other hand was still on his nape supporting him. He kissed slowly but firmly the other man's jaw and neck. The kneeling position over the bed allowed him to move up or down at will. He lifted himself a little to draw a pattern with his tongue and lips all the way to Sherlock's ear. The detective was panting, his eyes were clenched and his grip on John's clothe was firm. Growling lightly, John moved then to his collarbone, he travelled all the way up by his neck. He stopped when he found his Adam's apple in the middle of it and circled his tongue over the little bulge. He was delighted with the moan that escaped Sherlock's mouth when he did that. He kissed and licked his chin and then found Sherlock's open mouth again, he played with the tongue he found inside and, quickly, withdrew from the detective's face and let go the handful of curls. John had a surprised expression on his features. He couldn't believe how animalistic he had become. And that he was capable of... that.

"Oh God... I'm so sorry, Sherlock..." he said between gasps. Just by watching Sherlock's face he froze by the ninth time today at the view. Sherlock's skin was flushed with a furious red, his eyes were dark, usually pale lips red from the long kiss, parted seeking for air. There was little amused smile there, too.

"Don't be." Sherlock replied breathless. "John... that was..."

"Sherlock... really, if we don't stop aaaall of this now..." John tried to calm himself.

"Do you want this to stop?"

"I only have much self control..." John patted Sherlock's shoulder and his hand stayed there, squeezing lightly.

"John..." Sherlock changed his position on the bed, imitating John's, placing both knees in the mattress. "Remove this." He purred, pulling at John's cardigan. John took it off with a sigh and tossed to a side of the bed. "Your shirt, too."

"Right... okay." John complied. He unbuttoned his shirt. John didn't want to add more tension to this situation. He was so concentrated faking calm, that he didn't see how Sherlock's hands moved to the back of his neck. John stopped, freezing again. Sherlock caressed the outline of his hair with shaky fingertips. He had a curious look on his face. Then, his eyes roamed from John's lips to his neck again. His eyes danced over the exposed skin. Sherlock helped him to remove the shirt from the shoulders and discovered the large scar on the left one. Sherlock stared at it, fascinated with the shape, he brushed his fingers there for a while.

John was entranced. He was trapped once more by Sherlock's observing process. He felt naked and exposed – literally – with the intense stare. But he was far more curious about Sherlock's behaviour.

Sherlock finished the button John had missed and removed his shirt completely. John was being observed, and he was observing back the process of that. Sherlock still brushed his fingertips around his shoulders. He was clearly trying to deduce every scar he was seeing. He moved his hands to the doctor's upper arms. Then he pressed his elbows' bones, touched all the way down to his wrists. He ghosted his fingertips over John's hands, following with his gaze every place his hands were touching. He moved his hands then to John's abdomen, recalling what Armand said over the phone ' He was a soldier, so I can imagine a nice and well formed body... maybe a little worn out from age, but still nice', his hands moved then to John's chest, he touched lightly his nipples and brushed the sandy hair there.

With a deliberately slow movement, Sherlock moved his face closer to John's. He kissed his cheek softly and John sighed at that. With a little satisfied smile, Sherlock travelled his lips over John's shoulders and circled his tongue there, then over his collarbones.

John wanted to fight back, he wanted to regain control of the situation. He wanted to be in charge of this whole thing. He felt it was his responsibility, after all. So he cupped Sherlock's jaw in his hands tilting his face a little, just enough to look into his eyes.

They were panting softly now. Sherlock had an unknown expression, one John had never seen before. He suddenly seemed so young, John even thought he was committing a felony. John felt a strange sensation of power. He had to kiss Sherlock again. But this time, the kiss was harsh, rude. The detective let out some restrained noises in his throat as John kissed him full force. They fell back on the bed, Sherlock's head over the pillow he was before with a light thud. John managed to support himself with his arm right next to Sherlock's head not to crash over the man below.

Separating his mouth from Sherlock's, he growled out between gasps "You're driving me fucking insane..." Sherlock opened his eyes lazily and clenched them again as John kissed him once more. With his unused hand, John brought Sherlock's hand to the front of his jeans. Sherlock moved his other hand in between their bodies and touched John's erection over the fabric. John growled again at the contact.

The detective opened the zipper and pulled the erection out from the confines of John's pants. At the feeling of the bare hand, John separated their lips and tongues and stared down at Sherlock, who just lifted a bit the corner of his lips and gave a single strong stroke to John's cock. He began a slow, firm and steady rhythm. His other hand travelled to John's shoulder blade and then moved his hand down, his fingers timidly brushed the waist of the jeans he found on the way, he nailed a little on the upper bit of the buttock and returned to apply little pressure on John's shoulders.

At this movement, John threw his head back, moaning Sherlock's name. That sound alone made Sherlock growl deep in his throat.

John's hand reached down to open Sherlock's trousers. Observing intently at any reaction from the man below, he touched the erection above the fabric of his boxers and pulled it out slowly and carefully, trying not to get distracted by the ministrations on his own cock.

John was worried; he didn't want to freak Sherlock out. He didn't want to bring back the repulsion he had for sexual interaction. It was his biggest fear right now. John changed his position on the bed by supporting himself with his elbow instead of hand next to Sherlock's head, making the position even more intimate. With that hand free, he moved lightly his fingers over Sherlock's cheekbones, his lips, his nose, resting finally on his forehead moving the hair back. Sherlock was panting lightly but lifted his brows at John's concern. It was all John's needed. With confident movements, he mimicked Sherlock's pace on his own.

Sherlock's moans and growls were really driving John mad. He was stroking Sherlock and Sherlock was stroking him back. The place was filled with wet sounds, loud breathing. His own breathing combined with Sherlock's resonated in the room. Sherlock's eyes were closed and he had a constant frown, similar to the one he had being inside his mind's palace. John couldn't part his eyes from the other's face.

With almost an animal instinct, John kissed his neck again. The action only made Sherlock to moan a bit louder and throw his head back, giving John more skin to kiss and lick. John nibbled his ear, licked all the way down to his nipple, circling it. Then he kissed his chest, went all the way back to his chin, he nibbled there, then down to the collarbone again...

Sherlock was going mad with this, his panting was now intense and his moans and growls filled John's ears constantly. The name of the doctor was on his lips all the time and it came out on sensual, breathy whispers that had John over the edge.

Suddenly, Sherlock's strokes on John became urgent and stopped, his breathing was more rapid. He clenched his eyes tightly and let out a long, deep moan.

John observed intently at him; it was the most erotic and beautiful scene of an orgasm he had ever seen. Sherlock's neck was exposed, his head was buried deep down on the pillow, eyes closed shut, his mouth was open and that incredible voice was managing the most exquisite sound somewhere deep in his throat.

"John... oh God, ungh... John!" Sherlock panted as he tried to recover his breath. John's lips were right next to his. "John." More gasps. "John..."

It made the doctor to come back to reality. He felt the sticky liquid on his hand and he noted how some of it had somehow landed between his and Sherlock's chests and stomach. He was feeling his own climax closer. He, not even caring of wiping his hand, positioned it over Sherlock's over his own member, stroking him again, steady and firmly. Sherlock complied the silent order and, without thinking about it, squeezed one of John's buttocks in his large hand. John opened wide eyes at this, but had to bury his face in the space between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. That action brought new sensations to him, making him moan deeply. Sherlock kissed his shoulder, working with his lips, tongue and teeth every bit of skin he could reach. Slowly, he moved his lips from John's neck to his jaw, he licked there and soon he was nibbling at John's earlobe.

"John... come for me..." he said in a very low voice, "I want to see you come..." he added as he kept on stroking. John snapped his eyes open at that phrase.

Sherlock watched John's profile intently. He could hear the whispers and groans coming from his companion "Oh Sherlock... Sherlock...!" John came with a growl, it was muffled by Sherlock's skin, in the juncture between neck and jaw, rocking his hips onto his hand.

Panting heavily still, John rose a little from his position and concentrated in regaining his breath back. Sherlock was doing the same, staring at the ceiling.

"John."

"Hm?" He asked still a little of breath.

"That... was... amazing." At the known phrase, John lifted his head to look at Sherlock. They laughed shortly in between the gasps.

"That's my line... shit. I can hardly move." John rolled over on his back falling on the bed with a thud. Sherlock moved to his side to give him more space, they both lay on their backs looking at the ceiling. Sherlock had his arms resting on his sides and John crossed his own fingers on his stomach. "You okay there, Sherlock?"

"I am. You?"

"I'm... good."

"Good."

John snorted a little, still gasping lightly.

"Now I'm serious Sherlock..." he said, Sherlock didn't have to look at him to know he was smiling, "I reaaally do hope nobody saw that... you know, you and me, getting off in a dark room... people might really talk now."

Sherlock turned his neck, facing at John. They both were fighting a laugh. As they locked their gazes they couldn't help it anymore and laughed hard. It was difficult to stop. It was good to know things haven't changed and that they could still throw the tension that way.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Sorry but I have to ask. What do you think now... about... you know..."

"Oh, we didn't have sex, John."

"I know, but it was pretty close."

"Yes it was... and I sincerely hope..."

"Oh you better be kidding."

They both laughed again.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"I want tea."

"Go and make it yourself, Sherlock."

Chapter 10: Define 'Date'

Sherlock got up from bed around two o'clock in the afternoon. After last night's... events, he fell deeply asleep. He never heard John taking off to his own room in the middle of the night, and he certainly didn't hear when John's phone rang, being summoned to the hospital early in the morning. So when he woke up, everything was so fuzzy inside his mind; he could barely remember what day it was, the only thing he knew for certain, was what happened... with John.

He had fallen asleep on his back, arms by his sides, almost at the edge of the bed. He wanted tea. Badly. He changed to a sitting position and looked down at himself. He was shirtless, his stomach was sticky with a dry white substance now combined with his own sweat, his own semen... and probably John's as well. His trousers were still open at the front and there was a mess of fabric there. He had to support himself in his arms at the realization. It was really true, he and John had... touched each other last night, they had even... kissed. Sherlock's eyes couldn't be wider now, he was panting lightly, surprised.

It was true he wanted to be touched by John's hands, it was also true his body's quick and strong reactions when it was about John. It was true about the phone experiment that proved his arousal state being null when there was this lack of... feelings. Feelings he didn't held towards the people on the phone. There was no other possible explanation, he knew he felt something strong for John, he knew and was well aware of the fact that he actually... loved John.

He closed his eyes and entered his mind palace. He lay down on the mattress and evoked last night's sensations. They were all there; his mind had placed them all in a very organized way inside his palace. He realized there was a whole new room called physical contact and inside, there were lots of different shelves with ordered stuff. He tried to look in there for the connection between that room and the room sensations and he noted that the room called John was in the middle of it; and it had a lot of doors; one of them being for the room friendship.

He tried to classify all of that, but he felt at lost. It was as if he wandered around John's room and the sensations' room and the physical contact's room all by separate. He stepped in the middle of it and felt like screaming. He wanted to shout badly. So he did. He shouted in his mind; he was frustrated and confused. Right in his mind palace, his cry echoed around John's room. He knew that if he moved all of the files from John's room to physical contact room they would fit. But if he moved all of the data from John's room to friendship they would also fit.

He opened his eyes with a frustrated groan and got up. He walked to the shower, taking his time there. Half an hour later he was fully dressed in the living room, checking his email. Gladly, he found one from Lestrade.

'Please call me as soon as you can.'

He didn't even sign the mail, so Sherlock took off, he would go there rather texting, he needed something to keep his mind distracted, John wasn't leaving him in peace.

**..**

"I assume this is significant enough for you not signing an email... but you didn't go to the flat, so it's not rushed enough either." Sherlock put his hands in his pockets as he walked into Lestrade's office.

"It is." Lestrade never lifted his eyes from papers in front of him. "Close the door behind you, will yah."

Sherlock frowned and did what he was told. He had never seen Lestrade so troubled.

"It's a... very rare case indeed. It has to do with the drugs dealers you boys found the other day."

"We solved that case... there is nothing else to add to-"

"Now the case is personal, Sherlock..." Lestrade rubbed his temples and this time he fully looked up. "I believe the government might be involved in this one, so I cannot tell my people to track it down."

"Go on..."

"You see, the black market's head you tracked down wasn't the main leader there..." Lestrade handed a few papers to Sherlock; photographs of the 'new homeless gang' "...see that man in the bigger one, he is one of the guys working for the government."

Sherlock quickly glanced the papers in his hands. He recognized the man.

From time to time, he would lift his gaze to look at Lestrade. There was something odd in his behaviour today, he seemed... too troubled.

"I know this man." Sherlock handled the picture of the same guy that stabbed him in the arm. Since he couldn't explain the homeless situation to Lestrade, he avoided the details.

"Are you sure?" At the question, Sherlock just looked at him, Lestrade kept the stare. "Okay, I'll leave you to it, then. I will go to your flat soon, this can't be discussed by email and rarely phone..." again he rubbed his temples and fumbled a few papers on his desk. Sherlock made a quick scan on him. [Eyes] Sleepless night. [Lips] Haven't eaten or drank anything for hours. [Eyebrows] Excessive frowning. [Desk] He hasn't taken any case today yet. [Bag in the end of the room] He'll be staying here tonight. [Size and state of the bag] Make it two nights; tonight's the last one.'

"I'm leaving now. Anything else I need to know?"

"No, that would be all... and Sherlock!" he stopped in his tracks just with the hand on the door handle, not looking back "You may use help from Doctor Watson if you like, but don't let him write about it... everybody here knows about the blog. Don't let him write about the Netherland case either."

Sherlock nodded and walked outside.

In the street, the sun was luminous but not warm. The wind was chilly but not strong. He rode a cab home, but he couldn't let his mind rest; his eyes scanned all the time for anything that raised suspicion about being followed. Last night's matter was now deep buried, new thoughts taking place quickly. His mind tried to connect the dots fast.

There was something, inside his mind palace, a poster hanging at the entry. Every time he went there he saw it: 'I'll burn the heart out of you'. Sherlock couldn't place right there why that thought was glued in his mind now.

The cab stopped in front of 221B. Sherlock got out and opened the door. Mrs. Hudson was in the bakery, there was no one else around and he found the peace of the flat alarming. He thought he was seeing ghosts everywhere, almost paranoid. He walked upstairs slowly and opened the door carefully, everything he was doing was cautious.

When he was fully inside the flat, he sighed and walked to the skull on the mantle. It was staring at him with his immobile grin. He lifted it upside down and smiled when he found his secret cigarette, scotched at the bottom, near the forehead. He took it off and felt it in his hands. He moved it around his fingers and smelled it, taking a big gulp of air. A couple of seconds later, he was throwing it in the trash, crashed, but he didn't light it.

Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, sat in front of John's armchair bringing his knees to his chest and stayed there. His mind started like an engine once again today.

**..**

In a hospital cafeteria, John Watson sat in front of his lunch, completely unaware about Sherlock whereabouts today since he had left the flat early in the morning.

He had spent his day in peace. Sarah talked to him as soon as he got there; they both apologized for their behaviour yesterday. Sarah was predictable. A word he had learned to hate with Sherlock. Maybe he would have liked it before, but John Watson was a man of adventure, he loved the adrenaline that came with the unknown. He liked to be thrilled, he loved to come home and not knowing what was going to happen today... and that was Sherlock. Last night he had predicted part of his own feelings but not Sherlock's. He never imagined the man was going to act like that, he never thought Sherlock would ask to be touched – massaged. He would have never imagined Sherlock would appear in the pub, being there just to listen, for once. Sherlock was unpredictable, and that's what he both; loved and hated about him.

But, for being such an unpredictable man, he could also tell what Sherlock liked or hated. And he was very aware that the relationship he – now, maybe always – had with Sherlock wasn't a normal one. He could clearly see himself living, perhaps forever, with him... but holding hands whilst walking in the park... was something certainly not destined to happen. Going home and receive a warm kiss and a hug welcoming him wasn't happening either. Taking off early in the morning, with Sherlock in an apron making waffles and wishing him good luck, wasn't happening either. The sole image of that could make John hate Sherlock immediately.

Being in Afghanistan, he always thought about getting back to London. He didn't want to die there. He wanted to settle down. Inside his most lovely fantasies, he had a wife, she would have long hair and a good temper, they would have kids. They would turn a comfortable house into a home. They would love each other and their kids. They would grow old together and he would watch his kids growing, maybe one of them would like to share the soldier career, he would be proud of them. Then, he would die old and gray in the peace of his home. Sweet dreams those were.

But then, his first week in London he met the detective. The first time he described him as mad and charming. He knew from the beginning Sherlock wasn't safe. After a couple of days living with him, his mind was slowly replacing the lovely fantasy. He no longer wanted to snuggle next to a loving wife in lazy afternoons. Instead, he wanted to solve cases and be constantly fighting over eating habits with his friend. He no longer wanted to sleep spooning a soft body in his arms; now he wanted to sleep in the bedroom above Sherlock's, he wanted to wake up in the middle of the night with violin music –or anti-music, according to his moods. Or worse, being awaked to go into another adventure (oh, how Sherlock hated that word). He didn't want the established relationship anymore, the lovey-dovey thing; he wanted to tease and be teased and argue with those who thought they were in a romantic relationship and to be exasperated every time it happens... yes. He wanted his life with Sherlock. He didn't want it to change.

And last night's events... John couldn't stop thinking about those. Would that ever repeat? He had no idea and he, even if that sounded stupid, loved it. 'I must have a serious brain damage...' John thought, he grinned for himself as he rubbed his temples.

"John?" Sarah asked. She sat in front of him with her tray of food. He was with this stupid grin all over his face.

"Yes..." He cleared his throat and tried to pull on a normal face. "Yes?"

"You weren't listening, were you?"

"I am really sorry, Sarah... my mind was somewhere else..."

"That's happening to you a lot lately." She stated looking at him, he lifted his gaze and they both smiled. "Is this about your flatmate again?"

John frowned at her. "I don't think about him all the time, you know, I have other business too." 'LIAR!' his mind screamed.

"What were you thinking about?" she asked, supporting her chin on her palm and smiling, she even seemed a bit flirty. Surprisingly, John didn't like that now, he even found it... annoying.

"Oh, about the new supplies that came in today. I signed them as the substitute doctor, but yet I found something strange about the drugs for the ontological department".

"How strange?"

"I’m not sure... but I thought supplies for therapies were more... expensive."

"Mh, I saw those too and thought about the same... well..." she was about to say something else, but they were approached by some colleagues who tot closer to lunch with them. They talked about the patients today, mundane stuff. John was just listening. His mind was plagued with Sherlock's voice, and the things he would be saying if he was listening to this conversation: 'Bored!' 'People are stupid'. After living with Sherlock, everyone else actually seemed to be boring.

John started a little game he was beginning to enjoy in these boring situations. He eyed everyone very quick and then looked somewhere else. Then, he tried to remember what he had caught with the quick scan. He found out one of the doctors had a big admiration for Sarah. He was peeping her way all the time. He also observed two of them having the same shirt than yesterday and, oddly enough, they were sharing the same cologne. John shook his head and stood up, dismissing himself politely under the excuse of having patients waiting for him.

**..**

After a long day at the hospital, John entered the flat around eight in the evening. The place was dark, but Sherlock's silhouette was completely defined; he was curled up on the leather armchair, with the faint light coming from the window, John saw how his eyes were closed and he had a frown in his features.

"John, define date." Sherlock spoke suddenly, startling him.

"I thought you were asleep..." he took off his jacket and threw it at the back of his armchair.

"Can't, have much brain work to do. Define. Date." Sherlock demanded now, jaw clenched, eyes still closed.

John frowned and forced out a little laugh "Uh-hm... Date. Two people who like each other going out to uh... do something they both enjoy?"

"You had a different definition before."

"I can't recall everything exactly the same way."

"Well you might."

"I am stupid, remember." Sherlock opened his eyes and sighed, never looking at him.

"Well, put your jacket back on. We're going on a date tonight."

Sherlock got up with a jump and arranged his scarf and coat quickly. John was with a very confused expression looking at him.

"A date." John couldn't help but an incredulous smile.

"Yes! A date; you and I. Problem?" Sherlock didn't wait for an answer and ran downstairs, leaving the door open, sure John would follow. The doctor stood still for a couple of seconds in the flat, his brows down and his lips furrowed to a side. But as predicted, soon he was following Sherlock, who was waiting for him outside. John noticed Sherlock's tone. It was that tone; the tone he usually wore when something was going on, and he had to figure it out quickly. The tone which predicted a long night of collecting data. The tone which advised John to have patience.

"I'm not sure I want to ask... but when you say date..." Sherlock was walking fast, his eyes searching for something anxiously. He seemed in a constant rush, John had to jog a little to catch up. "Sherlock... Sherlock!"

"Move faster John, we're getting closer now." Sherlock kept on walking. By the direction they were heading to, they weren't going downtown, they were going somewhere near the bridge.

When they both got to a desolated place, Sherlock eyed everywhere, then loosed his scarf and put it inside his coat pocket. John was still confused. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow to him "We just need to get some attention."

"How exact-"

"Punch me."

"Come on! Again?" John threw his arms in the air.

"It's the most effective way! Punch me!"

John sighed and he planted his fist on Sherlock's stomach. The blow wasn't harsh, but since they needed attention, Sherlock made a whole show and fell to his knees, dramatically. John placed himself behind him and put his arm around his neck and asked near his ear. "The fuck are you doing?"

"Behind you!"

Sherlock took John from the front of his jacket and threw him to the ground, on his back. When he did that, John saw a blade sparkling in the dark. Everything was fast. When he looked up he saw Sherlock behind an unknown man. He had the man's arm behind his back, holding him still by his wrist. The expression in the man's face was painful. The knife was on the pavement.

John took the knife and got up, quickly covering Sherlock's back with his own. He heard how Sherlock interrogated the guy, his voice coming out between clenched teeth.

"Whom do you work for?"

"I was just looking for money, sir. My wife and my-!"

"Why were you following us?"

"Sir! I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Yeah you do. Now talk!" Sherlock growled out. John heard a loud shout coming from the man. He turned his face to look at Sherlock, he saw how he had the arm in an almost impossible position; the man’s fingers were almost touching his own nape.

"Sherlock?"

"Not now, John!"

"Sherlock." The tone was worried now. The detective turned his head to look at their surroundings, they were being encircled by a gang of homeless, Sherlock smirked.

"I thought you would never show up." Sherlock threw the guy carelessly to the floor and shook a bit the sleeves of his coat. Three bigger guys came from the bunch of people, lifted the man off the floor and took him away.

"I'm forever indebted to you!" Another man spoke getting closer to Sherlock. They gave each other a solid handshake.

"I need any information you can get from that man. I need him alive... and in prison." Sherlock arranged his scarf back around his neck.

"Yeah, consider it done. We'll keep you updated." The tall man who was talking to Sherlock eyed John and lifted his brows.

"Oh, Doctor John Watson." Sherlock said with his hand extended to him.

John got closer to them and stretched his hand to the tall man, "Nice to meet you... erm..."

"Louis!" the man said, taking John's hand and giving it a firm pressure and a single shake, "...this guy here saved my little daughter," he added, tilting his head to Sherlock.

John nodded with a smile.

"I will be waiting for news, Louis." Sherlock said already pacing away.

"You can count on that!" with a smirk and a gesture from Louis, the gang disappeared as fast as they've appeared.

John shook his jacket a bit and glared at Sherlock, who was already a few metres away. John had to jog again to catch him.

"So... a date." John smiled with a headshake.

Sherlock let out a little laugh, "we were doing something we both enjoy, John", he smirked, looking into John's amused eyes.

"Are you going to explain?"

"What do you want to know?" he said, pacing away, this time his walking had slowed down.

"Everything? First, have you eaten today?"

"I didn't have the time. I needed to think."

"Well, you can think while we eat. And whilst we are at it, you're going to explain everything what happened today and all this... gang thing." John made a gesture with his hands.

"You do have to know a couple of things, John." Sherlock's tone lowered, "we're in a new case... and confidential. You can't post this on the blog."

"Oh... the Yard?"

"Exactly."

**..**

When they got to Angelo's, John noticed how the Italian man didn't tease him for being Sherlock's date. They came here so often now, it was almost a common thing, predictable, even. The restaurant was good. Besides, they could eat there for free if they wanted. But Sherlock always left money on the table as they left. Sometimes, even covering more of what they've eaten, except for a couple of times when they had to go in a hurry.

There, waiting for their food, Sherlock thought intensely about the new case. John was staring, not really wanting to disturb his thoughts. Sherlock didn't seem to mind the stare. When the food arrived, Sherlock just looked at the plate with a blank expression.

"Eat." John said grabbing his fork. Sherlock made a quick gesture clenching his lips.

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock took his fork as well and started to eat slowly. He took every piece of the plate carefully, separating the vegetables almost by colours and categories. John peeped and smiled, he always found that incredibly amusing... and childish.

"Okay. First. Who was that bloke?" John asked, gulping down.

"That man works for my brother. I don't really know who he is. Remember the man chasing after us?"

"Yeah. The alley's stuff." John never lifted his eyes off his food, moving it with his fork. He heard Sherlock clearing his throat. Obviously, it was the first time for Sherlock being in this situation: 'the talk after...'

"The alley's stuff." Sherlock repeated.

One of the first times they talked, John took a hold quickly on how Sherlock's voice variations said a lot. Almost as much as actual words. Now Sherlock was talking in that purred, throaty voice, letting him know that he had something important to say, but didn't want to rush the issue. John didn't know how to explain it. But most of the time, he could figure a lot from the man in front only through his voice. If Sherlock did it on purpose or not, he never knew.

So John darted his brows up, but didn't say a word, Sherlock swallowed his mouthful and continued. "That time I told you about Mycroft. You must know, John, my brother's brain works like mine. His deduction's skills are impeccable. But I reckon telling you; he is also too lazy to follow a lead. He would prefer to be seen as mistaken before going out to the field to prove he's right..."

"Yes, I recall you told me that... several months ago."

Sherlock nodded, "That's why he always hires people to do his dirty job."

"What does this have to do with the Yard?" John asked, taking a gulp from his glass of juice.

"I don't know yet, John... Lestrade mailed me today. At the Yard he said this was a personal matter. He couldn't involve his agents, since it has something to do with the government. He thinks it's about the plants' black market. Do you see now?" he said, gesturing a circular movement with his fork in the air.

"No, not really..." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "but wasn't Mycroft who gave you the case in the first place?"

"John, that's what I'm trying to figure out... Mycroft wanted me there, in the case... us."

At the last word escaped his lips, Sherlock snapped his head up. He opened big eyes and stared to a point behind John's head.

"Sherlock?"

"He wanted us in the case, John- he wanted you to go to Netherlands, he wanted you away... Why?"

"Why would Mycroft want that?"

"John, I need you to tell me everything Mycroft told you two days ago." At that, John frowned and tried to remember.

"Well... first thing he told me was you're a very important personality..."

"Personality...!" Sherlock snorted at that. It was a sad laugh. John got it right away: 'he said personality and no person'. John cleared his throat and continued.

"And... you are far more important than you think you are... after that, he counselled me to leave Baker Street... saying we both could get killed."

Sherlock just looked at John, stopping his chewing. Searching for an expression, anything. When John's face remained expressionless, he asked "What did you answer?"

John made a little smile. "That I'm not going to leave you... leave Backer Street..." when he saw Sherlock smiling too, he added almost in a whisper "That sounded much less lamer yesterday..."

They looked at each other, giggling shortly and soundlessly.

**..**

As soon as they stepped into 221B, John immediately opened his laptop. The thing today with the therapy supplies was really bothering him. He wanted to know the real prices, so meanwhile he searched in the Internet, Sherlock got into his blue robe and sat on the large couch. He needed to think.

"Let's see... the data we have..." Sherlock muttered and John answered with a 'mm-hmm'. He was now absorbed on the screen, so he wasn't paying much attention to Sherlock, but the detective kept on talking anyway. "We know Mycroft wanted you away, we also know how we solved the case; the drug was made with a composition based on tulips bulbs... we could never get the names of the other drugs. We also know the leader wasn't really the leader but an accomplice..."

"Sherlock..." John got up from his usual armchair and took the laptop to Sherlock's lap. There was a site with the prices for the supplies for cancer treatment, a big list of plants based chemicals. He sat down next to Sherlock and he moved himself closer to the screen.

"What is this?" Sherlock eyed the site quickly. "Chemicals..."

"Plant based chemicals..." John corrected "today at the hospital, I had to sign a list for a new supplies arrival..." John got up and took a paper from his jacket's pocket and passed it to Sherlock "Yes! Here it is... I saved a copy just in case, 'cause I wanted to research the prices. They were so cheap it was suspicious."

"Cheap prices... John... you're brilliant!" Sherlock placed the laptop on John's lap and got up quickly. He took the papers given to him by Lestrade.

After hours comparing data – John had seen it coming – from both lists, Sherlock got to the conclusion that they were selling non approved drugs for the hospital. They were keeping somewhere, somehow, the original ones.

John stretched on the couch next to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, this is big." John muttered rubbing his temples.

"No wonder then, Lestrade didn't want to involve the Yard." Sherlock stretched on the couch too. "Tomorrow we are going to tell him this. Then you can go to the hospital to find out the name of the provider..."

"Right, yes. I have nothing planned for tomorrow. So I can go around doing everything you want me to."

"Good." Sherlock smiled, he knew John was being sarcastic.

"Right."

They sat in the usual comfortable silence now. Sherlock still had a few papers in his hand and was eyeing at them, checking for more data. Even though he knew they already analyzed everything there and in the Internet. They had to wait until tomorrow anyways.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"About last night..." Sherlock eyed John not moving his head. It was the first time he was in this situation. He had thanked for this new case to keep his mind busy. But he knew John, he also knew that he couldn't escape the inevitable, so he just listened, John sighed and proceeded, "... when I told you that I'm not gay... you told me you weren't either..."

"I'm not." Sherlock said, closing his eyes and supporting his neck at the back of the sofa.

"But you said girlfriends weren't your area, about a year ago."

"And that you remember exactly." Sherlock let out a snort. "It's true, though. Women aren't my area; they are needy, they use their sexuality to profit. They think they can have any man on their feet if they expose more skin to us than needed. Or if they wink at us..." again Sherlock was talking with that purred voice "...that just... repels me." He let out a quiet sigh.

"So that actually proves that you're not into women, then?" John was genuinely curious now.

"I don't want to be labelled, John."

"Labelled..." John repeated. That made sense.

"Why are you asking me all of this? Why do you care?" Sherlock changed positions so he could see John now, but he was still lazily sprawled on the sofa, papers still in hand "You're asking me that since the first day we're living together..."

John let out a sigh as well. He sat straight on the couch and then moved a little his torso to face Sherlock too.

"I was just curious, Sherlock. You don't see a genius every day. Besides... if I was to live with you I thought I had the right to know... you know, avoid surprises."

"Oh. So you think I'm a genius?" Sherlock smirked.

"I thought that... I still do... you do need an audience, though."

Sherlock glared and John smiled at the gesture. John supported his back on the couch again and took the book they managed to find. It had a lot of legally approved plants based chemicals. Sherlock shifted his position, supporting his back on the armrest, still with the papers in his hands. Then he threw his legs over John's lap. It wasn't the first time he did that, he liked it, in fact. He liked the way John supported his wrist under or above his knee, and then, with an unconscious gesture, he would rub his thumb there, or tap lightly with his fingers, or nail a bit.

As John felt the familiar weight over his own thighs, automatically, he rested his wrists on them, book still in his hands. Sherlock's lips lifted a bit when, after a couple of minutes, John started to scratch lightly on his trouser. Minutes after that, he was tapping, probably he was following a melody. Sherlock concentrated on the tapping rhythm, just out of curiosity, and discovered it was the Italian melody they were playing at Angelo's.

Sherlock’s smile faded almost immediately when he remembered the poster hanging at the entry of his mind's palace. He eyed John again from above the papers in his hands. Now he seemed absorbed by the book. He knew this case had to do with Mycroft. But why he was constantly reminded of Moriarty... he didn't know. And that bothered him to no extents.

Apparently, tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

Chapter 11: Threshold

Notes:

Thank you so much for comments and support! I'm flattered!

The cafe was almost empty. It was nearly ten in the morning and John sipped on his mug and tapped the table impatiently. It wasn't usual for Mycroft being late, and he had to meet Sherlock in about an hour. But if John could obtain some information from Mycroft, the course of the investigation could really change for good.

He saw a figure coming through the door of the shop; Mycroft wore his usual attire, a folder in one hand. When he spotted John, he slowly made his way to the table. John knew he was being observed. He knew Mycroft was scanning him, the same reading his brother does... he was so used to it already that it was a familiar feeling by now.

"I presume you're aware why I called you here today..."

"Oh, no clue." John lifted his brows; he pulled a very innocent expression as he sipped on his tea without taking his eyes from Mycroft's. He knew that look always made Sherlock say 'as always you see but you do not observe!' Maybe it could make the older Holmes to lose his patience as well.

"You have to tell my brother to stop participating in any case Scotland Yard asks him to. Especially if the case goes against my client's wishes."

"Your client." John never changed his innocent expression. Mycroft sighed exasperated. 'Oh yes, it works with both Holmes.'

"I assume you're not aware of everything that's happening here, John..." right in that moment, a waitress approached them. Mycroft remained silent. John asked for another tea, just to prolong the moment; to shake the older Holmes a little off his comfort zone. Mycroft asked for a black coffee, and proceeded as soon the waitress turned her back to them. "I told you before: my brother is a very important personality..." John frowned at that, placing his mug on the table. Mycroft just carried on, "... he is brilliant. But I think you have a better hold of his..." Mycroft closed his eyes a bit, and managed a very poetic face, "...emotional integrity... if you might call it that way."

"I think either of us could tell how Sherlock feels." John exhaled, "I think we discussed this already with Irene Adler's case." The doctor's expression was a serious one now, time for playing innocent was over.

"I am going to ask the same question, Doctor Watson..." Mycroft smirked, "What might we deduce about his heart?" John's eyes were on Mycroft's still. At the question, John thought thoroughly the answer. He furrowed his lips in a nervous gesture.

"Sherlock is a human being, Mycroft. I think he is capable of feeling just like anyone else." Mycroft made a little smile.

"How can you be so sure?" At the question, John had to make every mental exercise he knew to remain calmed, he counted to ten. He was certain that even a flinch in his eye would let him exposed. Again, he took his time to answer.

"I live with him." Both gazed locked. The coffee and the tea arrived but none of them seemed to mind.

"I presume you made your decision, then." Mycroft lifted a bit his chin as he spoke.

"I told you before, I am not going to leave Backer Street."

"And of course, my brother already knows that."

"Of course, yes." John nodded. His thumb toyed with the mug handle slowly. He wanted, badly, this conversation about Sherlock's feelings to end. He was sure Mycroft could even figure out... "You know," John said, casually, "you really should stop treating Sherlock as if he were a kid."

"Oh but he is." Mycroft took a sip from his coffee and continued, "You know he ruined the plan we had for the missile involving Irene Adler and James Moriarty. It took only a minute, even less, for him to spoil the whole plan we had arranged in months!" his voice had risen a bit and he lowered it down again. "He loves to show off, he could – and he would – do anything to prove how clever he is." John felt that last sentence as a kick in his stomach. He had teased Sherlock more than once with that very same phrase. Then he would add because he was stupid enough for that.

"What about the new case? What could he possibly spoil now?" John took a sip from his new cup of tea.

"The case you're working on right now has nothing to do with you."

"Explain."

Mycroft gave another exasperated sigh, clenching his jaw quickly.

"This case..." he said, pointing his index finger to the table, "has the potential of exposing a whole new group of drug dealers. It may even be an international case. If we fail this, we might have nothing at the end to proceed with. You already exposed one of my men to the police. He's on prison now and they are asking questions. I have people working on the matter before he really talks."

John cleared his throat, nervously. He couldn't follow everything Mycroft was saying. Sometimes when talking to Sherlock or Mycroft he felt... brainless, as if they were talking something so obvious for them, but for them alone. He tapped his fingers on the table again.

"Does this have to do with Moriarty?" John asked the question. He had done it and he could hardly believe he had the nerves for it.

"We can't tell..." Mycroft sipped his coffee and saw John expression, clearly unsatisfied with the answer, "...and even if we could, I wouldn't. You just can't know it all, now can you?" Mycroft smiled gently.

John sighed loudly. "Why was the homeless bloke following us the other day?" Mycroft smirked at the question. The gesture was similar to Sherlock's. But, in John's mind, the gesture on Sherlock's features was even appealing – 'Appealing! Oh God...' –, but on the older Holmes, it was closer to a warning.

"Well..." Mycroft said, "...if Sherlock can have his... little gang of informers, I can have mine as well, don't you agree?"

They talked for about half an hour, John noted how Mycroft tried to elude the topic of Moriarty. He asked more than once, but the man in front was too much. Not in vain Sherlock had repeatedly said Mycroft was the British government.

**..**

John took a cab to 221B. It was late already and he had to meet Sherlock at the flat.

When he got there, he greeted Lestrade, who was about to enter the flat as well. As they walked upstairs, they heard a very bright violin melody, sounding much like gipsy music. John opened the door and Sherlock stopped the melody abruptly.

"You know, John, when sleeping on your right side, your snoring is less-" he turned around as he spoke, he saw John's exasperated face and Lestrade's amused one. "Oh."

"Sorry to interrupt, boys..." Lestrade lifted his brows looking at John, who had closed his eyes and thinned his lips, in an attempt to regain his patience back. "I didn't know you had a fixation in your flatmate's sleeping habits!"

"I fell asleep on the sofa, don't get the wrong idea." Was Doctor Watson's firm answer. He threw his jacket at the back of his armchair.

"What do you have for me, Lestrade?" Sherlock was calmed, cheerful even.

"I came to ask you to uh... retrieve... from this investigation." Lestrade scratched the back of his head waiting nervously for the answer. Sherlock glared at him humorously. Then his expression changed to a rehearsed smile very fast.

"No problem." John and Lestrade opened wide eyes and they eyed each other. Were they hearing right? No objections? What was the whole talking for, then? "If that's all, Lestrade, either please go away or give me a new case."

"No new cases today, Sherlock." He sighed relieved. He really didn't want to argue with Sherlock. Even when he found it odd, he just appreciated it and preferred not to give it so much thought. "I need to get some rest. I'll call you if there's anything new. See you later, boys!" Lestrade was already walking down the stairs. John got closer to the window and saw the DI taking a cab. He hadn't come in a police car. John was still confused by Sherlock's behaviour.

Sherlock took the violin again, turned to the window, and resumed the gipsy melody he was playing before. After a couple of seconds trying to put some order in his mind, John finally asked: "Sherlock...the bloody hell was that about...?"

Sherlock turned slowly and left the violin on the desk next to the window.

"I'm sorry, John... I didn't know Lestrade..."

"No, no I don't mean that... Sherlock. You just dropped a case? And you did know I wasn't coming upstairs alone."

"Oh." Sherlock made a side smile. "The case is solved, but I cannot let Lestrade know. I used your snoring as a distracting factor... not that it's a lie though, you should sleep on your right side." John frowned and sat on the sofa, Sherlock sat there as well in the same position he was last night; his legs over John's lap and his back on the armrest. John just sighed, rolled his eyes and supported his wrists over Sherlock's ankles.

"Why?" John asked finally.

"You were with Mycroft this morning, so I assume you already know everything there's to know." Sherlock's intense gaze was over John's face, he placed his palms together and supported his chin on his fingertips.

"I just wanted information, Sherlock. And he is the one that looks for me, you know."

"I know." Sherlock purred.

John sighed and paused. "He told me... we had to step away from this case, also you already cost him the case with Irene Adler... and told me this case has to do with-"

"Drugs." Sherlock interrupted. "It's a whole new group of drugs dealers... a big one, John." John nodded and Sherlock continued. "They are trying to go undercover and they were deliberately changing the drugs in the hospitals. Now the drugs are the usual ones though, but they lowered the price to rise up suspicions from the dealers, so they can lower their facade when they start to look for the guilty that is selling the fake drugs."

"Sherlock..." John couldn't help a surprised smile; he tried to catch how Sherlock had come to that conclusion. So that's what Mycroft was talking about. Why was it so hard to follow. "What about the homeless gang?"

Sherlock made a little frown when John started to toy with a little piece of fabric of his trouser. He was tapping and nailing his skin through it, and seemed completely unaware of his own actions.

"Oh, my brother was just trying to prove a point. The man they took to prison today appears as dead in the records..." Sherlock snorted, "Well, as dead as a man from the government can be."

"So he is not dead, then."

"He was never real to begin with."

John smiled surprised again, he was really interested in the case now. It seemed much more... fun to talk about it with Sherlock than the other Holmes... Wait. 'Christ, I just described a drug dealers' case as fun... I'm definitely damaged...'

"Sherlock... how did you know the drugs were the same, and only with a cheaper price?"

"I tested them in the lab. Molly can be a great help sometimes..." Sherlock allowed himself a little grin "...not good idea to burn them in a secluded space, though..." it was evident that Sherlock tried to repress a bigger grin now.

"Hang on... Sherlock, you can only get those supplies on a hospital, with an ID, a certificate, a signature, a doctor's-"

"Well John," Sherlock's facial expression was between a suppressed laugh, a grin and a smirk. All at once, John smiled just by looking at him, "today I met a lovely lady who was waiting for her son. I'm a gentleman you know, so I kindly offered to take his place... each passing day, sons are more and more unattached to their mothers, it's a shame!" but Sherlock's smiling face said otherwise.

"Sherlock..." John said, trying to make himself look and sound serious.

"It was just a little, John... nothing to be worried about." After a little pause he added, "It was completely necessary."

John giggled shortly at that.

"What happened in the lab?" John asked curious. Sherlock was about to answer when, unconsciously, John moved his thumb behind Sherlock's ankle. The detective startled and stiffed in his sitting position.

"Don't. Do. That." He warned. The words barely made their way out through Sherlock's clenched teeth. John took off his hand immediately from that spot when he realized the way he was touching the other man. With an amused expression on his face, he fisted his hands looking for a place to place them, hopefully away from Sherlock's feet. Finally, he folded his arms on his chest. "No... It’s okay, John. Just... not there." Sherlock added.

"Sorry... what happened at Bart’s?" John cleared his throat.

"Oh!" Sherlock snorted, "I had the drugs aside with a bunch of processed plants from the case we had before. The same sample you found in Netherlands. I had to burn the chemical to analyze the residue. The plant chemical and the drug from the hospital looked alike. When Molly entered the lab, she asked if I needed some help, and since I didn't have much time to spare, I accepted her offer and asked her to burn the chemical on the desk."

"And?"

"She burned the drug, obviously. Else that wouldn't have been fun." He answered with a shrug.

"Oh my... what happened?" As John got interested in Sherlock's narrative, he unfolded his arms and started to tap on his ankle again.

"Well..." Sherlock let out a little chuckle, "let's just say Stamford was very lucky to be there right at the moment. He has certain favouritism on her for a time now, despite being married, I must add. He’d got to take her home in a very compromising state."

"Oh... did you inhale any of it?" John had a grin on his face.

"No. I was far away, so I had enough time to press my sleeve over my nose as soon as I heard Molly's laughter."

"Hang on... if Molly burned the drug... how did you..."

"I had another sample."

"Sherlock...?" John's fingernail, despite being really short, managed to get deep into Sherlock's skin. The detective startled lightly. John heard a short 'hn!' and took a hold of his playful fingers again. He withdrew his hand quickly and added "...I don't think I need to tell you: if I find any drugs..." John looked around the room and to the mantel, his index finger raised in the air, "...I'll hide your skull and no desert for two weeks." Sherlock lifted his brows quickly.

"You won't find any." Sherlock said, serious. John glared with a hint of humour, but smiled genuinely when he heard Sherlock whispering "I don't do that anymore".

"Good." John cleared his throat. His eyes danced around the room. He really wanted to tease Sherlock after his new discovery. It was too much to resist. "So, ticklish, aren't we?"

"John..." Sherlock glared at him. "I really recommend you to not even t-"

Sherlock had to stop at the thumb that slowly touched the back of his anklebone. John was strong. He managed to get both of Sherlock's legs glued to his stomach with one arm, as he tickled that little spot with the other. The detective fought back, desperate, trying to get a hold of John's wrist but couldn't do it. John was impressed; Sherlock trying to fight a laugh was really hilarious. The way his nose wrinkled and his eyes clenched, clearly trying to regain his control back. But after a couple of seconds, Sherlock was breathing peacefully, his nose came back to its normal state and he was inhaling and exhaling deeply. His chest was going up and down, making the buttons of his shirt to tighten and loosen up with each intake of breath. John frowned at him, but kept on moving his thumb there. Then he joined the other thumb at the other ankle. There was no more fighting, only Sherlock's controlled breathing and really concentrated expression.

"Sherlock?"

"Shh... I'm trying to replace the tickling sensation in my mind." He said as if it was a big, important secret.

"Is that even possible?" John questioned, talking in the same whispering tone.

"Of course it is, John." He opened his eyes and added defiantly "Want to prove it?" John threw Sherlock a very grave expression and prepared to stand up.

"Ah, nope. Sherlock, I believe it would be imp-"

It was too late. Sherlock quickly took a hold of his wrist and stretched John's arm enough to reach the armpit. He moved his fingers teasingly over his jumper and John burst in laughter and gasps. The doctor was trying to regain his arm back, but it was a difficult task being now restrained by the strong, controlled man next to him. That, plus his weakened state caused by the tickling.

"Really, John. Try to concentrate." Sherlock had to speak louder now if he wanted to be heard by John. Then he moved his teasing fingers in a slower way, "If you do, it can come really in handy. If there's any case of pain, for example, to be able to control your body with your mind. Breathe!"

John clenched his eyes and gasped through the laughter and curses. His agitated state slowly subsided, being replaced by a slow and steady breathing. He closed his eyes gently now, as if to prove he was relaxed enough. When he did that, he immediately noticed how silent the flat was. The only noises that could be heard were his own breathing and Sherlock's calmed one.

"I think... that... this is the most stupid thing we've ever... ever done. I was tickled by Sherlock Holmes." He said opening his eyes and taking in the expression in Sherlock's face; it was a calmed expression, his eyes were smiling at him.

"It's not stupid, John." Sherlock released John's arm and giggled satisfied, coming back to his sitting position. His legs never left John's lap. "I told you before. The mind stimulation is necessary for body reactions. Now, involuntary body reactions, like tickles, pain, itching... sexual arousal... they are all possible to be controlled by the mind. It's a very simple chemical reaction, like drugs."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

"Interesting." John nodded while looking at some point in front. "I saw a video on the net a long time ago, about a bloke who entered a giant fridge-like camera. They also put a steak in there. After several minutes, the steak was frozen but the man wasn't... want to watch it? I'm sure I can still find it..." he said pointing to the laptop in front.

"I believe you, John. So what's the point? You already made me watch those little... creepy clips- You were really fond of those last year... remember the cat you made me watch twelve times?" Sherlock asked with a snort.

"The cat falling off the shelf..." John giggled as he remembered it.

"Twelve times, John!"

John grinned. Yes, he remembered they talked about that even in the blog's comments. Sherlock complained a lot for the constant references John used to make about their cases. 'This one is similar to this movie I saw...', 'oh this looks like this other movie', 'I saw something like that in a forensics' related night show'... he even made Sherlock watch James Bond, a 'Bond night' as he called it. All of the movies in one night, John himself had fallen asleep at the last one.

"You don't do that anymore." Sherlock's deep voice brought him back.

"Mm?"

"You used to talk a lot about movies and things you considered fascinating. You don't do that anymore." Sherlock sighed and added quickly: "Not that I miss it, though."

"Well, that was before, last year... I was just beginning to understand you, Sherlock. I wanted to know what you knew..." John smiled, "You know... I even made a list of the fields you have knowledge in."

"You did?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

"I did. My only conclusion was you didn't even know the earth moves around the sun..." John shook his head slowly with a smile, "I still can't believe that."

"Oh for God's sake..." Sherlock sighed, throwing his head back on the armrest of the sofa; the doctor followed his every move. Sherlock was still with his blazer on, but it was opened and now it hung from his sides, a deep blue shirt under that. As always, he had a couple of buttons loosed at the neck, the scarf was over a chair near the kitchen. He had taken off his shoes and socks, and his long feet were now supporting themselves on the doctor's lap.

John looked at him carefully. His neck was exposed and John saw, almost with horror, a faint, little red mark below Sherlock's left collarbone. He blushed at the memory. He had to look elsewhere and clear his throat to avoid his mind going back two nights ago. It felt like a distant memory, but if he evoked the sensations, they were all there, clear as water; Sherlock's voice, his skin's flavour, the grip on his back and arms, the steady rhythm that he – now knew – Sherlock liked, the amazing eyes darkened by his excitement... everything still there.

The detective had closed his eyes and his breathing was steady and calm. John deduced that Sherlock had gone far away deep into his mind. So he took one of the books that had him absorbed last night and continued his reading. He expected that the action kept his mind out of the memories, now threatening to stimulate him more than needed.

As a doctor, he was interested in the drugs and the effects they have in the human body. It seemed like ages he last read a medical book. The familiarity of the action made him feel at peace. He felt a bit like a teenager again; when those books were still a mystery and he had to spend long, sleepless nights trying to figure them all out. He had to read them aloud, have three or four extra books on his lap, a medical dictionary always at reach. Now he didn't need that anymore, he understood every word there, and could follow the book with ease, even when it was from an area that wasn't his expertise at the medical field.

Sherlock opened his eyes for a bit when he felt the movement over the couch and observed his friend. Unconsciously, he made a little tiny grin and his face softened. It was normal for him already to soften his face's muscles when it comes to the doctor in front; he had noticed this, of course. He remembered the first case they had together; John made his features soften that time. Sherlock used to look at people with his brows down, but he found himself smiling when looking at John. Maybe that was the reason behind the constant teasing from people around them. His brother teased him about John and even the homeless did now. Angelo was the first to do so, probably because he saw his relaxed expression that day.

He continued his thinking, when he felt how John's fingers started to move in little circles over his inner ankle bone, his little finger was brushing the base of his toe and ran all the way to that bone. After a couple of seconds, John's fingers ghosted by the rest of his feet and started to tap lightly. Then he nailed a bit. After some more minutes, he toyed with the fabric of the border of his trouser and nailed it too. Then he went back to the tapping. It was almost a nervous gesture John had, but he seemed so concentrated on the book that Sherlock knew for sure he wasn't aware of his actions.

Sherlock's softened features were slowly replaced by a frown again. He didn't want to give so much thought to the case today. He had recognized Moriarty's doing; he knew that, as a consulting criminal, he was behind the drugs and Mycroft was trying to hunt him down. Sherlock knew the criminal mind needed attention, he was aware of that. He constantly said that he loved those... mostly because he loved the expression of deception and triumph at the same time on their faces when they found someone clever than them, someone who was able to track them down. He had become a detective to help out; he knew he could use his gift– as his brother called their minds – for good, like Mycroft.

Mycroft of course had his own ways, but Sherlock was certain that all of his brother's doing was for a good reason. Not that he liked the control the older Holmes claimed to have over his life. But then again, it was his own way to believe that he was doing things right... that's why the detective had been surprised when Mycroft said that he and John could get killed.

As Sherlock went deep into his thinking, it had occurred to him this morning, how maybe all of this was necessary to stop Moriarty. It wouldn't be the first time Mycroft thinks faster than himself; he had been deceived by him twice, even... perhaps what Mycroft had told them was the real concern about his conclusions of all of the criminal's actions. Moriarty was playing a game that involved even The Woman. And Sherlock was the main part of it; a white match against the black one. A chess match; no matter how much the black pieces moved around the board, there was no use if the white pieces didn't move to attack – or to defend, for that matter – as well. The only way to stop the white pieces was to make the main piece, the king, to fall.

Sherlock knew what was coming; the only way to stop Moriarty was being gone.

Really gone.

When he had realized that fact this morning, after a lot of deep thoughts, and many rounds inside his palace, when all of the pieces finally fitted... Sherlock felt a stab right through his soul. There was no use for making the Queen – Mycroft – to fall, since the Queen alone never includes the jack mate. It was a privilege only meant for the king. He remembered the time when they were in Buckingham Palace; he said Mycroft was, apparently, the queen. He had disguised it as a joke, but his mind had come quickly to that because he always had seen things that way. Mycroft, being such a big part of the government, was finally what he represented, the very heart of the British nation: The Queen.

His thoughts were interrupted with a little pinch pain at his ankle area. John playfully and unconsciously, had taken a little hair from there and was playing with it, moving it between his index finger and thumb. The corner of his lips lifted a bit and again, he realized his features had a deep frown. It was even painful to move the muscles of his face. Looking at John made his face to soften again. He knew it, he felt it. Maybe that was the most hurtful thing. Now, he had allowed himself the luxury of feeling – yes, a luxury – and he found himself with the need to feel new sensations. He wanted to be able to control his body over more stimulations, he wanted to be able to let go of the control too, and leave everything in John's hands.

And John wasn't asking for anything. He wasn't asking for anything more than he could give. John wasn't like The Woman. John didn't need to try and seduce him to be with him, he didn't have to disguise himself by no using a disguise at all. He just let himself being scanned, because he had nothing to hide... and most importantly, John didn't do what Sherlock wanted him to do, John just followed what he believed was right and even if he had to step over Sherlock, he would still do it, no second thoughts.

Sherlock felt another pinch, this time almost on his knee. He noticed how John's hand managed to get under his trouser by the feet edge, and was now playing with some little hairs there. Sherlock snickered. He knew he didn't have much hair on his body, but his legs and arms had, and he couldn't help but find amusing how even those little things made him closer to John. His mind felt at peace even with this kind of little nothings.

"Having fun?" Sherlock purred, not moving from his position on the couch, his head was still thrown back over the armrest and his palms glued together still resting under his chin.

"Mm?" John turned to him and his mind slowly came back to the reality outside the book; his hand was buried inside Sherlock's trousers. Little leg hairs were now with impossible knots caused by his finger's friction. His little and ring fingernails left two red half-moon marks on his skin. "Jesus! I'm sorry, Sherlock..." John offered taking his hand away and passing his thumb over the two little marks, as if to erase them "I got a little carried away."

"No... uh... it's fine." Sherlock gulped and cleared his throat.

"Well... hm... it's past lunchtime." John said trying to change the subject and checking the time.

"I'm not hungry."

"We're going out to eat anyway."

**..**

Late at night John stared out the window. It was dark outside but he didn't bother in turning the lights on. After lunch, Sherlock had gotten a text, probably from Mycroft, and they had parted ways at the walking back home. He went to the clinic in the afternoon; they had called him to see if he was available for a shift tomorrow at the emergency room.

John knew why Mycroft wanted to talk with Sherlock. Even he had thought the withdrawal from the case had been way too easy; Sherlock never gave up a case so easily. All it was needed was a petition from Lestrade and he had complied right away. The doctor knew, even when thinking about that would do him no good, but knowing Sherlock was now talking with his brother pained him to no extents. He felt the need to protect the younger man, even in the case with Irene, even when it was tearing him inside, he had told Sherlock that she was alive and under a witness protection program, just not to see him suffer. That time, little red John had told him to say that, meanwhile little white John had told him to tell him the truth; Sherlock is a grown up man, he needed to know the truth. He had opted to lie, just to protect him, to protect his feelings. John knew Irene wasn't Sherlock's love interest, but he could still know he felt something strong for the woman, even if it wasn't love. But it was a sentiment he still had to protect. Mycroft had allowed him to choose. That time, John had the unpleasant feeling Mycroft didn't profess any kind of love for his little brother... but that wasn't quite true, was it?

John noted how, as he was thinking about Sherlock, his features were drawing a frown that went deeper each passing minute. He was doing what the detective used to do; compare data. Now, with the new case at hand, the one they had solved, he knew Moriarty had a plan for later. He would protect his friend. No matter the cost. Even if he had to lie, even if he had to play along Mycroft, he would protect Sherlock. He didn't want to be in the same position again, like that time at the pool. That time, John had felt weak. He had felt powerless against Moriarty, when his accomplices had arranged the bombs all over him, when they dragged him to the pool, when they told him the exact words he had to tell Sherlock 'else your boyfriend will BOOM!' He couldn't protect Sherlock and that nearly cost him both of their lives.

But Moriarty's mind was a mystery beyond mystery; you could say he was like Sherlock and Mycroft, but they had chosen the path to serve people, whilst Moriarty had chosen the path to be recognized, to be tested.

And Sherlock loved to be tested too, he was very aware of that. But Sherlock's self testing was over important matters. He never invented himself things to be tested and that's what made the big difference between the Holmes brothers and Moriarty. That's why he could never believe Donovan when she had said that some day he would get bored and he, himself, would be the one providing the body. That wasn't testing his intelligence... that would be cheating. And Sherlock hated cheating.

John heard the familiar sound of steps on the stairs deep inside his mind. He had gone into a slumber state and he felt too tired to get out of there. There was the common rustle of clothe and then a source of heat next to him, sitting on the sofa.

After a couple of seconds, John felt a known heaviness on his lap and he allowed his hands to rest over the new welcomed weight over his thighs. This time, he found curls around his fingers and he noticed Sherlock had switched his position. John was taken aback by his companion's unusual action, but he was almost sleeping now, so he just restrained himself to stroke the soft hair with his right hand, and rested the left one someplace over Sherlock's chest. Last thing he heard was a soft groan, a whisper forming his name and then chilly fingers over his left hand.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand lightly over his chest. He felt how his own heartbeat started to rise at the contact. He liked that contact. He liked the feeling on his own body at the closeness. The sole idea of losing that burned his soul; the conversation this afternoon with Mycroft had enlightened the big poster at the entry of his mind palace. Even though, it wasn't an awful conversation either. They even had coffee together, talked about government matters, Sherlock suspicions just proved to be correct about the drugs; it was a chess match where he and his brother played in the same side... different methods, but same side.

Unconsciously while he was thinking, he scrutinized every digit in John's hand; he observed his palm, his thumb, he passed his own thumb above a couple of scars. That simple action awoke little things inside his body and he got surprised once again on how he reacted, almost betraying his mind.

He knew that if he wanted, he should be able to control his body; all he needed was a minimum amount of concentration. Soon he realized he didn't want to. He welcomed the sensations, he wanted to feel more... like that night, when he allowed his body to do and react the way it wanted, according to the natural drugs it was releasing.

John's stroking on his hair and scalp was very soft now, Sherlock realized John was asleep, almost going into REM state, according on how his pupils moved below his closed eyelids. The light that came from the street lamp and his own dilated pupils caused by the darkness, were more than enough to have a good look at the doctor above him. His expression was peaceful; his hands were warm, like they always were. Sherlock just stared at him from below. He also noted that there was light stubble growing on his chin. His head was tilted precariously, almost hanging from his neck. His chin almost touching his chest; Sherlock knew the position would be a pain in the... neck, later.

"John..." Sherlock called quietly. The doctor didn't move. "John...!"

"Mm..." John threw his head back on the couch. When he did this, unconsciously his hand stroked the scalp on his lap again. Sherlock closed his eyes at that, but soon it was over. A loud sigh from the detective echoed on the walls of the darkened flat.

The battle that was forming inside Sherlock's mind was alarming. It was the first time he allowed his mind palace to fall into chaos... it was the first time he authorized his body to posses his mind. He didn't like it at first, but soon he found himself enjoying the feeling like a drug; it was nearly as addictive as nicotine. Endorphins, hormones. He had said once that love made a very simple chemical reaction – actually, love is just a chemical reaction; he had seen it in other people, The Woman, for example. And it had proven to be very dangerous for the power it held in the mind of the individual experiencing it.

When using nicotine patches, he felt his mind stimulated; the stimulus helped him to think faster and to make ideas materialise on their own, then he could contemplate them in awe, almost like it wasn't even his own mind. He felt the mindquake – equivalent to earthquake inside his mind – in the mind palace and he could see how the disaster left the answers there, in plain view. Now, with these other drugs, his mind felt the mindquake too, but this time he found the effect reflected all over his body. He didn't know if it started in his body and then it expanded to his mind or vice versa; the pituitary gland, he answered himself, but still, what prompted that little piece of brain to work, the main source of it... he couldn't know.

The detective rose up slowly supporting his palm on the armrest closer to John, his arm making an arc over the doctor's thighs. The action made the hand on his head to fall to his side and the other hand to fall over Sherlock's lap. He observed then John's peaceful expression; he heard his slow and soft breathing. He wasn't snoring, credit that to the current position, Sherlock made the mental note to let him know that tomorrow.

Sherlock supported his forehead on the doctor's shoulder and heard a soft mumble from the other's parted lips and a little sniffing sound. He sighed and his lips formed the word "John."

"Sherlock... your bloody... curly hair is tickling my nose..." the voice was sleepy and Sherlock could tell John was smiling lightly. The detective didn't move but a little snort let John know Sherlock was smiling now, too.

Slowly, Sherlock took John's hand and positioned it over his chest. John felt how the other man's heartbeat resonated inside his ribcage. John felt like trapped in a moment that was very intimate; there wasn't a sound inside the flat besides their breathing and the rustle of clothes against clothes.

Without words and without moving his body, John roamed his fingers from Sherlock's chest to the buttons of his shirt, he toyed with them for a moment. After a couple of seconds, he slipped his hand to entangle his fingers on Sherlock's curls in the back of his head, keeping Sherlock there. John rested his cheek over his soft hair. It felt like a hug. Slowly, Sherlock wrapped his right arm around John's shoulder. His left hand still supported him on the armrest next to John. The position was comfortable; their bodies seemed to mingle together. As John regained consciousness, his senses filled with the usual smell of Sherlock's perfume and his own scent, combined with something else.

"You were smoking..." he stated. There was no reprimand on the sentence, just amusement.

"I was with Mycroft." Was the mumbled reply against the wool of John's jumper.

"I know."

There was a sigh from the detective and John separated a bit his cheek from Sherlock's hair, Sherlock lifted a bit his face to look at the doctor and, quickly, little white letters floated around him: 'How are you feeling?' 'What did he tell you?' 'Were you right about the drugs?'... The detective smirked at John's silence.

"You're not going to ask?" Sherlock questioned staring into the other's eyes, they were extremely close; their noses were inches apart and neither of them seemed to mind.

"Is it necessary?"

"No. I wanted you to deduce."

"You're going to test me." John had a very quizzical look. Sherlock noted this and smiled lightly with a daring nod. "Okay." John cleared his throat and looked away from the distracting glance from his companion. His hand moved from Sherlock's nape to the armrest of the couch, finding Sherlock's hand in the process. Their hands were inches apart from touching and, for some reason, John found it thrilling and at the same time, he felt like a bloody teenager again. "Lets' see... first; you were right about the drugs dealer."

"Good. What else?" John lowered his sight to Sherlock and took a real hold on how close their faces were. He smiled shortly.

"God, you're... distracting... just... tell me what you want to share, Sherlock. I won't make you. Okay?"

Sherlock smiled again and came back to his original position with his forehead over John's shoulder. "I was right about the drugs."

John snorted and tilted his head back on the couch.

"Yeah, you had to show off, first thing."

"Of course I had, is what I do." John giggled and soon the sound was followed by a deeper one.

"You never stop to amaze me..." John shook a bit his head, never changing his position.

"I hope I never do" Was the throaty answer. They both smiled to themselves.

"It is a big thing... I mean the drugs dealing, Sherlock... it might not be the last time we hear of it..."

"Of course not. Now we know they are being tracked, it is essential to be cautious."

A couple of minutes passed and none of them seemed to want to move. Sherlock's forehead still rested on John's left shoulder.

"You comfortable there?" John dared to move his hand and touched lightly the other's arm and rested it on Sherlock's elbow, tapping lightly the bone.

"Very. It was incredibly chilly outside and I had to wait a long time for a cab..." Sherlock sighed and proceeded, "the cabbie who took me in was returning to his home, so he left me around five blocks from here..." the serious tone in which Sherlock was talking seemed incredibly humorous to John, who was visualizing an over grown kid sulking.

"Oh, you poor thing..." John joked and gave a small kiss on Sherlock's head. The detective snorted again.

"Shut. Up."

"You're warm now, though."

"Mm."

"I never thought you liked to cuddle."

"It is incredibly soothing."

"Great. I am Sherlock Holmes' personal teddy bear now." John cleared his throat and moved a little on the couch.

"I told you, you're huggable."

John snickered and Sherlock released the small grip he had on the doctor's shoulders. Again, he positioned himself with his head on John's lap and he stretched there.

"Wouldn’t you rather sleep in your room?" The doctor never opened his eyes.

"Sleeping... sleeping is tedious, John." Sherlock took the phone from his pocket and started to browse over police station's sites, probably searching for a new case.

For a moment, John thought about going to sleep in his bed, but soon he decided against it. He was used to sleep anywhere and still manage a good night's sleep... he wanted to be near Sherlock, even if it was just for sharing the space like two kids, like this. Sherlock was right, it was soothing. Soon, he found his hand absently caressing the other's curls again, and the other hand over the detective's chest tapping over a button. He never knew if the feeling was real or a dream, but there were fingers brushing the back of his hand and this time, the fingers were warm against his skin.

Chapter 12: I rather text

Summary:

"[...]My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation [...]"
Sherlock Holmes (A. Conan Doyle)

'I need a case! – S' received at 10:40.

'Bored! – S' received at 10:45.

'Buy milk on your way home, I used the remaining in an experiment. – S' received at 11:56.

'If you get a call from Lestrade let me know. – S' received at 12:05.

'Or Mycroft. Anything will do. – S' received at 12:07.

'You can also buy snacks, we're having a Cluedo night! – S' received at 12:20.

'We've got a client. Dull case. Taking it anyway. – S' received at 13:10.

'You're not escaping Cluedo night, though. – S' received at 13:12.

'I need you for this case. Essential. Come home as soon as you can. – S' received at 13:40.

John was alone in the clinic's cafeteria having only a sandwich for lunch. He was in a hurry; there had been a multiple-vehicle collision and the emergency room was crowded. He had been receiving texts from Sherlock all morning, so he decided to leave his phone on silence mode. Now sitting there, he could finally read all of the missing texts he'd got since twelve o'clock.

With a mouthful, he typed with his index finger.

'Can't go. Multiple crash. Truck vs fully bus + 2 cars w/families. ER replete. Don't know arrival time.' sent at 15:05.

Sarah walked in the cafeteria, she had a tired expression. John had to fight the urge to stand up and leave. He enjoyed her company, but he didn't want her to know he was texting Sherlock.

"Hey!" she greeted, taking a sit in front of him, leaving a tray similar to John's over the table "What an awful morning!"

"Yeah, try telling that to the drunken arse driving a giant truck." He replied absentmindedly, she gave him a cautious look "Sorry." He offered in a smaller voice.

"No, no... You're right. I've been willing to say that too, but you know... I'm a lady." She eyed the place and whispered. "But that arse!"

John and Sarah giggled and again, he saw the flirty face, the eyes... He cleared his throat and his phone made a little sound.

"Sorry." He whispered as he eyed the screen.

'I can wait. – S' received at 15:09.

"I think I have checked over thirty people just from six am..." she said in a very whining tone, "night shift had to stay too, I'm relieved people from the afternoon shift arrived earlier, so we could finally have a lunch break..." Sarah took the first bite of her sandwich and continued talking between bites. John's eyes battled between the woman in front and the text he was writing.

'Don't! I might be here all night long.' sent at 15:11.

His phone remained on his lap, below the table, his thumb ready to receive another text. Sarah continued "Thank God you could make it today. Imagine! Even without the multiple collision we were short in staff..."

'Lunch break now? – S' received at 15:14.

"Yes, good thing we're not on a case now..." 'Shit!' John thought, he didn't want to bring Sherlock into the conversation.

'With Sarah? – S' received at 15:15.

"How is your flatmate, by the way?" She asked, her face and voice giving away her discomfort "Still chasing criminals around town?"

"You know how he is..."

'Best regards! =) – S' received at 15:17.

John couldn't help but laugh at that. Sherlock had added a smiley in a text. He did it. The laugh was short but loud and instantaneous. John had to place his fist over his mouth to dissimulate, but Sarah already had a very surprised expression.

"What's so funny?" She questioned with an amused smile.

"Oh, nothing." John cleared his throat still with a grin and quickly took the last bite of his sandwich, to make time and think about a lie. Sarah still looked curious. "Just got a text... it's just a stupid comment about a case he's working on right now, nothing important."

"I thought you said you didn't have an ongoing case..."

"He found this one just a couple of hours ago."

'I can tell her what a great massager you are. – S' received at 15:20.

John had to use all of his mind power to prevent from chocking on his food and die right there... if he wasn't dying of chocking, he would surely do due a heart attack.

"What's wrong?" Sarah asked concerned and amused. She had never seen John's mood switch so quickly when they were dating, she visualised him as a quiet and pacific man, utterly serious, with bit of a temper even, but also with a light sense of humour.

Now she was seeing a whole new side of John Watson's personality. He was actually able to switch his mood in a quick manner and most importantly, he was capable of laughing like that. He seemed so young with the reactions he was showing, and all because of some texting... his flatmate's texting. At the thought, she felt a bit betrayed. As a woman, to be interested in a man and failing at win him over because she was competing to another man... was a little frustrating. Still, she and John had talked it through and they became friends. Besides, she was sure John wasn't gay, he tried to clear that up every chance he had. Of course, she noticed the flirty looks he shot some of the nurses, or the way his eyes roamed when she was with light clothes... or any other woman, for that matter. She had tried to see him red-handed checking on a man. But he seemed reluctant to all of them. In Sarah's mind, the relationship John had with Sherlock was unknown. The only thing she knew for certain: it was incompatible to any attempt of a relationship with John.

Spending time with him, as a friend and not as a romantic interest, had made her get to know the doctor much more. And she had admitted to herself that her feelings for him were growing. But Sherlock's presence between them was much bigger.

John coughed and took a gulp of his soda. He switched the phone to silence mode again. As he did it, another text came in.

'Try not chocking on your food. – S' received at 15:22.

John glared at his phone. Sherlock's malicious grin was plastered all over it and despite himself, his lips curved up into a little smile. Damn him, he knows everything as if he was loo-. He quickly scanned the cafeteria. Sherlock was easily spottable, so soon John knew he wasn't there.

"Nothing." He said answering her previous question, "the case just gave a huge turn... I can't talk about it, sorry." Sarah nodded and he stood up with his tray in hand. "I have to go now, Sarah, there are still lots of things to-".

"I know. I will catch up with you as soon as I finish this." She said tilting her head to her food.

"Okay." He smiled tenderly at her and walked away, taking his phone again, he saw the last text.

'Still on break? – S' received at 15:31.

'I almost die you idiot! Yeah. Work now.' sent at 15:34.

'I really don't know what time I'll be there, Sherlock.' sent at 15:36.

'There is no hurry. I'll wait for you. Really need you. – S' received at 15:39.

John felt himself suddenly blushing. He read over and over that little sentence at the end. 'Again,' he thought, 'the stupid teenager's actions and reactions'. He mentally saw himself hitting his head against a wall.

**..**

'I am confiscating your laptop. Need medical data you might have. – S' received at 16:05.

'No useful data. I am taking one of your psychology books. – S' received at 16:34.

'Don't forget the milk. – S' received at 17:05.

'John, Mrs. Hudson took my skull when I was taking a shower. Bring him up once you get here. – S' received at 18:01.

'When are you coming home? – S' received at 19:03.

'You're not escaping Cluedo night. – S' received at 19:05.

'And the snacks. Sweet snacks please, don't buy those awful cheese ones. – S' received at 20:03.

It was past two in the morning and John read those texts with awe on his way back home inside the cab. He had managed to sneak out earlier, buying the supplies in the supermarket nearby. Then he had returned to the hospital and had been there until this late hour.

There were three bags next to him on the passenger backseat. He couldn't believe how, even when Sherlock could do the shopping too, he still played by his rules. He got paid today so he could also buy some food, bathroom supplies... and the cheese snacks, just to piss him.

Sherlock's texts, he read them over and over. They were a good distraction after all he had seen at the hospital today. He had to calm a mother whose daughter had died in the accident. They had lost a very old man in surgery, also caused by the accident, and he had been the one to inform the family. He had seen men die before, lots of them. But that didn't mean he was made of wood; a part of him still mourned, a part of him still wanted to cry with the families for their loss. A part of him wanted to shout at the injustice of the drunken imbecile who had survived and, just because he was careless and drank a few more glasses, had killed people.

When he attended the drunk driver in the emergency room, families of the other victims had sneaked in. They were all over him. Out of professionalism, he had to calm the crowd with policemen's help. But again, a part of him wanted to kick the crap out of the bloke. Right at that moment, Sherlock's image came to mind, the word 'sociopath' or 'highly functional sociopath' were completely erased from the detective's profile. Sherlock cared, on his own way, but he cared. Those out there were the real sociopaths, scratch that: psychopaths.

'Going home.' text sent at 02:34.

**..**

"Sherlock?" there was no answer in the flat but the lights from his own room sneaked down the stairs.

With lazy movements, he left the bags on the kitchen table and walked upstairs.

Sherlock sat in the middle of John's bed in his usual homey-attire; a dark red robe, white shirt and dark suit trousers, bare feet. His slippers rested next to John's bed. Several piles of books were pilled around him over the bed. The possessions John treasured. Those medical books had been the only things he had asked Harry to send over from his parent's home.

"What the hell are you doing?" John passed his fingers over his head and let them rest on the back of his neck, moving his fingers there, trying to soothe a little his tiredness. He was very sore. He had been at the clinic from seven am until two in the morning and his body wasn't up for those prolonged activities anymore. At some point in the afternoon, he even found himself stroking his leg; the one with the psychosomatic pain.

"I said: could you please find me a book. Since you took so long I just had to come here and search for it." He eyed the mess he had over John's bed. "I am going to put everything back in place, don't worry." He said with a little smile, he looked at John quickly and his gaze came back to the book in his hands.

"Damn it, Sherlock." John grabbed a couple of books and placed them carelessly over a shelf. "All I wanted was to throw myself on the bed..." John stopped his sentence and sat at the edge of the mattress, placing his head in his hands, elbows over his knees, he gave a loud, tired sigh. He massaged his temples seeking for a caress.

Sherlock was behind the doctor trying to figure out what was wrong with him. He seemed fine when he walked into the room and now, it was like he brought the weight of the clinic over his shoulders.

"Are you alright, John?"

"Of course I am."

Sherlock frowned a bit and, after a quick scan to the other's posture, he questioned "Was the driver talking on his phone? Was the driver drunk?"

John lifted his head from his hands and entwined his fingers in front, eyeing the ceiling with a resigned smile.

"How did you..."

"John. Right now, your posture suggest acceptance for those who are gone, you know that very well, you're a military man." Sherlock switched the book he was reading for another book nearby and proceeded, "Your sigh, and the way you threw your much appreciated books over the shelf implies you are... I could say angry, but giving the circumstances; you're coming home two a.m., it can only be translated to frustration. Something you think of as an injustice. So, the driver that caused the accident." The last sentence was said very slowly and carefully. Sherlock knew he was right. John turned to his friend.

"He... was drunk."

"How many?"

"I lost count."

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock never lifted his gaze from the book in his hands. But John knew the sentiment was genuine and silently thanked for it. Maybe it was silly, but he needed it. He needed to hear at least someone was sorry for what happened, for what he had to see and experience during the day. For all the turmoil of feelings he had to hide. It was like everything was right again with that simple phrase. John smiled. Sherlock really had an incredible effect over him.

John turned completely to face Sherlock and the other man lifted his eyes finally. They both locked their gazes. There was no readable expression on neither of them. The moment wasn't long, but wasn't normally short either. John felt a little burning in his chest.

Telling himself that this had to stop now, he smiled gently at Sherlock and asked "Did you eat?"

"Nnno." Sherlock's eyes went down again and continued his scrutiny to one of the books on his lap. A frown formed quickly on his features as he was absorbed by it once more.

"What was the dull case about, anyways?" John questioned trying to bring his usual mood back. Not really caring about food today, he could fix something later.

"A dull case, yes." Sherlock moved the book in his hand to another pile of books next to him, before turning his attention completely at the tired man who still sat at the edge of the bed. "An infidelity case, John. A woman, Christine, came in today and asked for help. She is under the suspicion of her husband cheating on her."

"And wh-"

"It's her daughter, John! It was obvious!"

"The... daughter?"

"Yes, the woman re-married and the three of them live together."

"Oh my God..." John passed his hand over his own face trying to fight a yawn, "... that's awful. I don't even know if I want to know more..."

"You have to talk to the girl."

"What? Why me?"

"Well, I can tell her mother, but she's going to ask for proofs. I am reading here a couple of books concerning parenthood. According to these books, she won't believe me." Sherlock shrugged and continued, "I can even give her concrete proofs and she would still not believe me. I suspected it at first, by observing how she talks about her daughter. Even though, these books are very clear. There are some parents blinded by the love they profess to their children. They won't believe anything out of place their child do, so in order to her to acknowledge it's her daughter, the girl has to tell her herself or... the mother has to see the proof with her own eyes. And! If she fits this profile..." Sherlock lifted a book with an open page and handed it to John, "...even that way, she still wouldn't believe me."

John blinked a couple of times looking at the book in front. "Okay... Sherlock... What do you want me to do?" When John spoke, trying to keep his mind focused, his eyes were inevitably shutting down with the book in front. He handed it back to Sherlock.

"She is old enough, John... so maybe you can try and convince her to talk to her mother... or we can lure her to be seen by her mother. According to her parenthood profile, she still believes her daughter is a kid... but of course she's not."

John closed his eyes, lifted his eyebrows and inhaled deeply, clearly shutting down.

"Sherlock... sorry but this can be done tomorrow. I really need..."

Sherlock lifted his face fully to look at John and tilted his head with a frown, confused. Clearly the detective didn't know the word sleep when his mind was in the middle of an enigma.

"But what about c-"

"No, Sherlock, sorry. No Cluedo tonight. No. I'm too tired."

Sherlock rose on his feet and paced to the shelf to arrange the books John had put there minutes ago. John followed the movements of the younger detective. He saw how the robe waved behind him at his fast moves, large hands and strong arms taking large piles of books, not before ordering them alphabetically... Sherlock was oblivious to chores, but the few times he had to, he would do it meticulously; he arranged his clothes by colour or use, he would sort his books following the pattern: topic, author and alphabet.

When Sherlock was done with the books, he arranged the sheets of the bed. John was still dozing off at the edge of it; his head fell to the front, it darted up again and fell back down rapidly. Sherlock shook lightly the doctor's shoulder, his arms with five books that had captured his attention. Psychology wasn't his forte and he didn't want to it be, but some of the books had the topic of natural released drugs, topic that lately had made its way into his mind palace.

"John."

John opened lazy eyes and soon he found himself looking into Sherlock's paler ones. He eyed his bed, it was in perfect state. And his friend had an armful of books.

"You done?" John asked lazily, eyes shutting down again.

"John, you need to sleep. I'm going to think this through and we can continue tomorrow."

As Sherlock spoke, John observed his lips in trance; his cupid bow made a lovely shape when saying John, sometimes it sounded like Jawn and he loved it. With each syllable, the corner of his lip would lift or fall, only one corner at the time and rarely both. The baritone voice had a lot of variations and he knew them all. The tendons and little muscles in his neck moved along his jaw's movements. His cheekbones seemed more prominent than usual under the artificial light hanging from the ceiling.

"John?" Sherlock had been following his stare all the time and couldn't really figure out if John was trying to emerge from the dreamy state he was or if he suddenly had a fixation on his mouth.

"Ah, yes." John shook his head a little "No. No... I really want a cup of tea... ah, but shower first." John's voice was throaty as he stood with difficulty from the bed with a tired groan.

Sherlock snorted. "Alright, but be careful not to fall asleep in there." He added casually stepping out from John's room and going downstairs to the living room.

John tried to wake up fully. He gathered his pyjamas and walked to the shower.

**..**

Sherlock's eyes were still glued to the psychology books out of curiosity. He felt like drowning in those books; there were lots of things he wanted to understand better.

Soon John emerged from the kitchen with a robe above his pyjamas, messy wet hair, a towel around his neck and a cup of tea in each hand. He handed one to Sherlock, who took it not even looking up, knowing exactly where John would place his hand with the cup.

After the shower John felt pretty much as new. He took his seat on his armchair in front of Sherlock's and sipped his tea. He really didn't feel as reading the newspaper that waited for him on the coffee table. He didn't want to do anything. Soon he found himself liking more the view in front. His eyes danced along the tall figure on the leather chair. He saw how Sherlock’s toes tapped the carpet below, pale eyes moving along the pages of the book on his lap, the hand that held the cup and rested on the wide armrest of the black chair. There was a rebel curl that fell over his forehead, and the dim light gave him a ghost-like aura. Sherlock seemed ethereal, as if he was made of smoke. John noticed how at first Sherlock's breathing was calm, slow and steady. But after a couple of minutes, he saw how the buttons in his chest threatened to pop open any time as his breathing became deeper.

Sherlock knew he was being observed, better said, he was being looked at. He was used to his friend's stare already, sometimes himself even would be staring back at John with no apparent reason. But by his peripheral view, he saw John's eyes dancing from his toes to his head and that made his mind fly back to that night. That intimate night. The Night that didn't want to be erased from his mind palace.

"I bought cheese snacks." John sipped from his cup after he spoke, cutting the silence like a knife.

Slowly Sherlock lifted his eyes. When they locked their gazes they chuckled shortly. "I hate them." He said softly.

"I know."

A deep giggle echoed around the flat. Sherlock continued his reading and John gulped his tea down. The hot liquid down his throat felt splendid after the long day. Sherlock, on the other hand, drank it slowly, now consumed by the book again.

After a few minutes in the much needed comfortable silence, John stood up slowly, taking the wet towel from his neck and tossing it to the back of his chair.

"Why did you take the case?"

At the sudden question, Sherlock looked up and sighed, closing the book with his finger trapped between a few sheets. The body language Sherlock had was very clear to John. The simple act of closing the book let him know he could ask as much as he wanted; Sherlock had his full attention directed at him.

"Mrs. Hudson asked me to, Christine is her friend."

"I thought you agreed to it because you were bored."

"John... apparently, Mrs. Hudson heard the shots on the wall this morning. Christine was telling her for a while now about her husband cheating on her. She only took advantage of my boredom, using it as an opportunity, so she told her to come and try again."

"Again?"

"Yeah, we bumped into each other’s downstairs, a couple of months ago. She asked me, and I said no. We were busy that time, John... and thankfully, Mrs. Hudson didn't insist."

"God... Sherlock, is Mrs. Hudson aware about Christine's daughter?"

"No. I don't understand much, but according to a couple of books, it's a delicate matter and should not be discussed with people outside the family." Sherlock's voice was serious and deep... but soft. John hadn't heard this tone often. And giving the situation at hand, he found it extremely cautious and even a little insecure.

Sherlock was showing the same emotions he did at the end of The Hound case. John was beginning to understand this new part of Sherlock. A time ago, Sherlock would consider a case solved as soon as he found the answer. Now, as well as the end of The Hound case, he wanted the mother to know, like when he made Henry to look at the dog's corpse, so he could have some peace of mind.

John smiled kindly at Sherlock and, before he could really think about it, he had his hand over the detective's face. He cupped his jaw in his palm and touched the cheekbone, which had him fascinated since the first day. He brushed his thumb below Sherlock's left eye and it flinched a little at the contact.

"You really care about her, don't you." John's smile couldn't be tender now, maybe the effect was stronger for he was really tired, and his eyes were closing against his will. "You care enough as to search for it. You don't want them to fight over something you deduced, is that it?"

"I don't care if they fight or not, John. I am just doing what I was asked to do." The younger man lifted his face to look at John. For once, he didn't seem surprised at the sudden caress. John's hand was warm against his cold skin.

John's smile grew wider as Sherlock lightly inclined his head to the touch.

"Liar."

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, a smile crossing his lips. "People tend to lose their composure over such trivial matters, John. They asked for it in the first place, and if their friendship is strong enough, this should be no more than nothing."

Doctor Watson chuckled quietly and gave another step to the leather chair, his hand was still on Sherlock's jaw and his fingertips were ghosting lightly below his left ear. The detective's face remained expressionless looking at the man in front. He inhaled deeply and lowered his gaze to the book.

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"You're right."

Sherlock smirked and lifted his gaze to John again. "Of course I am right. I told you, it's not Mrs. Hudson I'm concerned about."

"Okay." At the closeness, John saw a little patch emerging from the man's sleeve. John moved his hand from Sherlock's face to his wrist, leaving two nicotine patches at plain sight.

"Two... patches?"

"I'm solving a problem. I need to find a way to lure the daughter to tell her mother and the case would be solved."

"Sherlock... you were doing great..." John yawned and moved his hand over his mouth.

"I am fine. Stop worrying."

"Right. Okay." John gave a step back. The younger man felt cold without the caress, he  gulped as he saw John turning his back to him.

"Go to sleep." John said walking away to his room.

"No, John. You need to sleep, I need to think."

The detective stared at the letters in the book but he wasn't really reading. Why was John always right? The case had been extremely easy; all he'd needed to solve it was to talk to Christine, talk to her current husband, to the old husband and there it was; everything at plain sight, clear as water. What was really bothering him was Christine. She already intuited that her own daughter was the other woman, but she didn't want to believe it. He thought of it as extremely annoying and futile: why go to a detective to confirm what you already know and, worst of all, to confirm something you don't want to acknowledge? Why are people just plainly stupid sometimes?

Giving a loud sigh, he took his phone and texted.

'Christine knows. She's fooling herself. Blinded by parent's love. –S ' sent at 04:01.

'I'm trying to sleep!' received at 04:04.

'Why are you texting? You could've told me downstairs.' received at 04:06.

'You distracted me. –S' sent at 04:07.

'What?' received at 04:08.

'Your hand, it was distracting. – S' sent at 04:09.

'I'm not concerned about Mrs. H. She's smart enough not to confuse things. – S' sent at 04:10.

'Good. Text reminds me, you sent a smiley today. Made me laugh.' received at 04:12.

'Good. =) –S' sent at 04:13.

Sherlock smiled to himself. He had sent the smiley to cheer John up a bit. He knew his friend would be down. It was good to know how the simple gesture had its desired effects. He had spent several seconds staring at the smiley before convincing himself to press the SEND button.

'! Sherlock, how OLD are you?' received at 04:14.

'And yet YOU laughed. –S' sent at 04:15.

'Shut it. Sleep.' received at 04:17.

'No. Still need to think. –S' sent at 04:18.

'You NEED to. You didn't sleep last night either.' received at 04:20.

'Mystery, John! I can't rest until it's solved. –S' sent at 04:21.

'I swear, someday I will give you sleeping pills. Be prepared.' received at 04:23.

'I would like to see you try. –S' sent at 04:24.

'Just wait and you will.' received at 04:25.

'Make them flavoured. Strawberry is fine by me.–S' sent at 04:26.

'Geez!' received at 04:27.

'It's your fault, John. You over protect me too much.–S' sent at 04:29.

'You're a kid!' received at 04:30.

'And you're a momma!–S' sent at 04:31.

Sherlock's shoulders were shaking due to a controlled laughter. A light deep chuckle could be heard in the flat. There was no response on his phone anymore, so John maybe had finally succumbed to sleep. He started to play with the device in his hand: it fled in the air, gave a few laps and then came down to his waiting hand. He repeated the process uncountable times.

Under other circumstances, he would have been grateful he had no more distractions from his thoughts. He really wanted to find a way to make the woman to accept her daughter's betrayal, it was a challenge. Besides, he was reading the kind of natural drugs the body released when being under extreme stress, and he really wanted to see the effect in Mrs. Hudson's friend. He tried to imagine it, helped by the books, but he also noted that the drugs he was releasing from his conversation with John didn't help. Quite the contrary; in his mind, only humorous situations were forming over the matter. He blamed John for being the source of his endorphins. He couldn't think like this, these drugs were stronger than the nicotine patches. In his mind palace, every time the mindquake was about to start, the walls became thicker so the shaking did nothing.

'I can't sleep now. Idiot.' received at 04:45.

'Why not? –S' sent at 04:46.

'YOU are distracting.' received at 04:47.

'I can go and sing you a lullaby. –S' sent at 04:48.

'Wow! Would you do that? Sarcasm. Don't answer.' received at 04:50.

'Sherlock?' received at 04:55.

'You told me not to answer. –S' sent at 04:56.

'¬¬' received at 04:56.

'And now YOU sent a smiley. –S' sent at 04:57.

'=) –S' sent at 04:57.

'I can't believe this. I feel like an 8 y/o. I'm shutting off my phone now. Seriously.' received at 05:01.

John couldn't help it. He was giggling like a kid in his bed, his tiredness was long gone and you can blame Sherlock for that. He didn't turn off his phone, but he decided for silent mode again. He remained several minutes staring at the ceiling. He'd used the same word, distracting, yesterday when being with Sherlock. And now the same word was being used to describe his caress. He inhaled deeply and realized the bed still held a bit of Sherlock's scent from earlier. His aftershave and Sherlock's unique smell invaded his nostrils, making his mind race with images from the detective. His memories from that night in Sherlock's bed came back, and couldn't help but wonder if his own scent was still in his bed. Had Sherlock even slept in that bed after that night?

After a few minutes shifting and tossing between his sheets, he came to the conclusion that it was pointless. He lifted himself from bed, quietly put on his slippers and opened his door, not making any sound. In case Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa he didn't want to bother him. There was nothing but silence and a faint light leaking from downstairs.

He took the opportunity and ducked in the stairway; if he bent down enough, he would be able to see, without going downstairs, what Sherlock was up to. He saw Sherlock's profile; he was reading the contents of his phone, there was a smile on his face and, now and then, his shoulders would shake a little with a silenced chuckle. John watched the scene with delight. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock shifted the position of his phone and wrote a text. In the faint light, John saw the detective smiling still. Apparently, once the text was sent, Sherlock tilted is head back on the chair, facing the ceiling and then sighed deeply. The book still on his lap, unopened. After a couple of seconds, John's phone emitted a light. He took it and saw the message.

'Have nice dreams. –S' sent at 05:12.

Right. It really was time for bed.

**..**

A loud ring echoed through the flat and John had a mental image of a knife cutting his eardrums. The harmonics of the sound against the wall resonated inside his head, and it hurt. He tried to shut it with a pillow, but the ring echoed again and it served him as a spring to get out of bed.

"Coming!" He shouted. He arranged the robe around his shoulders and went downstairs in a hurry. Sherlock was nowhere to be found and Mrs. Hudson wasn't home either. The books Sherlock had taken from his room last night were neatly next to the leather chair.

John opened the door and what he saw next was something near to a vision. The man in front was the real canon of male beauty; a tall, well formed man, brown hair, dark eyes, light skin, he was wearing a leather jacket, jeans and boots. His face was friendly and he had really handsome and masculine features.

"Hello, are you Mr. Watson? Doctor John Watson?"

John had to blink a couple of times. Even he had to admit it, the bloke in front was a little too much. The voice reminded him right away of an infomercial. It wasn't a deep voice, but it was utterly masculine and it suited perfectly into the canon of the man.

"Hello, yes..." John squinted. The light of the faint sun outside was hurting his sleepy eyes.

"And this is where Mr. Holmes lives?"

"Yes. Yes... sorry to greet you like this, but we were working late night on a case..."

"Oh, no worries. I have a case you might be interested in... And I'm a huge fan of your blog! Man, I can't believe I'm meeting you for real!"

John smiled taking the hand the man offered and shook it hard. His eyes still little and his lips forming a discomforted line because of the light.

"May I come in?" Asked the man, when he saw the light was bothering him so much.

"Oh, yes. Sorry, come in." John had to fight a yawn. They walked upstairs. John was wondering what time it was. He knew it couldn't be so late in the afternoon. "Give me a minute please, you can wait here."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson." The man said, he took a sit on the chair offered by John in the living room.

"What's your name?"

"Armand Smith."

"Okay. Well, just wait here, Sherlock is, uh... I mean, we can discuss the case meanwhile, but you must know, he is the one to decide if the case will be taken or not."

"I know. I've read your blog enough. Man! I can't wait to meet him too!"

John frowned and turned his back to the young man, early thirties or late twenties, easily deductable. When the man was out of sight, John sighed and smiled. 'Fanboy'.

'Client. Come home soon.' sent at 12:41.

Notes:

If you don't know who Armand might be, read chapter 7 again.

He HAD to appear. JUST HAD. I'm sorry!

I picture Armand as Matt Smith, might help the mental image.

Chapter 13: Hot Line Case I – Prelude

In Christine's house, a couple of beeps could be heard from Sherlock's pocket. He just kept on talking to her, not paying attention to his phone.

"So, as I told you…" he told her after explaining the situation, "I think it would be on your own behalf if you stop lying to yourself. You knew the answer all along. Now it's up to you if you do something about this." Sherlock spoke seriously; a middle aged woman, younger than Mrs. Hudson, listened intently. Her eyes danced up and down the younger detective's face. Her expression indescribable. She wanted to get mad. She should be mad at the situation, but the expression on the man's face didn't let her. He was expressionless. There was no judgment in there, as she feared, but only knowledge of the circumstances, nothing else. Christine's hand searched blindly for the arm of the chair next to her. She needed to sit down, her knees were failing her. Sherlock reached for her arm and pulled the chair closer to her.

"Thank you." The woman whispered. Sherlock's face was still expressionless. He straightened up and bent his coat's collar up, intending to leave. When she noted the gesture, she stopped him asking "How much do I owe you?"

Sherlock turned around and saw the woman's chin and lower lip trembling lightly.

He smiled to her, it was bittersweet, but a kind smile; he didn't say a word. He paced to the main door, opened it, eyed once more the troubled woman on the chair and walked outside. Once the door was closed, the detective noticed a disturbing silence and then... there it was. He heard a throaty shout, some kind of glass breaking and the woman crying, loudly. Animalistic sounds coming out from her throat, combined with coughs and gasps. Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the chilly air hurting a bit his nostrils. He didn't want to listen anymore, point was already proven, so he walked away fast. It disturbed him somehow. The book he had read last night described a bunch of expected reactions coming from a parent; frustration, disappointment and self-blame being the main of them.

Once away he felt himself craving for a coffee. Nicotine patches long gone since early this morning. He got closer to a little cart and almost bought two cups, out of habit.

He sat on a bench next to a very large tree, supported his elbows on his knees and stretched his back a little, moving his shoulder blades forward, a little groan escaping his throat as he did that. A homeless sat at the other corner of the bench, completely covered in a blanket.

"Everything good? You seem down." A woman's voice asked from deep down the layers of fabric. He recognized the voice.

"Everything good, Marie." Sherlock sipped his coffee and let out a loud and satisfactory sigh. A soft chuckle could be heard from under the blankets.

"You've changed."

Sherlock glared at her and exhaled. "Nonsense."

"You have, sweetie."

Sherlock took yet another sip from his coffee. The hot liquid in contrast with the cold air felt splendid. Again, a bitter smile crossed his face, this time for entirely different reasons 'Nicotine, less than a minute. Caffeine, more than thirty…' he recited the effects in his mind as he gulped down another big amount of the liquid.

Still with the coffee in his hand, he stood up and bought another one. He walked to the other side of the bench and handed it to the mountain of blankets.

"Three sugars, if I recall correctly?" a hand emerged from its confines. He had a glance of a very innocent and pleased smile. She took the offered cup and sipped from it, an appreciative sound coming from in between the blanket. He supported his back on the tree next to her and took off his phone, taking a big gulp of the warm liquid.

'I need you here. ASAP. - GL' received at 12:35.

'Client. Come home soon.' received at 12:41.

Two! That was lovely! Sherlock's face lit up, his lips curved in a smile. His thumb moved frantically over the phone.

'I leave the decision in your hands. If we take the case, play hard to get for a while. Let me know once I get home, going to the Yard right now. -S' sent at 13:16.

'On my way. Better be good. -SH' sent at 13:18.

Slowly, a grin formed on the face of the tall man, he stretched a bit again and walked away saving the phone inside his shirt pocket.

"Dear!"

He stopped at the woman's voice, but didn't turn to look.

"Cheer up!"

He walked away rapidly, grin still on his features; the expectative of having two cases cooking in the oven promised a lot of brain work.

**..**

'I leave the decision in your hands. If we take the case, play hard to get for a while. Let me know once I get home, going to the Yard right now. -S' received at 13:16.

"Great…" John muttered, eyes fixed on his phone.

"Well?" The handsome young man inquired expectantly, big eyes staring at John.

"Uh… well, bad news. You probably won't be meeting Sherlock for now." John read the facts he had scribbled on his notepad.

Armand grimaced shortly, his face returning back to normal immediately, he took a gulp of the tea John had offered earlier. The doctor really was somehow enchanted with the personality of the younger man, he was charming. He was the complete opposite to Sherlock and himself. He seemed clueless most of the time and reflected every emotion on his face. His speech and manners were sincere and the ambiguity in him was nonexistent; he was like an open book. But, according to what they've talked, John could also say how, even in his clueless nature, he was a very intelligent man. Armand seemed the type of person to follow his every need and instinct, not giving anything too much thought.

"So, you want us to investigate the reason of the hot line company's shut down..."

"Yes! You know, Dr. Watson, I've been working there for a long time now... years, actually. When I was in Uni, I paid most of my studies thanks to the company. I am working there now just because I like it. There are so many people alone, looking for someone just to chat to… making fantasies come true. It is really, a very noble job... at least under the light I see it."

"I think I get it… but I need to know now. Why do you suspect that something is out of place? The company could be shutting down because of their finances, were those failing? You know... bankruptcy?"

"I don't think so... I know the bloke at the financial department. They were even thinking about expanding!" Armand brushed his fingertips to his lips, thinking, remembering, "There was a little company they wanted to buy, so they could merge them together. The rumour was strong among us, workers. And soon Xavier confirmed it to me. Oh, by the way, Xavier is the financials' headmaster I was talking to you about before…"

"And what happened to this little company?"

"I wish I knew... it just... vanished in thin air. I searched with Xavier and there are no records of it."

"There has to be something…" John muttered scratching the bridge of his nose with the pencil.

"You see, Dr. Watson…" Armand got closer to the doctor, placing his forearms over his knees and tangling his finger in front,"...I think... if we can find the reason why the little company disappeared, we might also find the reason why the bigger company is also collapsing."

"And do you have any suspicion?"

"I do." Armand tapped the back of his hand in a nervous gesture, he lifted his brows and chewed on his lower lip. He eyed around the flat and got even closer to John, sitting at the edge of the chair. "I think it's a passional crime" he whispered finally.

"A passionate crime!" John giggled at the term used, "You like detective stories?"

"I do!" Armand ran his fingers through the long locks falling over his eyes. "It was the way I got to your blog in the first place! Really nice move there, by the way... the pictures for the criminals to tell you apart from Mr. Holmes..." Armand chuckled.

"It was necessary, believe me." John said lifting one eyebrow and shaking his head with a smile, Armand snorted at that, "they confused us once already... now, why do you think it's a passionate crime?"

"Well you see, it's only a rumour as I said, but they say the company is a cover-up for people's black market… especially young women. They are under the department of exotic fantasies... it's uh…"

"Fantasies?" John's brows were high in his forehead.

"Yeah, the hot line works under departments, the exotic one has women and men, most of them only girls tho'. They are usually from different countries... they talk with an accent. It's all good as long as you have an accent."

"And you have been working there for years, and never heard a thing until recently?"

"No, I'm a under a different department. It's not even in the same facility so I never saw anything, to be honest. I only heard about it yesterday." The young man sighed tiredly, "I came here all the way from the other side of London, just to find you and Mr. Holmes as soon as I heard."

John massaged his temples and sighed. The cheerful nature of the young man in front seemed completely gone as he spoke of the market and the girls. He was like a totally different person now; his intense gaze directed to the doctor didn't fade, but his voice had lowered quite a bit, and there was a light tremor in it.

"Please, Dr. Watson?" John was writing frantically on his notebook, but he stopped at the pleading tone and lifted his gaze to the man in front. "Please, take the case."

John didn't know what to say, at the loss of words, he searched for his phone in his pocket and texted Sherlock.

'Taking the case. Details during lunch.' sent at 13:54.

"Mr. Smi-"

"Oh no, no. Armand, please." John darted his brows up, giving him a quizzical look.

"Armand, I have to check if Sherlock wants to take your case first..."

"I am going to pay you! I've saved enough, and I'm willing to pay the price. I just want to know the truth. Please..." John closed his lips tightly and eyed the man in front with a very resigned expression.

"I can try to convince him…" John said. Deep inside, if what Armand said was true, John didn't have the heart to take the money from this guy.

"Really? Awesome!" the face of the handsome man lit up again. You could easily say John had injected adrenaline right into his veins with that phrase. He lifted himself from his chair almost with a jump and took a couple of papers from his jacket. He handed it to the doctor. "This is my phone and my address. My complete name is in there. There are also the addresses of every facility the company owns; Xavier gave them to me. Do you think you are going to need anything else from me?"

John took the papers and eyed them as he spoke. "I doubt it. This is good enough. But since I have your number, I will contact you as soon as I have news, okay?"

"Okay." Armand made his way to the door. His walking pace was secure and his movements smooth. He moved a bit like Sherlock, but not as gracious, as John noticed. "And... Dr. Watson?"

"Mm?"

"Nobody can ever know I gave you this information. My name can't be known."

When they reached the first floor, Armand turned at John again, he took John's hand with both of his and shook it with a firm grip, the army doctor returned the gesture.

John went back upstairs slowly, writing a text at the same time.

'Still in the yard?' sent at 14:18.

John took his time to take a shower. He reached his phone as soon as he stepped out, a towel around his neck.

'Yes, taking details here, it seems a people's black market.' received at 14:23.

There was a flash in John's look, confusion and soon a frown followed.

'We need to meet. Let me know place and time.' sent at 14:31.

**..**

John noted how every time Sherlock arrived to any place, the man appeared to float around the crowd, around tables and chairs and the very air. Sherlock soon was sitting in front.

The restaurant where Sherlock lured John was far from chic: the tables were modest, the chairs uncomfortable, there was only fast, fatty food… awful. John really hated this kind of places, but there was someone else who had to join them and, according to Sherlock, the meeting had to be there.

"I know you are uncomfortable," Sherlock said with a little smile, "but I promise... at least pizza is... edible." He added apologetically, placing his scarf on his lap.

John's lips curved up and went down back just as quickly. He gulped the beer he ordered before Sherlock arrived.

Sherlock scanned impatiently John's face. John held a very apathetic demeanour, seemingly he didn't want to talk, his lips were still placed at the border of the glass. The detective rushed himself to ask "Well?"

"You go first, Sherlock. Why did Lestrade need you in the Yard? You said something about a black market's…?"

Sherlock took a little notepad from his pocket; he opened it and handed it to John, the doctor read carefully.

'Facilities, number, find the code, people's market, accent…' John lifted an eyebrow at the expectant face in front. "What is this?"

"The only rambling Lestrade was able to give me…" Sherlock supported his chin on his palm, his elbow on the table, fingertips tapping his upper lip... all of his posture suggested boredom. "At the end… all they had was ramble."

"He didn't say anything about a hot line?"

Sherlock almost jumped in his seat. His palm no longer held his chin and his expression reflected nothing but shock. His little book was being returned but he didn't care. Sherlock felt something moving inside his stomach when John said hot line. He hurried to say something... anything.

"Why would he say something about a hot line?" he asked, taking the book carelessly. His breathing had increased, John just frowned at the oddness of it.

"Look at this…" John took his own notebook from his pocket, searched for a page and handed it to Sherlock "…it's our client's ramble. I have reasons to believe we were accepting the same case…"

Before Sherlock could get a hold of the little book, a very old man in a suit appeared. He had white beard, long white hair that rested on a pony tail over the back of his neck. It gave him a very distinguish look. He stretched John's hand in silence and Sherlock's before claiming the empty chair next the detective.

"And?" Sherlock opened big eyes at the man, who just answered handing a paper to him.

"It's all I could find, Mr. Holmes," the old man whispered, "one of these numbers must be the one you're looking for, the other numbers are codes. One of them has to be it... not sure which one though..."

"That will do, as always, you're a big help Mr. Groundsel."

"Mr. Holmes..." the man continued in the same hushed voice, "I have the feeling that, whatever you're going to find in this case, might really compromise the integrity of my employer. Please, under any circumstance, never mention I was the one who gave you this information."

Sherlock's brows went down quickly, as if just being insulted.

"Who do you think you're talking to, Mr. Groundsel? Of course everything is confidential. You know me well enough."

"I never meant to offend you, Mr. Holmes," said the man regretfully, "it's just... this is the most risky thing I've ever gotten myself into, so I'm sure you understand me, I'm a little anxious."

John watched the scene in complete silence, ideas going round and round inside his head. He could sense the respect the older man professed to his young friend. As they talked, the bubble they were in was getting thicker and, for the first time, John felt like an outsider. Usually, Sherlock's friends would always tell him something about the detective, they would be the ones to introduce themselves, generally letting him know how they had met. Like Angelo... or Louis. Now this old man in front was mysterious, but he was still clearly helping Sherlock, despite how frightened he looked.

After the old man's last words, Sherlock gave him a friendly pat on the upper arm and smiled.

"I would never."

The old man smirked and lifted himself from the chair.

"I won't see you around, Mr. Holmes. It was good to never see you again." The man stated with a wider grin.

"It was good to never see you again too, Mr. Groundsel."

The man turned to John and stretched his hand without a word. Sherlock watched through the window as the old man took a cab and left hurriedly.

John opened his mouth to ask but Sherlock's stopped him.

"Mr. Groundsel, John, is a false name. He is an informer, works with my brother but there are times he can give me information without my brother's knowledge."

John nodded. He had completely forgotten about his notebook now in front of Sherlock, unopened. When he was about to say something about it, a young woman approached them asking Sherlock if he was going to have 'the usual', the detective just smiled and nodded.

The doctor was about to talk again, but Sherlock took his notebook and searched for the last written page. John sighed, frustrated.

"So, the case." John took another gulp of his beer.

"The... case..." Sherlock repeated absentmindly. When he finally reached the last page he read aloud, "passionate crime, hot line facilities, people with accent... really John..." he added looking over at his friend, "I wasn't lying when I said you should become a professional author..."

"Yours are not better." John answered with a snort. "They are just notes, Sherlock... I was planning to explain them to you now anyway."

"Go ahead." Sherlock positioned his elbows over the table and waited, leaving the little book in front.

Sherlock rubbed his lower lip pensively with his index as he listened carefully at John. He was explaining every little detail, but he never named Armand. Sherlock was noticing that the little experiment with the hot line a few weeks ago and the case were hardly related. He tried to calm himself, he had to stop thinking about such a trivial and pointless thing. The detective joined the dots very soon.

"Alright..." Sherlock said, sighing. "So, we have this hot line which tells us quite a bit. Lestrade told me they were looking for the cover-up business. John..." Sherlock rubbed his temples, "they found a boat with people with no ID's, no passports, probably a people's market, but they couldn't track it down to the source..."

At that very moment, the girl who took the order arrived. She brought a familiar sized pizza; it seemed neat and appetizing. She placed it on the table with two forks, a black coffee for Sherlock. When the woman walked away, Sherlock snorted when he saw John's alienated expression. Big eyes blinked at the huge plate in front.

John continued his explanation between bites, talking about the bloke - as he referred to Armand – and how he explained about the little company the hot line was about to buy. He told him about the exotic fantasies, supposedly held by the people's black market... Sherlock listened carefully everything John was saying; he never asked the name of their client, too consumed in the facts for it to be relevant at all with the case.

**..**

First thing they had to do, according to Sherlock, was to go to the port to check out that boat. They took a cab and rode for about half an hour. As soon as they got there, the weather got horrible. Even when it was early in the afternoon, it was dark and grey and, being next to the water, the wind felt far chillier than downtown. John turned the collar of his jacket up, zipped it all the way up, and dunked his nose into it. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, safe from the cold.

"Now what?" John asked. The wind was strong too, so he had to raise his voice to be heard by the taller man next to him.

"We wait!" Sherlock looked around frantically, searching for a spot with good view to wait for the boat. According to Lestrade, a new boat should be arriving today, but there were no signs of any arrival or sailing. It was probable that the boat would arrive anytime soon, since the weather was getting uglier. "Follow me!" Sherlock screamed to the doctor, who followed him to a medium sized steel container with lots of nets and boats' supplies. Surprisingly, it was neat inside.

"They just changed these supplies today..." Sherlock said as he looked around. The container didn't have a door; it was like a big box tilted to a side. It was big enough for both of them sitting in there, comfortably, but was not big enough to be standing inside. It had an excellent view to the place the boats should arrive, but it was very unlikely they could be spotted. It was strategically placed.

"How can you know that?" John said panting a little as he followed Sherlock. Even when he enjoyed the adventures, and was very well acclimatized to uncomfortable spaces... he didn't like the idea of being secluded in there, for who knows how long. Not in a confined space with Sherlock.

"It's clean, and the supplies are new, maybe waiting for a new boat..." Sherlock sat over a folded net and waited for John. "I need your phone."

"You can't use your-!" John shook his head as he walked inside, bending up a little. "You never change, do you..."

"I need to make a call and mine is-"

"On the website, yes." John tossed his phone to his companion as he sat next to him. The detective immediately dialled the numbers the mysterious man gave him earlier. He called the hot line, feeling a little sense of déjà vu.

'Welcome to Hot Line, if you want to talk to a woman, please press one, if you want to talk to a man, please press two.'

Sherlock stared at the phone with a frown. It was the same hot line he had called before. Deep in his mind, he had the hope for it to be a different one.

"What are you doing?" John got closer to the detective. He had his knees pressed to his chest, and his arms wrapped around them, trying to keep himself warm. He didn't pay much attention on how close they were, it was cold and the source of heat was welcomed.

"I'm trying the numbers the man gave us in the restaurant…" Sherlock also moved closer to John, closing the few inches separating them. Their sides were completely lined up. "Whom do you want to talk to, a woman? A man?" Sherlock grinned as he questioned.

"Why?" John asked puzzled.

"Well I do have to press a number. One or two?"

"Erm… one?"

Sherlock pressed one and made a gesture to John to tilt his head, he placed the phone between their faces so John could hear as well. Their cheeks and ears were now only separated by the device in between. Soon, a recorded woman's voice could be heard by both of them.

'If your sex is male, please press one, if your sex is female please-'

John stretched his finger and pressed one before the record finished. Sherlock smirked at that.

'If you want to talk to a woman between twenty and thirty please press one, if you want to talk to a woman between thirty and forty, please press two, more than forty please press three.'

Sherlock pressed one. If he was to ask for information, chances were higher with a younger girl.

"Hello, how may I help you?" answered a nice woman's voice at the other side of the phone.

"Hello..." Sherlock said in a very deep and sensual tone. John's eyes snapped wide, he clenched his jaw as he felt the hot breath over his cheek. Sherlock continued, "I was wondering if I could have uh... an exotic fantasy?" now a silent little giggle was coming from the doctor. He never thought he would hear Sherlock say something like that. Of course he was aware it was a case and it was necessary. And Sherlock would do anything to solve a case. Hell, he had even seen him even having a cry when trying to get into Irene Adler's house.

There was a silence over the phone. Sherlock frowned and turned his face to John, who replied with a shrug.

"Sorry, sir..." the woman said, "but I am afraid we don't have a service under the name of exotic fantasy..."

"Are you sure..." Sherlock insisted in the same tone "I was told this was the best hot line 'cause you have all sort of... kinky fantasies..." John was open mouthed. There were some words that coming from Sherlock's lips sounded incredibly awkward.

"Well sir, there are special services, but they are only for-" the call went off.

There was beep after beep coming from the auricular. Soon, the device admitted the call was over, it hung up automatically. John and Sherlock turned their heads slowly towards each other.

"What happened there?" John asked trying not to pay attention at the closer face.

"I don't know..." Sherlock took the paper from the confines of his pocket and observed the numbers on it. He heard John clearing his throat and giving a throaty giggle at the same time.

"I never thought I would ever see you... or hear you, calling a hot line." John teased.

Sherlock snorted. He had thought about telling John about his little experiment, but then something always stopped him; he never talked about his experiments unless they've proven to be successful. The results of his hot line experiment weren't... or were? Since he wasn't even sure, there was no point on bringing it up. He had the answers he needed regarding his own body reactions, and that was enough.

"I proved myself by seducing you over the phone once... and I'm sure I can do it again, so why can't it work on another subject?"

John laughed.

"So you can seduce me again. What makes you so self-confident?"

"Hm..." Sherlock got closer to John's ear and purred, "John..."

"Sherlock..." there was a warning in John's voice.

"John... what are you wearing?"

John snorted, Sherlock giggled. They locked stares and laughed shortly. Sherlock's attention came back to the paper in front.

But John was still aware on how close they were. And even when the situation wasn't... proper, he just let his mind to fly free for a while. Sherlock's right side was completely pressed to his left one, all the way up starting at the leg to the shoulder. He could feel the movement of the other's hand as he worked on his notebook, deducing the numbers. The doctor tilted his head back, sighed audibly and observed their surroundings. A little spray fell from the sky now, it wasn't intense, but it was enough to make a white noise in the background as it hit the steel container over their heads.

He smiled despite himself; this situation was... romantic. All that was missing was a fireplace and a heart shaped rug, a bottle of champagne... and Sherlock in that... bloody blue robe with nothing underneath... and maybe a couple of strawberries covered in chocolate – strawberry flavoured sleeping pills covered in chocolate. He snorted at his own thought, he couldn't help it. His shoulders started to shake and soon a throaty little laugh escaped his lips. It was the first time in his life having such a thought, and about a man, at that. Months before, he would only imagine a naked woman – or in a nighty, in a compromising position and... that would be all.

"What." Sherlock turned to John with a confused frown. The light outside was still enough to read, even, so Sherlock had a really good view of his friend with the little distance separating their faces; the doctor was flushed and was still giggling uncontrollably.

"Oh, don't mind me, Sherlock," John still had this grin all over his face, his shoulders were still shaking lightly, "I was just thinking about something really..." John cleared his throat again as he searched for words.

"Go on..." Sherlock said, completely focused on his friend now. John hissed shakily.

"Do you even realize how awkward this situation is...? You and me, hiding in a little secluded space, rain outside... it's almost... I don't know."

A short throaty giggle resonated in the quiet space, the showery background noise became a little more intense. The lights at the street and in the port went on so the little drops were visible against the orange blur of the lights.

"Maybe the word you're looking for is romantic, idealistic..."

"Romantic?" John snorted again, "I don't know if I'm even allowed to think about something romantic... less ideal... we're in such a dreadful case, Sherlock... but yeah, that was the word I was looking for."

"We know nothing concrete yet about the case, John. Making assumptions is not going to lead us anywhere... and besides," Sherlock turned his face completely at John now, pale eyes fixated in deep blue ones, "I really thought you would say something like... I don't know, there are no romantic situations between two male friends, perhaps?"

"Sherlock...!" John smiled wide in disbelieve, "hell...! We've even..."

"I'm very aware of what we did, John."

"But you never talk about-"

"I don't think it needs to be discussed. You very well know what I felt, what we both felt... and you are also very aware about my body reactions to your closeness, the endorphins I release when I'm with you..." Sherlock never took his eyes from John's, "...and the state we both could- oh!" Sherlock's attention went back to the little notepad in front. His lips still forming the 'oh', despite the sound of his voice had already faded.

"John! I think I've g-"

"Shh!" John put his hand over Sherlock's thigh and squeezed lightly, making a gesture with his other hand; placing his index finger over his own lips as a warning to be silent. Then he moved his finger and pointed to the mist in front. As soon as Sherlock lifted his gaze to follow John's finger, he saw people walking. John's senses were sharp, so he saw the movement in the fog before the people appeared at plain sight.

From the good view they had, and the dark, which now had an important role aiming on their behalf, they saw how from in between the people, a petite, blonde woman emerged and eyed her surroundings. When she saw there was nobody at sight, she took a phone from her pocket and talked for less than a minute. Behind her, about seven young girls, five with dark skin and two with light skin, were tied up with ropes around their wrists. They were wearing very fancy clothes. It was a contradictory view, but soon Sherlock realised how logical it was.

From their hiding place, they heard a vehicle; it didn't sound like a big one. Next thing they saw was the petite blonde making a gesture to the girls. Sherlock moved quietly to the entry of the container, on all fours, and saw how all of them disappeared inside the pickup. He memorized the plate number and then crawled back and sat next to John. He wrote down the number on the notepad.

At the same time, John was concentrated looking where the people had come from. The wind wasn't strong now, but it still moved the fog a bit here and there, and John could make the shape of a little boat with no motor, so that's why they never heard any boat arriving to the port.

They waited in silence about half an hour more, being precautious in case somebody had been left behind to guard the safety of the operation, but since they saw no more movement in the port, soon they were out trying to hail a cab back home.

**..**

"Yes, Lestrade, I need to know only the location of the vehicle I described, but please, don't send incompetents; all I need is to know where it is, then leave the rest to us."

John was listening to Sherlock's conversation at the phone with Lestrade, but he wasn't paying attention to it. Sherlock's words were tattooed in his brain now. At the same time he was thinking about the people's market. He had seen it in Afghanistan; women obligated to leave their families behind, after the promise of a better life quality for them and their families. John had memories for a life time with the war and all he had to witness.

As the detective talked over the phone they entered their flat, taking off their wet clothes. Soon Sherlock was sitting on his chair with the notepad over his lap, John was curious about the discovery Sherlock had made in the port, so he just followed and sat on the chair in front.

"You're brilliant, John!" Sherlock scribbled on the notepad frantically, John only saw numbers "Incredibly stimulating!"

John pouted and lifted his brows.

"Why I am so bloody stimulating now?" John questioned in a whisper. Sherlock let out a little chuckle.

"I was talking to you about the state our bodies are when being too close to each other, or if we stimulate our-"

"Sherlock...!" John cut Sherlock off at the middle of the sentence. This really was not the time to talk about the matter, less with Sherlock's poker face as he did so. How could Sherlock talk about such matter just like that? "What is it? The state of what?" John asked.

"The status, John! The woman over the phone said that there were indeed special services, and the conversation went off when she said 'only for'...?" Sherlock waved his arm and hand in front of John, as if expecting John to finish the sentence.

"For...?"

"Can't you see it, John?" Sherlock planted the notepad right in front of John's nose, but all he could see were numbers.

'1-1-4+code / 1-1-5+code / 1-1-6+code / 2-1-4+code / 2-1-5+code / 2-1-6+code / 1-2-4+code / 1-2-5+code / 1-2-6+code'

John stared at the notebook for a couple of seconds and then glared at Sherlock.

"Oh for God's sake..." Sherlock whispered "as always! You see but you do not observe! Observe, John!" John smiled and shook his head, Sherlock was talking in that tone, the tone was rude and loud, almost a scream, frustrated. The detective took a big gulp of air and blinked slowly, "I need to speak with the man who visited you this morning." He added, returning his voice to his dangerous lower tone and pointing his index finger to the floor.

John sighed and threw his head back at the chair, he was exasperated. His hair was wet, he needed a shower and a hot tea... and he really wasn't following this overly dramatic detective.

"Sherlock, please explain..." The detective clenched his jaw and his fists at the question. Then he started to talk rapidly.

"When you entered the container I asked you to pick up a number between one and two. You chose one by chance, but that only made us talk with a woman. The recording voice then asked for another number, you pressed one yourself because we're both males. Oh you still don't see it, don't you? It must be so placid in there!" Sherlock waved his hand in John's direction, "The numbers, John! The third option we had was to talk to a woman or a man according to the ages, that option only had three numbers. Three-numbers! But now we have a fourth, a fifth and a sixth!"

John brought his eyebrows together and blinked a couple of times. Then he got it.

"Oh, so the options are hidden?" Sherlock nodded, "but what about the code?"

"That's why we need our client! It must be some kind of internal code...This is brilliant John! We must test this!" Sherlock saw the time in his watch, it was nearly nine p.m. and mumbled quickly "but not now, no. It's too early and the people who own the company and dragged the girls earlier must be still around the facilities. We must wait for a later hour, where most of them are asleep, so we can find the girls alone and phone them, since it's a twenty-four hours service. We're not calling now..." he added, his voice coming back to a normal speed "...we have to wait."

"How did you get to that conclusion...? It's fantastic!"

Sherlock smiled; his face showed openly how pleased he was with himself and with John's compliment.

Soon John remembered something.

"Sherlock? What happened to the case from yesterday...? Christine?"

The man in front didn't answer but stood up quickly, took one of the books beside the chair and opened it in a marked page. He handed it to John.

"Oh so you did tell her..."

"I'm going to take a shower now John, tell me your analysis when I come back."

"...Great."

Sherlock disappeared to the bathroom and the doctor was left with the book over his palms. He rolled his eyes and, giving an infuriated sigh, he read the contents of the marked page of the book; there it was explained the reaction of a parent: rage, self-blame, disappointment, frustration... it also explained how a parent could have a severe long lasting depression, and then the way to let it out. There were people who threw objects against walls, others who screamed. Then it was compared to another situation, when people tends to introspect; people with anxiety for eating, or talking, or neither... it even explained about suicidal tendencies. He closed the book, hoping Christine weren't one of the last.

Now, John couldn't help but wonder why Sherlock didn't want to talk about it... maybe he just didn't know how to explain it. It would be easier to explain how the mother reacted, but Sherlock had made him read and conclude by himself. John smiled bitterly. There were still things about normal actions and reactions which Sherlock wasn't comfortable with.

When Sherlock returned, he was fully dressed again, his blue robe – the blue robe, John thought immediately about the strawberry pills and chocolates –, and his laptop, he sat back on his chair.

"Dressed?"

"We can't know if we have to go out in the middle of the night." He said browsing something on the internet.

"Right." It was John's turn to claim the shower.

**..**

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson walked upstairs hurriedly; Sherlock was still doing some internet research meanwhile John was in the shower. "You have a..."

"Bring him up!" cried Sherlock, not bothering in lifting himself from his leather chair.

A drenched man entered the flat guided by Mrs. Hudson, who handed a towel to the young man, a chair and then went downstairs as quickly as her hip allowed. She knew her boys were on a case, so she tried to disturb them as little as possible.

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the computer and observed the man at the doorframe. [General] Been walking – running – in the light rain for hours. [Face] Bleeding cheekbone, he was in a fight. [Hair] Wet, obviously. [Eyes] Haven't slept for several hours. [Lips and brows] He talks a lot. [Dressing and hair style] He has a job in which you probably don't have to show yourself.

"So, you're the man that came today into our flat," Sherlock stated, staring at the guy and then looking somewhere else. He didn't miss the expression of adoration on the man's handsome features, "you're the man working at the hot line, you came today to present your case whilst I was gone... you're being chased by the company, because somehow they knew you talked with us. You should know, that people usually know where we live, so if you were planning in looking for shelter I wouldn't hold onto much hope."

When Sherlock finished talking, he sensed the lack of response from the man in front, when he turned his head he saw the poor young man with his lips slightly open, eyes stretched in a way that seemed almost unnatural, and his shoulders shaking for either cold or nervousness.

The man walked hurriedly to Sherlock, who didn't move a muscle, and stopped when he was just a couple of centimetres apart.

"You're him."

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock said with a frown. He knew that voice and soon the realization hit him, he got surprised how his body responded to that, he wasn't used to have a physical reaction from a mere thought, but his stomach felt revolted. He wasn't used to deal with a real person after an experiment, since they usually involved people – or part of those people – whom... just couldn't demand an explanation after the experimentation.

"No I mean... you're him. I talked to you... oh my God, I can't believe it..." Sherlock's frown got deeper if possible. The young man continued, "I could recognise that voice anywhere! Man..." he got closer and lowered his voice "I've been dreaming about that voice and that face for weeks...!"

"I'm... sorry? I really think you're confusing me with someone else..." Sherlock's gaze returned to the screen in front. But the handsome man got even closer and bent, so his face was right in front the detective's. Then, he took Sherlock's hand on his and stared at his eyes adoringly. "I can't! You know... the conversations we have on the line are always deleted after a couple of days, but I had to ask for a copy of ours. I just... couldn't... let you go."

Sherlock made a sarcastic grin with a snort.

"No, really. My voice sounds different over the phone. So it's possible you're just confusing things. What's your name?"

"Armand! Armand Smith!"

At the same time John came out from the shower with a towel around his neck, a robe and messy hair. He saw how Armand had Sherlock's hand in his. John lifted an eyebrow at them and coughed lightly.

"Armand? What's going on?" John tried to sound indifferent, but inside he was a chaos. He hated right away the oddly familiarity of the young man, but then again, he remembered how he had been greeted the same way today. And besides, it was too obvious Armand seemed far more interested to meet Sherlock for real than the doctor himself.

Chapter 14: Hot Line Case II – Armand's unravelling

A strange sense of déjà vu invaded the doctor; his memory travelled to the past for a few nanoseconds, and he saw himself walking in on Irene and Sherlock when she was naked in front of him. Sherlock had exactly the same expression; like saying 'I'm still in charge of myself but I can't deny that I'm uncomfortable'. But John paid a little more of attention, and he saw Armand's pitiable state.

Indeed, Armand was a mess; his clothes were drenched, his hair was plastered to his face, his right cheek had a bleeding cut the rain had taken care to clean, but the trail of blood was still visible and lost inside his shirt.

When Armand saw John, he explained immediately how he had been attacked, as soon as he got to his home, and how he had escaped. Sherlock realized the man wasn't talking about the phone...incident. It was obvious, considering the personality of the man that he still wanted to keep the worker-client bond of confidentiality. The detective felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders; he really didn't want to explain it to John. As the man kept on talking, Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with a tray of cookies, bread and jam. She insisted on Armand taking a warm shower and obliged Sherlock to lend him some clothes.

John laughed silently at the situation. Sherlock sulked as he followed the landlady's command. Seriously, she could make wonders with the stubborn man. Soon Sherlock tossed him some clothes which John recognised as one of the homeless' disguise.

A while later, John checked the injury; it was made with a sharp blade but thankfully it wasn't deep.

"I'm really flattered by your hospitality... I don't know what to say..." Armand said as John finished checking the injury, "but I don't want to impose... you've been very kind, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes..."

Armand walked to the door intending to leave, but Sherlock stopped him. "I still need to know the codes." He said, a frown still fixated on the screen in front. "I can't find anything on the internet; I think you might be of help. I suppose you weren't followed."

"I don't think so..." the young man said scratching his head, "I ran a lot, really, and hailed at least four cabs to distract them. Then I walked in every possible direction until I got here." Armand searched in his jacket's pocket and he passed Sherlock a card, the detective motioned to a chair near the window making him sit, John sat in his usual chair. Sherlock placed the laptop aside and joined in the conversation about to begin.

"Each one of the employers has a unique code," Armand spoke looking intently at the detective, "I never really thought so much about it, but you get one the first time you have a call. You introduce the code in the phone you're going to use, just then you can get clients. So, they record the conversation, they follow your progress and then they pay you according the length of the call."

"They record the conversations..." John thought aloud and then looking at Sherlock he added "...that's why they cut off the conversation with the woman when you asked about the exotic fantasies."

Sherlock swallowed silently a sudden lump he felt in his throat. Armand didn't miss this detail, but he ignored it, returning his attention to the detective and the doctor.

"They do, but they usually erase them after one day or two... you can ask for a copy if you liked the conversation too much, tho'..." added the young man.

"That shouldn't be allowed..." John said, "Isn't that against the law of client’s confidentiality?"

"Yep. But they make us sign a contract that contains the hour and the day of the call, explaining all the legal background of that action... it's not an easy thing to do." Armand stared intently at the detective in front; he noted his face was facing him but his eyes were looking at John.

"I see..." Sherlock said rubbing his upper lip with his index finger, "so this code, what logic does it have?"

"It's just a number. That, " he pointed to the card Sherlock was playing with between his fingers "is my member card, it has my number."

Sherlock observed the card and John got closer to it. It just said 'Armand Smith, 0212020011901' and a bar code.

"What is this code... the number doesn't make much sense." Sherlock stared at the card for a moment and sighed. John lifted himself from his chair giving a tired groan in the process.

"Sherlock, whatever it is, I'm sure we can put up with this when Lestrade finds the pickup. Then maybe we can ask more questions. I'm off to bed and you, Mr. Holmes, should do the same. You haven't slept in two days!"

"I'm fine."

"Jesus..." John whispered, walking to his room "okay, good night, but you wake me up in case anything happens. Don't trust you going alone anywhere without any sleep."

Sherlock smiled and kept his stare on the card. Soon, a door was heard and the flat remained in a very deep silence for a long time. The light was dim and the rain outside was finally subsiding. Armand watched intently at the detective, taking in every little detail of his ethereal form. He was obsessed with the long fingers playing with the card, the cheekbones, the eyes, the parted lips mumbling the code 'o, two, one...', the curls... his eyes then moved lower, he noted the way he had three buttons opened in the front of his blue shirt, the prominent collarbones...

"You don't fool me, Sherlock..." the soft masculine voice cut the silence like a blade, Sherlock just looked up to the man in front "I know it was you."

Sherlock just blinked slowly, never breaking the eye contact.

At the lack of response, Armand continued, "I've been working with voices for years and besides..." Armand closed a bit his eyes and added "...I knew it was you from the moment you told me you were in a sheet. I read the blog, you know. I know about Buckingham Palace... and I also know about that ashtray over there." He said, pointing in the direction of the desk.

Sherlock just sighed and chuckled lowly and shortly, it reminded Armand to those antagonists of the kid's movies. "Oh... John and his blog..." the detective added in a husky tone.

The feeling he was having with the man in front was similar to the one he felt with The Woman naked in front. He wasn't used to be faced like this. To be trapped. He tried to scan him. There was nothing in the man that wasn't screaming to be known.

"And what diffrn uh..." Sherlock cleared his throat, "What difference does it make whether it was me on the phone or not?" as long as he said the last word he noted that there was something wrong. The same thing had happened with Irene, his tongue had tied. It was only the second time in his life he had experienced that.

"A lot." Armand pulled his chair closer to the detective, sitting right in front, noticing the nervousness of the man. Their knees were touching, but Sherlock didn't move back.

Armand was an expert dealing with feelings. He had studied them over the years in the voice of the many people who talked with him. "I've been dreaming about you, Sherlock. I see your face in my dreams, you know... I hear your voice in my fantasies..."

"Is that so?"

"Sherlock..." Armand's back stretched forward in the chair, getting even closer to the detective "...you must know, I always, at least try, to get what I want..."

Armand placed both of his hands over Sherlock's knees and moved them up his thighs a little and then back down.

Sherlock realized that he didn't feel anything at the touch. Armand's voice was mellow, yes. And his touch was soft and firm, also yes. But still, Sherlock felt a bit like a corpse being examined. The feeling intoxicated him and made him a little nauseated.

"And I want you, Sherlock." Armand lifted himself from the chair, he took the card from Sherlock's fingers and put it in the detective’s shirt breast pocket. Then he moved his lips closer his left ear, his hand cupped the opposite jaw. Slowly, he moved his fingers to the back of his neck "I've wanted you since the day I read the blog..." at this, Sherlock opened wide eyes. The young man continued, "I can tell you like the attention. You get upset 'cause no one seems to take in consideration your analytical reasoning..."

"John does." Sherlock said in a whispered voice "And he expresses that in every variable existent in the English language."

"I can do that, too" Sherlock startled a little when he felt Armand kissing lightly his earlobe, he felt then a light nibbling, "I seriously think you're brilliant. Every case I read on the blog exposes your intelligence and your analytical power. Your mind... must be... a fortress, full of information, a computer that never shuts..." the hot breath of the younger man was tickling his ear.

"It is." Sherlock couldn't help a little smile. He remembered once John had said, almost a year ago 'You are capable even of blushing when someone praises your intelligence, Sherlock... you're like a girl bragging about her beauty, for God's sake...' [1]

Armand smiled too, his lips moved to ghost below his ear. "I read the comments, the communication between you two... oh I'm so jealous of Dr. Watson..."

"You don't know me, Armand. How can you possibly talk about feelings when you-"

"I'm still talking about feelings, Sherlock. I feel things when I read your comments on the blog, I felt things when I talked to you, I feel things when I hear your voice now..." Armand then moved Sherlock's hand to his chest, in a similar way Sherlock had done with John before. There, he could feel a rapid heartbeat. He also noted that Armand's pupils were dilated and his breathing rate had increased considerably.

Sherlock moved his hand to Armand's arm, he wanted to be released from the embrace, but then, this could lead to another little experiment.

"I feel things even when I see your picture in the newspaper..."

"Armand...?" Sherlock's voice was low, dangerous, it had a warning label.

"Even when I hate that hat."

Sherlock let out a little snort at that. He hated that hat, too. Armand continued. "You asked me, if I thought the arousal state was controlled by the mind, remember?"

"Of course I do."

"So... what do I need to do to stimulate your mind?"

"You can't, apparently."

"Sherlock... would you like to repeat the experience we had over the phone, but this time here?"

"If we were to repeat the experience," Sherlock said in a whispered tone, intimate tone, "I'm afraid you would be the one enjoying it the most."

At that, Armand 's lips got closer and, without being able to control himself any longer, he kissed Sherlock's jaw below his ear, then his neck, softly at first, but then intensely. He pressed his lips against the creamy, fair flesh and parted them slowly. "I will enjoy it, alright." He mumbled against his skin.

Sherlock got surprised how, even when he was aware of the ministrations of the younger man, he didn't feel anything. Of course he felt the hot lips, the hot breathing, the ticklish feeling on his ear, but nothing he could even compare to the data he held of sexual arousal. The touch was just a touch, the breathing was just a hot blow that could be easily compared to a hair dryer.

"I thought sex was about your partner's pleasure as well..." Sherlock said with a grin.

"I'll make sure you enjoy it, Sherlock..." Armand kissed his neck again and ran his lips to the detective's collarbone, slowly. When he got there, Sherlock took Armand's hand from his neck and planted it over his trouser, right above his cock, making pressure, with a firm grip on the man's wrist.

Armand froze. His lips were no longer kissing him, Sherlock just felt hot blows of air at his neck; the man was panting. After a couple of seconds, Armand withdrew slowly from the detective, sitting back on the chair in front of Sherlock. His lips were parted, still seeking for air, his cheeks flushed. He ran his hand over his forehead taking a few locks of hair that fell over it and stared at Sherlock.

"So you didn't...?"

"I don't feel anything with you- my mind isn't... stimulated by you." The detective said making a prayer position, resting his chin over his fingertips.

"But... I thought... I mean... not even on the phone... when you called me John?"

"I was conducting an experiment," he said indifferently, as if that was the most ordinary thing to do, "and besides, you told me yourself you wanted to be called... John."

"So... everything was a lie?"

Sherlock sighed audibly.

"Armand-"

"No... no, you're right... I'm..."

There was a long pause. Sherlock could see white little letters floating around the man in front. He really was easy to read.

"I'm so sorry... Mr. Holmes", the young man was looking at some point near his shoe, his once secure voice now reduced to a whisper. Sherlock didn't know what to do, it was the first time he had to deal with something like that. His face was expressionless.

"There is nothing to be sorry about, Armand." Sherlock never changed his position on the chair. "I didn't push you away because I wanted you to see for yourself. The sexual arousal state... it does come from the mind for me, even after physical stimulation, like you did. You just helped me prove another point. Maybe is not the same for everyone, but my body works the way my mind commands."

Armand sighed and toyed with his fingers in his lap. "We're different. You see, you still make me... feel things, directly into my body, without that mind's... filter..."

"I differ from almost everybody."

"Why? I mean... you aren't capable of...?"

"Oh I work just fine..." Sherlock curved his lips quickly, "when my mind is stimulated, as I told you."

"Like...uh... Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows and nose at the question, visibly annoyed. "Why would I want to discuss that matter with you?"

"I don't know... I just see Dr. Watson and can't see him... I mean, I'm gay. I'm bi, depending on the woman. But I can tell Dr. Watson is straight. Maybe he was homophobic, but since he was in the army, I doubt it."

"John is a very tolerant man. You're right about the straight part, though."

"But you two..."

"We're friends."

"Close friends."

"Yes." Sherlock said quickly, then he frowned again, confused.

Armand smiled gently.

"So you... don't fancy... anything?" Sherlock grinned, he had heard a similar question before.

"Transport." Was the muttered answer.

"Mr. Holmes..."

"Sherlock, please. You already called me like that for a while, no need to change it according to the context of the conversation."

"Sherlock..." Armand looked taken aback. Sherlock was a little surprised on how, despite his behaviour, Armand didn't fit the prototype or profile of a gay man. Sherlock's mind travelled to the first time he had met Moriarty with Molly at the lab, "...what do I have to do... if I want to... gain a little piece of your heart?"

"I've been properly informed that I don't have one." The tone in which Sherlock said that seemed automatic to Armand. It was a rehearsed phrase. His eyes danced along the tall man sitting on the leather chair. Somehow, Armand was hurt by the words, but he was hurt about the way Sherlock said them; even though the detective's face never changed. Armand saw a flash of sadness in those clear eyes, it was for a brief moment, but it was there. He found himself at loss of words.

Armand glanced at the floor again, he eyed around the flat, and then to Sherlock once more. He saw how the taller man took the card from the pocket he had saved it before and rubbed it with his right thumb, then he turned it and rubbed the other side. After a couple of seconds, the rest of his fingers started to play with it, passing from between the index and middle finger, between the middle and ring finger, between the ring finger and little finger... Armand observed entranced, he saw the heavy stare Sherlock had over the item, the way he kept on murmuring the numbers. He saw how the long, slender fingers brought the card to his eyes' level, observed the numbers there some more and moved back to the fingers' game.

"One, nine, o..."

"Sherlock?"

"One... Hm?"

"Uhm... is there anything else I can do to help you, about the case, I mean?"

"No, I have to figure this out first, I intended to call the hot line, but I can't do it without a code. I have the hidden options, but I still need a code."

"I am going to call a cab, then..." Armand put his palms on both sides of the armrests in the chair, intending to stand and leave, "thank you very much for-"

"Sofa." The detective said, never taking his eyes from the card.

"Sorry?"

"You can take the sofa for tonight and leave tomorrow morning. Or my bed if you will, I barely use it anyway."

Armand frowned, "What? Is that really okay?"

Sherlock lifted his gaze and smiled to the confused man in front. "For tonight it’s fine."

"Thank you... very much." Armand stood petrified in front of the detective. Sherlock's lip corner curved up a little as he realized how the confused attitude left him completely exposed. He could finish the reading he had started before.

"Government or justice department?"

"I'm... sorry...?" Armand asked with a frown.

"I said: government or justice department."

"How...?"

"Well, you are from a wealthy family." Sherlock began, moving the card between his fingers and pointing it to Armand, "I can tell you had a fight with them, maybe because you didn't want to pursue the family legacy and choose to study psychology instead. To practice your knowledge you entered the hot line to study the people calling there; two purposes: money and practice. But you liked it, so you stayed. You told John you had the money to pay, but since you live alone in London, I doubt the money you make at the hot line would suffice, seeing as you haven't found a job as a psychologist; today is Wednesday and you were wandering the whole day... and there is your attire; juvenile, but expensive. So I guess your father sends you money to ease his conscience. Now you came to us to solve this case. Why would you do something like that...? Probably because you sense the importance over this matter, and since your friend, Xavier, can be found guilty, even if he is not, and I have to tell you right now that he is not, but he helped involuntarily, you don't want your family to be involved in this matter, so you want to put your hands on them first. So part of your family works either directly in the government or justice department."

"What...? I mean, justice department... but... how...?"

"It's written all over you." Sherlock said with a shrug.

"Brilliant... man... you really are... brilliant..." Armand sat again with a thud in the chair, his hand going to take the hair out of his forehead in a typical gesture.

"It's very likely that the people attacking you today were not people from the hot line."

"Yeah... I thought at first that they might be family enemies. It's not difficult to find them when you belong to this kind of clans, you know, much less my family... in the justice I mean; my grandfather, my father... and I didn't follow. That's the only thing I always try to hide but... but you saw it right through me..."

"It wasn't a very difficult deduction."

Armand exhaled, and then inhaled again deeply, stunned. Then took his phone from his pocket, pressed a couple of buttons and handed it to Sherlock. "Here."

"What is it?" Sherlock questioned, taking the device.

"I have the records of every text I’ve had with Xavier, some mails, some documents of money transfers... you might find them useful... and I just erased our phone call, it was an mp3... the phone is unlocked."

The detective smiled satisfied and confused at the same time. "Thank you."

Soon Sherlock was browsing the contents of the phone; maybe he could find something useful there. After some minutes in silence, Armand lifted himself from the chair slowly.

"I'm really sorry for tonight," he said, Sherlock lifted his gaze from the phone to him, "for any... inconvenience. I'll take the uh... sofa’s offer..." and then, like remembering something, he took a big gulp of air and added, "I won't say anything, I mean about my feelings for you. I do have them, I can't do anything about it. But I won't... tell Dr. Watson."

Armand walked to the sofa. Sherlock didn't reply, he didn't know how.

The detective observed how the man settled on the couch, he closed his eyes and soon his head started to tilt to a side. He was fast asleep within minutes.

Armand's phone gave a few laps in the air before falling back to Sherlock’s waiting hand; he observed the item once more, intently. After a while he got up and walked to the bathroom, he took off his shirt and tossed it to a side. He bent over the sink and splashed water over his face and neck, he put his head under the water and allowed the cold liquid fall over him. He couldn't explain the action; he tried, but failed. He didn't want to feel Armand's hot breath and lips on the same place he had felt John's... that was the only possible explanation his mind could come up with. But he wasn't convincing himself. The feeling, this feeling he'd had before. It was similar to the one he felt when The Woman had kissed him, on the cheek, but still in front of John. That time, he had the case of the plain and the camera-phone as a distraction, so he had discarded the thoughts that would eventually lead to a feeling. Now the distraction was 'the card!' his mind screamed. He dried a little his dripping curls with a towel, pulled the shirt back on and turned back to look at himself in the mirror. As soon as he locked his stare with his own eyes, he tried to stop the forming frown. Then he saw how his curls were facing everywhere, he placed them back carelessly with his fingers, the mirror got splashed by water droplets.

He wanted to go to John's room. He wanted to talk to him, needed to talk to him. There were so many things he wanted to check, to confirm. Why didn't he feel anything with Armand? Was it because he only felt things with John? Or was it just because his pituitary gland... got screwed up after releasing so many drugs with John? Can it actually happen? Maybe John would know, he's a doctor after all.

Slowly, he went upstairs, the door was closed. He tapped on it very lightly. There was no snoring, maybe John was awake. He knocked a little louder.

"Sherlock?"

"Who else."

"Come in." John supported himself on an elbow, groaning with the action, he saw the shadow of a tall figure in the door. "You okay? Did they find the pickup?"

"No... no... I just wanted to ask you something."

"Damn it, Sherlock... it took me a while to fall asleep you know, it better be important."

"Were you really sleeping? You weren't snoring..."

"I uh..." John let out a little embarrassed snort, "I was sleeping on my right side."

Sherlock's deep chuckle resonated in the quiet room, there was almost no rain outside now. He walked to John's bed, but left door open, letting the faint light in. Even when John was sleepy, he translated the action as Sherlock wasn't staying for long.

"I need to know, John..." Sherlock sat at the border of the bed, besides John, "about what we talked earlier."

"About endorphins? You told me you release endorphins."

"Yes. I wanted to know if uh... the pituitary gland... as an organ can get- I mean, you're a doctor."

John chuckled, surprised. This was really new, Sherlock asking him and not looking over the internet. Even waking him up at this ridiculous hour. Deep inside, John got mad... but he got mad because he wasn't actually mad.

"Well, Sherlock... let's see... for starters, the hypophysis, a shorter name, is right here," John moved his index finger to Sherlock's nape, he stopped and frowned, "did you take another shower?"

"No. I just splashed myself in the sink."

"Why?" he asked, the high pitched tone showed the confusion.

"No reason."

John snorted, really, sometimes he just couldn't understand Sherlock. "As I told you, right here." He made pressure with his finger, and took his hand away, letting it rest over the sheet, "and it's connected to the hypothalamus, which has the connections for the nervous system... so if you stimulate part of the system, it is reflected in the hypophysis, which is in charge of releasing for example, all kind of hormones-"

"I know all that."

"Then, what is it?" John yawned.

Sherlock noticed how, now being close to the doctor, his pulse began to rise, slowly. "I wanted to seduce you."

"By talking about a gland." John laughed shortly; he tried to ignore his heart that almost exploded at the phrase, "talking about romantic... and idealistic."

"Problem?"

"Hell... no! I mean..." John snorted again and smiled knowingly, "I am being part of an experiment, am I."

Sherlock chuckled. "Am I not succeeding?"

"It takes more than a bloody gland-talk to seduce John Hamish Watson, you know."

Sherlock laughed sincerely at this.

"So, you came here just for that?" John asked, amused at the situation. This was very, very new.

"No, I came here because I didn't hear you snoring. I thought you were awake, so maybe you could help me with the code. It's good to know you took my advice, though."

Sherlock lifted himself from the bed, but John took his wrist, making him sit back.

"You have to sleep, Sherlock. I have never told you this, but when you don't sleep, you scare me."

"And why is that?"

"Because... look, talking about seductive glands. If you don't get enough REM sleep, your mind's palace will fall into pieces soon." John yawned again.

Sherlock placed his other hand over John's. It was a nice feeling, he felt then the pulse below the thumb of the doctor.

"It seems to me, the bloody gland-talk had its desired effect after all."

"Shut up." John withdrew his hand reluctantly and smiled against his will. "Off to bed, Sherlock."

"I have to decipher the code."

"At least try to. Okay?"

Sherlock lifted himself from the bed, this time, there was no restrain. "Good night, John."

"Sleep."

Sherlock stepped out of the room and closed the door quietly. His pulse went back to normal slowly as he went downstairs. So his gland was still working after all... he stopped his walking.

Now he realized how stupid his thought had been. He really needed to sleep.

He went back to his armchair and entered to the comfortable space of his mind's palace. There were a lot of thoughts he needed to sort out, they couldn't just be floating around freely.

**..**

There was a faint smell downstairs. John opened wide eyes at the smell of something burning – toasting –, but his eyes refused to stay open with the morning light. Sherlock couldn't be doing an experiment now, could he? They were on a case, and Sherlock didn't do experiments during a case, unless they were case related... what could he be up to? Was he burning the card? Unlikely. Was he... making breakfast? Even more unlikely.

Sometimes, John felt his mind playing tricks on him... sometimes he couldn't even believe it was his own mind he was dealing with, for the things it came out with were... frightening and absurdly comical. In a flash, he saw Sherlock making breakfast; tea being served in beakers, toasts being made in a lighter with that pink alcohol beneath, and jam being measured by a pipette over the toasts. Suddenly, phrases from last night's conversations flashed around his head, something about a gland-talk. He couldn't really recall if that was a dream or not, it seemed very real at least. He would have to ask Sherlock about it later. But soon he realized; Sherlock's hair was wet. He felt that very vivid in his fingers... so it was true...

'Oh yeah. The smell!'

John lifted himself quickly off the bed and went downstairs wearing his pyjama pants and a sweatshirt. When he got to the kitchen, the view almost gave him a heart attack.

There were scrambled eggs and bacon, orange juice, toasts, tea, coffee... half of the table was completely in order, and the other half had all of Sherlock's experimentation devices. And a few meters farther, there was Armand, sitting in the same chair he was last night, his elbows over his knees and his chin over his hands, staring intently to a deeply asleep Sherlock.

A sleeping Sherlock was something rare to observe, and soon John found himself staring at him as well. It lasted just a couple of seconds though. He cleared his throat to get Armand's attention.

"Dr. Watson!" he said in a whisper. He lifted himself from the chair carefully and walked to John, he entered the kitchen with a smile on his face "I'm really sorry, I took the liberty to make you guys breakfast... I spent the night on the couch. You guys have been so considerate..." he smiled embarrassed. "I went out and bought a couple of things..." he gestured to the table with his thumb over his shoulder, "I just didn't know how to repay you..."

John smiled, pleased. There were such a few opportunities somebody doing something like that and besides, breakfast looked appealing.

"It's nice... very nice... thank you..."

"Should I wake him up?" Armand asked waving to the sleeping Sherlock.

"I don't know... I would like to have some peace finally and let him sleep... but he needs to eat as well so... hard decision uh."

Armand giggled shortly. He moved a little to exit the kitchen but he stopped and faced John again.

"Dr. Watson..." Armand spoke in a small voice, obviously not wanting to wake Sherlock up. "Please, don't feel uncomfortable around me. I don't really want to step between you and-"

"What? No! No, no. We're not-" John sighed and made and exasperated shrug at the ceiling, it was his favourite place to search for patience after all. "Just... yeah, please go and wake him." He added with the most gentle smile he could find in his mental face-muscles' map.

Armand returned the smile and turned his back to the doctor, getting closer to the sleeping figure. The detective's neck was tilted to a side in a very odd position. John observed, with a little of discomfort - he had to admit - how the young man moved the shoulder of his flatmate. Again, the touching was oddly familiar and, he had to admit it again: he didn't like that. John was extremely dissatisfied with someone else touching Sherlock. The word monopolize made its way inside his skull somehow, but he discarded it quickly. The problem was, as soon as he hardly got rid of that thought, he heard the first word Sherlock's lips pronounced once he was awake. And the problem? Yes; he was delighted by it:

"John?"

"No... Armand. Sherl- Mr. Holmes, breakfast is ready."

'Sherlock! He was going to call him Sherlock!' John shook his head. It seemed as if there was a voice there, convinced not to leave him alone. It was the same nagging voice that Irene Adler had awaked. He hated it. He hated it because it made him feel... a really bad person.

"I told you, Sherlock is fine..." Sherlock made a loud groan as he moved his neck to a side. When he did that, the card fell to the floor. The detective opened big eyes at it. "John!"

"Uhm... Armand..."

Sherlock looked around the room frantically, completely awake now. "Where's John?"

John stepped out of the kitchen, a satisfied grin dancing around his face.

"What is it Sherlock? Oh by the way, you have to come to the kitchen, I'm not missing-"

"We need at least one name to make a code!"

John got closer, Sherlock passed him the card.

"How did you get the answer? Did you call?" John questioned, taking the card and looking at it, but there was nothing on it that could make him understand what Sherlock was talking about.

"No, I just deciphered the logic of the code when I was sleeping inside my mind's palace. We need a name."

"So. You slept."

"In my mind palace, yes."

"In your mind palace... rrrright." John said, lifting a brow and furrowing his lips to a side. Sherlock looked at him with a light frown.

At the same time, Armand walked to the kitchen, probably to pour tea in the cups, John saw this by the corner of his eye, "Oh, I should warn you, Armand, to check the contents of the-"

"Fuck!" a loud crash resonated in the flat.

Silence.

Gasps.

"A spider! What the hell...?"

John rolled his eyes at his crazy gland-romantic companion, giving a loud sigh and again, looking for the patience he didn't find earlier at the ceiling.

"Sherlock! You left the plastic spider inside a cup?"

"At least it's not staring at you first thing in the morning." Sherlock purred with a yawn.

"I figured you had thrown it away! I bought that just to-! Jesus!"

"I just meant to return it."

"Sherlock...!"

"Oh, shut up, John. It wasn't you the one who found it after all."

Armand was petrified looking at the scene in front. He just shook his head with a smile, heart still racing for the shock. Yes. It was the same than reading the blog.

But live.

**..**

Armand's lips barely touched the cup in his hand, his eyes were fixed on the detective sitting in front. John was really enjoying the breakfast, eating pieces of everything on his plate. Sherlock's coffee remained intact and the toasts Armand presented on a plate in front, untouched.

"...so, after all the facts I told you before, if you take Armand's number you can say the department and the options he belongs to; every two numbers a different option on the phone, zero stands for false..."

John seemed indifferently; he kept on eating just eyeing Sherlock a couple of times. The detective knew John was paying attention anyway. Armand was still immobile. Sherlock was waiting for an answer from any of the two.

"You can't see it, don't you?" he asked when he saw none of them were giving him any.

"Sherlock, please be a little more specific, and don't... say that it must be placid in our heads, because it is placid in here..." John said pointing carelessly his index finger to his head, eating a piece of toast.

Sherlock groaned.

"Armand's number is 0212020011901, correct?"

"Correct."

"First two digits: o, two;" Sherlock proceeded pointing at the digits on the card, "means the first option, which was 'woman press one, man press two'. So o for woman, like in binary, zero means false, then two for he's a man..." the detective moved his index finger around the card, Armand and John were concentrated expecting the rest of the explanation, "second pair of digits: one, two; second option 'sex is male press one, sex is female press two' since Armand is bisexual, one for true, two for both options. Third, trio of numbers: o, two, o. Third option 'between thirty and forty', zero for false in twenties, two for the second option, zero again for false in forties..."

"You're right..." Armand whispered, "When I turned thirty last year and changed my section they gave me a new card... I got surprised how only a couple of numbers changed."

Sherlock smirked, pleased. John just clenched his brows together, trying to follow the code.

"Last numbers: o, one. One is for the 'a' in Armand's name, nineteen is for 's' in Smith; the nineteenth letter in the alphabet... and the last...o, one..." Sherlock put the card between the table and his own large hand with a loud thud, "...still trying to figure it out."

The detective sipped his coffee silently now, victory dancing in his eyes. John and Armand looked at the man in awe.

"Brilliant." Both of them exclaimed at the unison, they looked at each other in shock after that. Sherlock just lifted his smiling eyes from his cup and eyed both of the men in front. A weird feeling took place in his chest, listening both voices exclaiming the same, his musical ear took a hold of what just happened; Armand's voice held a baritone undertone, it wasn't a low voice but it was lower than John's, while John's voice was a tenor's one. The chord they had created was unique, out of tune, but unique.

**..**

After breakfast, John was sitting in the chair in front of Sherlock, trying to figure out the last two codes. For some reason, John sensed that they were the key to solve the case but how? He was browsing for the owners of the facilities of the hot lines, there were three of them.

Sherlock was on the chair in front, a concentrated expression on his face, his index and middle fingers massaging his temples, his bare feet tapping the rug below. Armand was in the kitchen, browsing the phone Sherlock had returned.

The flat was silent, an unfathomable, thick, silence. John noted immediately that he missed the comfortable one. He had to confess, that even when he didn't like the familiarity of the younger phone sex worker, there was something that just didn't let him hate the bloke, quite contrary; he had enjoyed the breakfast, it felt good, actually, that somebody dared to treat them both, Sherlock and him, with that familiar way instead of the 'Oh my gosh I won't get closer to you, pair of weirdo's' sort of attitude. Even when John, now that he knew Armand was bisexual, noticed and confirmed that the guy was interested, very interested, in Sherlock. Déjà vu again. If Sherlock started to call him The Man it would be a whole portrait. But again, Armand wasn't an enemy... Armand just wanted to help.

"GOD!" the loud, unexpected shout coming from the detective made John step out from his thoughts, and Armand to jump on his chair with a start. Soon both of their attentions were directed to the long figure moving to the other extreme of the room. There, Sherlock took his violin, tuned a couple of strings, faced the window and started to play. Armand got closer to John and asked in a very hushed voice, "What... had... just happened?"

"He can't get the last codes... he's waiting for Lestrade but he has no answer yet... don't worry, he'll be fine."

"Who is Lestrade?"

"Detective inspector. From the Yard."

Armand opened big eyes, his right hand moved slowly to his forehead and pulled back his hair from his eyes, it seemed more like a typical gesture now to John. The violin music in the background was dramatic.

"What? What is it?" John questioned when he saw the other man's scared look.

"How does the Yard know about this?"

"They heard about a person's black market, but they don't know anything about the hot line company."

"That's why they went after me... they thought I went to talk to the police!"

"Armand!" Sherlock called – shouted – stopping the music abruptly. Armand got closer to the detective. There John noted Armand and Sherlock were almost the same height; Sherlock being taller for less than an inch. Why he noted such a detail, he didn't know. Armand's forehead could be placed right in front of Sherlock's brow. "We know the hot line company has three facilities, you gave a paper to John. Which one are you in?"

"I only know the address of mine..."

"Think! There has to be an order of these things..."

Armand closed his eyes and exhaled.

"I need you to think!"

A couple of seconds passed, Sherlock was staring expectantly to the younger man's face.

"Wait... Sherlock... you're incredible!" he said opening his eyes and grinning widely.

"Why? I mean, yes. But why?"

"The two numbers! They are the number of the facility! Xavier told me something about an order..." Armand closed his eyes again and wrinkled his nose, clearly trying to remember. John was still looking the scene, they weren't even that close, but in his mind, John saw them closer.

A couple of seconds passed, Sherlock waited, anxiety danced around his face, eyes scanning the face in front.

"Canada!" John said, raising his voice. Sherlock and Armand startled and turned to face the doctor, a puzzled expression on their faces. "Just in case you want to uh... start a family, Canada is your place." He cleared his throat and his concentration returned to the laptop in front. Sherlock frowned. Armand opened his mouth to respond but Sherlock's phone rang, cutting him off.

Sherlock answered quickly.

"Finally, I was starting to think you do have only incompetents in the Yard."

Silence.

"All right..."

Silence. Armand eyed John and shrugged. John shrugged back even though he was now attentive to Sherlock's conversation.

"We will meet there. Please, bring your least annoying officers..."

Silence.

"John. Yes."

Sherlock hung up, he looked at John and a grin appeared slowly in his features.

"Yes!" the detective shouted, both hands making fists in front of his face. "They found the pickup! Grab your jacket, John! This game is just beginning!"

Notes:

[1] – Watson actually said that, but in the book of Sir Conan, and not directly at Sherlock, and of course not with those exact words, but for the reader, almost immediately after they met.

I did laugh my as* off at the first chapter from season two when John screamed "HAMISH!" Talking about jealous!John. The writers of the show are geniuses.

Chapter 15: Hot Line Case III – Much needed evidence

It had been hell to find a cab that would take them to the address Lestrade had provided earlier. Sherlock had to pull strings around the homeless network. John heard Sherlock having a very strange conversation over the phone. It seemed that there was no available cab to go there. After the call, an old man arrived to their flat to take them.

Now, John was observing the outside of the cab from the window, trees passing one after another, flats, houses. Sherlock sat next to him, a frown on his features as he read the contents of a phone, his knees up in the air, close to his chest like a sulking kid, as John used to tease him when he wore that pose.

"It's not that far now." Sherlock muttered.

"Hm?" John returned his attention to his right, looking at Sherlock who never unlocked his gaze from the device in front of him, he actually never heard the phrase. "That... is not your phone." He added getting closer to the detective, trying to read the contents of it as well.

"It's Armand's" Sherlock answered, tilting the device a little, giving him space to watch the screen as well.

"Oh... and... why do you have it?" John tried to sound indifferent, but he knew his voice was giving him away. Not that he cared that much, actually. There were a couple of things now that he didn't care as much as he did before, at least not in front of Sherlock. He took a hold of it last night.

The first night Sherlock entered his room had been about two months after they moved in together. Sherlock needed John's laptop urgently since his had been confiscated by Lestrade just to play a prank on him during a drug's bust. Sherlock had knocked that time and, at the lack of response, he had let himself in. John had freaked out; lecturing Sherlock about rules, flatmates’ rules: like he shouldn't enter his room that way, and no wonder people talked. Furthermore, what would have happened if John had had a date with him in bed that time, for example?

After that, Sherlock had been so apologetically annoying (it was for his own benefit to have free access to John's room, so he actually needed to be apologetic), to finally agreed no boundaries inside the flat. If there was something going on – a date, for example, as John had made clear to point out – they would have let the other know before. Sherlock usually didn't go into his room, but the times he did – to take a book, to ask for John's phone, to take the laptop – John would still freak out a little, even when he politely knocked every time. He didn't, last night. He hadn't freaked out. He actually wanted for him to stay a little longer.

"He told me that I could have this for the case," Sherlock answered shoving the device in front of his face, "this phone has all sorts of texts' conversations and emails with Xavier. It also has some documents regarding money transfers from the facilities, employees’ lists and photographs. I had returned it, but then he gave it back to me before he left the flat." Sherlock now twiddled the device in the air and then saved it in his coat pocket.

"You should have brought him, instead." John gave him a small smile and returned his attention to the window and to the outside, but he still felt the heavy stare of his companion at his back.

"John."

"Hm?"

"According to the psychology books, you're clearly displaying signs of jealousy."

"What? No, of course not. I'm just saying..." John turned to face Sherlock, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach, "that Armand would have been useful. He knows the facilities and the people working there. That's all. No second meanings."

"Yes. But it seems to me that we're not heading to a facility, Lestrade gave us a different address, it wasn't in the list the man gave us."

"Hang on, Sherlock... the man?"

"Armand."

"You just called him the man." John said, his voice sounded tremulous, he was trying to fight an amused giggle.

"He is a man." Sherlock burrowed his brows, giving John a confused look.

"Yeah, but you called him: the man."

"Yes, I heard you the first time, John."

"Is that the way this is going to be? Fine, then." John planted his palms above his own knees and cleared his throat, adding a soft. "Good."

"What is?" Sherlock's frown got deeper if possible.

"Armand."

"What about Armand?"

"Oh, so now he is Armand." John added with a surprised smile.

"Of course he is Armand."

"Not the man."

"Armand is a man."

John snorted and laughed shortly. This was going nowhere. Again, John fixed his eyes on the road, the corner of Sherlock's lip curved in a knowing grin that faded slowly, looking at the sandy hair on the back of his companion's head. Of course Sherlock knew what John was talking about. He never intended to give Armand the same salute than The Woman, but it has just happened, even he couldn't explain it. It was not an insignificant matter, that inside his mind palace, he had a room secluded for certain people. People who had helped him... people that could be trusted. There were Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Stamford, and now there was a little shelf with a label that prayed 'Armand Smith' and his respective data. John wasn't there; John had his own big room. Sometimes Sherlock wished he could just bring himself to tell him that, just to ease the distress in John's eyes, the insecurity they now held.

When Sherlock had scanned John this morning, when he had called for him to let him know about his discovery of the numbers in the card, white little letters told him a lot about the doctor. The blue, sleeveless sweatshirt that exposed his well formed triceps and a little of chest hair, the stubble on his face, the devilish grin he had in his features when he noted that his first word in the morning had been his own name... all of that exposed to Sherlock how insecure John felt with Armand being around. Because, in the morning, John had been a whole display of masculinity. Rough, mature manliness, if we compare him to Armand's. Even though his eyes, his talking, his whole body language exposed that John was actually a little fond of the guy. Besides, there was the 'Canada!' that exposed him a lot more. The morning held a bit of a contest feeling to Sherlock.

The detective remembered the time he was philosophising about the basic instincts and urges. Again, John was a soldier, and he listened to his most ulterior and basic needs, letting them expose him, like most people do. Most of them, like John, didn't even realise they do this kind of things.

The posture John held now, looking out of the window, also screamed a lot to Sherlock. Screamed, yes: information. He thought about a lot of things he read in the books. There were many ways to make a person to regain confidence back; to praise them, to give them a present, to show interest in something they do or know... he had tried last night with the snoring. It wasn't the main purpose of his late night’s visit but he had taken the chance. The problem was, most importantly, that John could lose track in the investigation. If things got ugly, Sherlock knew people would be probably waiting for them at the facility. In a very bad scenario, there would be guns involved; there would be people's life at stake. And Sherlock knew John had a weakness for those. He needed to put John together before they got to the place. Many solutions danced around his mind.

"We're getting closer." Sherlock mumbled.

"Yeah." John was still with his gaze on the road, they were actually closer to a place outside London; in the distance there was a building, and near that, an almost dried canal.

Sherlock thought it through. Very good. He didn't want John to be with this utter insecurity. But then again, John was a soldier. He had nerves of steel. John never faltered. But he had been captive once and they had almost died because of that.

"That factory used to have a fine lab. I recognised the address Lestrade gave us." Sherlock whispered. John felt the voice resonating in his head; the detective had gotten closer to look outside the window above his right shoulder. "I used to go there sometimes, since they had better equipment than Bart’s." John's heart started to jump inside his chest at the closeness, Sherlock continued in the same whispering tone, he didn't want the cabbie to hear him, "there, I could replicate the reagent that can be precipitated by haemoglobin alone... you know, that glowing blue substance used in forensics, also known as luminol."

"What happened to the lab?" John asked, never leaving his firm position, still looking and taking in every detail of the surroundings. The canal was not that far away now, John noted that it was closed by a little dam made of stones and concrete, he also observed, at the distance, a red sign with white letters and another sign with a skull with two bones crossed below.

"See the closed canal over there?" Sherlock stretched his arm above John's shoulder and pointed his index finger to the spot with both signs. "People from the lab used that water for toxic wastes. They closed it, of course." John felt a weight on his right shoulder. By the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock supporting his chin there, applying all the weight of his heavy head. "It was a very well known fact here, I doubt you heard about it, you were invading Afghanistan at that time." A little puff of air against his ear let John know that Sherlock was now smiling at his own words. That... and the proximity of the detective.

"Sherlock..." John's glance travelled to the cabbie's rear-view mirror; the old man at the wheel had a little knowing smile, eyeing them from time to time "...no wonder why people talk, mate." The doctor whispered. Sherlock's lip just curved quickly in response.

John felt how Sherlock quietly lifted his head's weight from his shoulder and moved to his nape, brushing little hairs with his nose, inhaling deeply.

"You changed your aftershave." He said, letting his hot breath fall there.

"Sherlock."

"I like this one better." Sherlock said, his lips were brushing his skin as he spoke. He inhaled deeply again, "I definitely like this one better."

"What are y-"

"Wood... and cedar... a light touch of tobacco..." he continued, his voice was merely above a whisper.

"The aftersh-?"

"Shh... John, just listen."

"What?"

"Listen."

"What?"

"Me."

"What! Why?"

"Just because." Sherlock purred the words in his ear now. He lifted his left hand and ghosted his fingertips in the back of John's neck, he toyed with the collar of his shirt. He noted how John's breathing had become a little laboured now. "You're nearly hyperventilating."

"I'm n-"

"You are. Don't..." he sighed, "Don't argue with me, doctor. You know you can't argue with me."

"I actually c-"

"You can't shave this spot correctly, either." Sherlock said, now this time he touched John's Adam's apple with his fingertips, feeling the velcro-like texture of said part. John immediately lowered his head in a desperate attempt to stop the action. "Would you like me doing it for you next time? I'm an expert shav-"

"Sherlock!" John whispered, exasperated "on the mirror! The cab-"

"We are here, boys. This is as far as I can go." The cabbie said, raising a little his voice to be heard at the back of the car. A loud, dramatic sigh could be heard inside the vehicle; unexpectedly, it was John's. Sherlock withdrew reluctantly of the doctor.

They were more than ten blocks from the abandoned facility, and the urban area was about to end. They had to get there unseen. Vegetation had made its way from urban and the facility, probably thanks to the contaminated water, there were a few vehicle's tracks forming a path there, and the few houses and rotten flats were abandoned as well.

The cab had stopped in a lonely wide alley and Sherlock quickly stepped out of it, John gave more money than needed to the old man. There were no souls around in the street, there were no sounds either; like a ghost town.

"Here, please don't go immediately; take a few laps around the town first."

The old man smiled at him in a wicked gesture. "Don't worry..." then he whispered "I'll leave you two alone." He winked to the doctor, "you know, many couples come here, it's very private."

"We are n-"

"Thaaaanks a lot, it's so good to see somebody finally understands! Oh God!" Sherlock said cheerfully, passing his arm around John's shoulder slowly, "I told you, John. We're not going to be seen here, so no need to fake it or to be shy..." Sherlock brushed his nose against John's cheek and then watched intently at the cabbie at the other side of the window who observed the scene with a knowingly smile and added "Right? You know what I mean." Sherlock winked at the old man. 'Damn him and his dramatic skills' John thought.

"Of course, I am one of the few that does this round. There aren't many cabs that come this far."

"So I heard. It was chaos to try and contact you." Said Sherlock with a wide smile, pulling John even closer and moving his hand absently at the back of John's neck, the doctor cleared his throat to contain a giggle for Sherlock’s odd behaviour and his own embarrassment. According to the tone Sherlock was using, John quickly thought that he wouldn't be surprised if the detective suddenly said 'I mean, hello!' in a high pitch voice.

"Really," the old man gestured with his hand for the detective to get closer, he and John got nearer to the little window "this part over here," he whispered making a round gesture with his index finger in the air, "they were all obliged to move out when they closed the factory over there. I recommend one of these abandoned flats to do whatever you want to, couples coming here usually use them." John had to fight the urge to wrinkle his nose and grimace. "Do not go near the canal, though."

"What is in the canal?" Sherlock asked, widening his eyes, faking interest.

"They say it's haunted." The man whispered eyeing the place around.

"Seriously?" John asked raising his voice, taking a hand to his lips, in a very uncommon gesture. Sherlock had to fight the urge to laugh out loud. John was playing his part in the game as well. "Sherlock, what are going to do if anything happens? How do we come back?" asked a mildly scared doctor grabbing lightly the front collar of Sherlock's coat. Sherlock had amused eyes, little wrinkles forming around them involuntarily, but he grabbed John's hand in his coat, following their little joke. They really had to fight the urge to laugh.

"There are other cabbies that come here, I'm sure you can contact them. No need to be frightened." The old man shakily scribbled something on a notepad and handed the paper to John, it had three names and their respective phone numbers, "there, you have my number, I'm the first on the list, and the two other men are colleagues of mine. You can call them and tell them you know me."

"Thank you very much, Mr..." Sherlock got closer to the paper "Mr. Lawrence is it?" the old cabbie smiled and nodded.

Sherlock started to turn to leave, but he quickly turned again, his index finger against his lip.

"Are you really sure we're not going to be interrupted?" He said wrinkling his nose and making a very tight grin. "It's just that..." Sherlock looked significantly at John and added "...we have been waiting this opportunity for so long, and we want to do a lot of... free air stuff, if you know what I mean..." at this point, John couldn't decide if laughing, crying out loud, or just to knock out the younger detective next to him, who was now reaching to grab his hand. But he also knew Sherlock had his motives, so he just kept on with this dreamy grin on his face. "So I don't want there to be a chance of..."

"It's very unlikely. Oh, you boys are so energetic, I want to be back your age so badly!" the cabbie laughed. "The abandoned building over there may be a little problem, sometimes, there are pickups that come and go... we believe they are drug dealers, not even the police dare to go there." Mr. Lawrence scratched his head and made a shrug. "They say that if you get to the end of the canal, right where the facility begins, they can even shoot you, something like a lawless town over there."

"I see..." said Sherlock, he wore now a very serious expression, but he still entwined his fingers with John's, "what do we have to do to not be... you know, seen?"

"I recommend you to go as far from the canal as possible, try to keep your heads down. If things get too intense, don't get loud though, there are sound sensors near the place, they activate the alarms. Don't worry, you should be fine."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Lawrence." The cabbie flashed them a last knowingly grin and disappeared.

John took his hand from Sherlock's firm grip and eyed around. Sherlock looked down at him still with a very serious expression. It took only a couple of seconds for them to burst into laughter.

"You heard, John. Don't be loud." Sherlock said trying to sound serious.

"That's my line, geez!" John paused a moment and added with a big grin, "and since when are you fond of sexual related jokes?"

"I have never held a grudge to them. I've heard some from the homeless and of course, I have to fit in and tag along when I'm in disguise. Sexual jokes don't alarm me the slightest, John. I can even tell you a few."

"Not now... Sherlock. I'll make you keep your word, though."

Sherlock started to walk with a little smile on his face. The wind was strong, it made the coat to move around the detective's long legs, the blue scarf to wave next to his head and some curls to dance freely in the air. Even John's short hair was a mess as well.

Suddenly John stopped his walking.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You knew, didn't you." John said.

"Knew about what?" Sherlock asked, confused, turning his torso to face John and stopping his pace.

"About this place, being something like... uh..."

"A lawless town, John, I knew that. I also noted the cabbie was a homosexual man, he has an established relationship with a younger man. I didn't know what the man was talking about though, but it was a good way to obtain information. And you, John Watson, are getting better at your theatrical skills." He said with a small chuckle, the deep, rich sound resonated in the desolated place.

"Shut up. I just wanted to know if you could still keep your cool after that."

"Of course I could." Sherlock's eyes wrinkled at the sides, smiling silently now. John thinned his lips in a smirk and shook his head. They started to walk again. Sherlock pupils moved frantically, taking in every detail of the place; they were about to exit the wide alley, they couldn't see the facility but the little canal could still be seen. There were a lot of posters floating in the air, some of them had a skull with two crossed bones below, lots of them said 'Danger!' and 'Killers!'.

"How did you know the cabbie was gay?"

"The shaving."

"Uh?"

"The shave pattern below his Adam's apple was perfect. That can't be done by one self. Not in that way I mean, without cutting yourself in the process. It's almost anatomically impossible for a man who shakes so badly, you saw the way he wrote on the notepad, I observed before when he moved the mirror to look at us. So he has someone to do it for him. But what gave me more information was actually a picture of him holding hands with his partner next to the air freshener inside the car."

John snapped his eyes open. He stopped walking and let out a puff of air.

"So... all of that... little show you put up there, was just for him to look." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Of course Sherlock was the better actor he had ever known, he was surprised. Not because of Sherlock, but because he could still be surprised. "You just wanted to win him over to get... data."

"It's all right, John. Just..."

"What!" John yelled.

"Shhh! Sound sensors!" Sherlock whispered, opening big eyes and eyeing around the place. John's scream still echoed on the walls around them.

"Was it really necessary to stage up a whole..." John waved his hands in the air, shutting down a little his voice, "seduction display in front of a stranger just...!"

"Aw come on, John." Sherlock said getting a little closer, "you enjoyed it as well, you can't deny it."

"How could I! Inside a bloody cab! With an old... cabbie staring at us, getting off at our-!"

Sherlock couldn't help a snicker. John opened wide eyes at his own words and smiled. Soon they were giggling uncontrollably.

"I'm gonna shut up." John said, trying to stop his laughter.

"John... it wasn't necessary. A lot of people think of us as a couple without really making that... seduction display, as you call it." Sherlock added with a chuckle of his own and turned around to keep on walking to the exit of the alley.

John was petrified. He didn't know how to take that last statement. He wanted to ask, but he decided against it. There were more important things at hands now, for example... he opened his mouth to ask about Greg's whereabouts when they heard a very loud thud, Sherlock startled, alarmed, eyeing around frantically and grabbing John by the arm, pressing both of their backs against a brick wall. Sherlock placed his arm in front of John's chest, letting him know with that gesture to stay still and quiet. John slowly moved his hand to his waistband, brushing his gun, ready to take it at any minute. Both of them were breathing with difficulty but soundlessly. John turned his head and looked everywhere. 'What was that!' his lips moved without a sound, looking at Sherlock, the detective just shook his head and lifted his shoulders, his lips still parted seeking for extra air.

"I come in peace!" there was a raspy, throaty laughing voice; Lestrade appeared from between an opening in the wall, his phone in hand, recording the scene, laughing insanely when he saw Sherlock and John's scared faces.

Sherlock withdrew his arm from John's chest and gave an audibly, annoyed sigh. John was still panting, a hand clung in his chest.

"You scared... the hell out of me." John said between gasps.

"Of both of you it seems." Lestrade got closer to them and looked at Sherlock intensely. "It's the first time I see you so shocked! Do you need a blanket?" he added turning off his phone and putting it inside his jean's pocket.

"Shut up, Lestrade." Sherlock glared at him and started to walk. John and Greg shared a little smile, John still couldn't calm his panting.

"You came here on your own?" John asked. Lestrade frowned.

"Yeah... if things got too crowded with the guys here, and you kids fighting, I rather come alone."

John nodded to the DI. Lestrade quickly changed his solemn expression for a humorous one.

"You boys got here in a cab. Was it too difficult to get?"

"You did it on purpose, Mr. Detective inspector." Sherlock said slowly and quietly, stopping at the exit of the alley and turning to look at both men behind him. "You knew it was difficult to get here. You know I don't like riding police cars, but you also knew you were going to rent a car to get here, you just wanted us to come in a cab. Don't try to hide it, I saw you saving the key in your pocket and it was clearly from a car leasing company. And you have sugar on your shoe, you never eat inside a car, so I assume a previous user."

Greg lifted his palms in the air, pulling a surrender gesture. John looked at the DI's shoe, then at his face with an incredulous smile, tilting his head and crossing his arms above his chest.

"You got me!" laughed the DI, "did he tease you boys too much?"

"We were able to get a lot of information, so it was worth it... and actually what's going to spare our lives while we get there." Sherlock added, looking at the canal in front. "He told us how to get to the facility without being seen and he informed us about sound sensors, so thank you very much." Lestrade nodded at Sherlock’s words, "It seems they keep an eye on the canal, so if we go round it at the opposite side, we might be able to get there, quietly".

"Alright! Well done, pal! Do I want to know how you got the information regarding the sound sensors?"

"Ugh. Please." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sarcastic tone of the DI.

"Sherlock?" John's voice echoed in the place since he was now a few meters behind them, Sherlock watched the doctor retrieving a paper from a box and got closer to them. "I think this might be of help... I've seen that face before..." John handed the paper to his companion.

There was a photograph of a group of scientists, all of them with white lab coats on. Below the picture it said 'Go away! Assassins!' in letters that resembled blood. John pointed to a person in the group picture.

"Do you recognise this man?" Sherlock asked, Lestrade got closer to see the picture.

"It's the dead man from the Netherland's case... the one selling the tulip bulbs..." Lestrade said taking the paper and folding it down.

"That explains the drug's dealing rumours around here..." Sherlock eyed the canal in front and then he popped his head to see outside the barriers of the alley walls. He saw the abandoned factory and the possible route they had to take to get there. "But for now that information is irrelevant. I'm saving it for later use."

John nodded as Lestrade saved the picture in his pocket.

**..**

Approaching the facility was not easy. They had to run heads down all the way. Lestrade had stepped on a pile of dirt and Sherlock had almost thrown himself over the DI to prevent him from shouting a curse. The rest of the way, Lestrade made sure to let them know the procedure: if people at the facility had fire guns - which they probably did - they would only take enough evidence to come back with the specialist firearm command and a warrant.

"Remember, Sherlock. We're not heroes here, we just need enough evidence. We're not going to catch them without the specialists, it's too dangerous and there is too much at stake to risk it all." Lestrade said at the end, getting a glare from the detective as a reward.

"What do you mean, too much at stake?" John asked quietly as they walked.

"I mean… there might be people from the government involved in this, we have to be cautious." Lestrade answered in the same quiet voice.

"Obvious. Always are." Sherlock muttered. After that, they walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts and alerts to their surroundings.

After a couple of minutes, they hid behind a bush to prevent being seen. Sherlock started eyeing the setting; there was a camera pointing to the entry. Sherlock mentally drew a map with a path to not be spotted by it and get to the back side safe and sound; apparently the facility was less guarded at the back than the front side. John made a gesture to Sherlock with his index finger pointing to the ground, there were vehicles’ tracks marks leading to the same spot Sherlock was thinking about before.

Lestrade saw a couple of guards at the front door; two men playing chess, with guns in their belts.

They reached the back of the five-story building and they saw the white pickup. Sherlock immediately recognised the plate number. Near the pickup was a rusty fire escape. There was no soul around them, so they walked quietly to the ladder; Lestrade was the first to go up. John placed himself near the pickup, hiding behind the vehicle and taking out his gun. He made a gesture with his head at Sherlock to follow Greg.

Sherlock and Lestrade got inside the facility through a window at the second floor, they walked quietly by some corridors. No sound could be heard inside, which alerted them greatly. John followed shortly after. It seemed that they were not expected after all, since the only security they had was the camera at the front door.

As the three of them walked, corridor after corridor, Sherlock opened room after room, they reached for the stairs that would lead them to the first floor. Lestrade took another gun from his belt and handed it to Sherlock. The detective just took it and nodded. They descended the stairs quietly, each with a gun in hand, prepared for anything they could find.

"It's awfully quiet..." John murmured closer to Sherlock. Lestrade heard him and make a face, thinning his lips in a worried gesture. Sherlock just frowned deeper than usual.

Sherlock's mind raced with a lot of cases involving people's black market; usually those led to drug's market, and even maybe to organ trading. Thinking about all this, he took his phone from his pocket and dialled a number, for much John and Lestrade's astonishment.

John got a little closer to Sherlock and he heard the already recognisable voice:

'Welcome to Hot Line, if you want to talk to a woman, please press one…'

Sherlock pressed one.

'If your sex is male, please…-'

One.

'If you want to talk to a woman between twenty and…'

Four. Sherlock pressed the hidden option they had talked about the night before; but when he pressed that key, a high noise could be heard in the phone. Sherlock even had to move it a little away from his ear. The phone went silent again and Sherlock pressed more numbers. After a couple of seconds, a ring was heard at the first floor. Sherlock's lip curved a little upwards, and made a sign to Lestrade and John to follow him.

He led the way this time, his phone still in hand. He heard simultaneously the answer in the phone as well downstairs.

"Hello. How can I help you today?"

"Just talk." Was the deep, dark, half-whispered answer from the detective. Lestrade startled next to him, surprised at the unusual tone.

"O-Okay…" the childish voice was timid, it was frightening, disturbing. Sherlock put the phone back inside his pocket, connection still on, but he clearly didn't want to hear it; John didn't miss this detail, or the gesture of disgust on Sherlock's face. They kept on looking for the source of the voice, examining every spot their eyes could reach from their strategic location at the stairs.

Lestrade made a gesture to the other two, there was a room with a crack at the door right next to the last step of the stair. From there, they saw a blonde woman with headphones, facing the wall, which let them only see her back. Next to her there was a big man, who was playing with a gun in his hands, facing her.

And next to the man, there was a laptop. The screen showed that it was scanning a map.

After a couple of seconds, the computer emitted a sound and there was a big blinking red point over the screen. The woman and the man looked at each other and checked their phones. Without a word, the man got up from his sitting position, took his gun and started to walk at the door, slowly. She just stayed there, both hands over the headphones, listening, not even turning at the door. Sherlock turned off his phone inside his pocket.

When the man walked through the door, Lestrade gave him a quick, big blow at the back of his head with the gun, leaving him unconscious over the floor. The only noise heard in the place was the loud thud of the body meeting the ground. Sherlock entered the room and walked slowly and quietly to the woman, the gun in his hand pointing to her back, John stayed behind to cover up, - a strategy he and Sherlock had silently adopted over their adventures - and Lestrade followed Sherlock, not emitting a sound.

Slowly, the woman turned in her chair, looking directly at Sherlock, a little laptop in her hands.

"I knew you would come. You didn't disappoint us…! You're as good as they say." She said slowly. Her voice was very high pitched.

"Who are us? What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, his voice was extremely calmed and his brows were down. Lestrade walked to the laptop.

"You won't get it, inspector." She said, not paying attention to Sherlock but to Lestrade, "If you want the device you will have to pass over them."

"Them?" The DI asked, she pressed a key on her laptop and loud sirens could be heard all over the place.

Sherlock eyed around the ceiling and Lestrade took the opportunity to close the laptop with the map, he took his handcuffs and walked to the woman.

The petite woman was fast though, she stood up from her chair and sat on the floor, falling on her back beneath the desk she was before. She moved something behind her and a big hole appeared in the wall. Sherlock knelt down to take her laptop off her lap, but she grabbed him from his neck, making him fall with her to the floor. The detective almost knocked himself out on the desk, hitting the side of his face. Lestrade ran to take the gun that Sherlock had thrown with the blow and tried to help the detective, trying to release him from the firm grip the woman had around his neck, her hand was buried deep inside the collar of his shirt and coat.

She took the opportunity to plant her foot over Sherlock's chest and threw him backwards, giving herself the impulse she needed to get to the other side of the wall, but Sherlock managed to get the laptop and get back to his feet quickly, helped by Lestrade, shaking his head and making an aggrieved face.

"John!" Sherlock called, but there was no sign of the doctor. Sherlock wanted to get to the other room to get more information from the woman, but Lestrade stopped him pulling at his arm.

"Sherlock! We need to get out of here, fast. John will join us, I'm sure. We have the evidence we came for!"

"John!" Sherlock called again, worried. The sound of an engine made him get closer to the window, he saw John inside the pickup, waiting for them right outside. Lestrade jumped out and Sherlock jumped after him. Surprisingly, his knees failed him as soon as he touched the ground with his feet.

Lestrade noted this and quickly ran to help him out, leaving both laptops inside the pickup. Sherlock seemed drunk. Which John also noted, getting out from the pickup to help Sherlock back on his feet.

It all happened very fast; Sherlock was in the backseat of the pickup, Lestrade started to drive and John had both laptops on his lap, looking intently at the road and turning his head from time to time to look at Sherlock, who was sitting at the back looking everywhere but nowhere at the same time. His eyes seemed lost.

As soon as John heard gunshots he lowered his head whilst making a gesture to Sherlock to lower his as well. He complied John's orders, but fell to the side by doing so, making him occupy the rest of the backseat. Luckily for them, it was a double cab.

Lestrade made his way throughout the people firing in front of them. Getting far from the facility, passing the alley they were at before. There was the rental car Lestrade had arrived in, parked at the other side of the crack in the wall from which the DI had appeared. They got out of the vehicle and John ran to open the door to check on Sherlock, who was still lying alongside the backseat.

"What is wrong with him?" Lestrade asked to John as they saw how Sherlock tried hard to focus his eyes on them.

"I don't know… he seemed fine until he fell off the window."

"Well, he hit his head on a desk, I didn't think it was serious until now." Lestrade informed him, putting his hands on his hips and eyeing around the place. They couldn't hear more gunshots, but Lestrade knew they were going to be chased. "We need to get out of here quickly, before they come for us."

"I can't see any concussion." John muttered, too conscious of Sherlock's state to listen to Lestrade, he examined the scalp under the curls carefully and noted that his forehead had a layer of sweat, but there was no injury.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"John…?" he muttered, his tongue seemed asleep, his eyes were shutting down. His arm moved to reach something at his back, but instead it looked like some weird kind of dance.

"You okay? Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me, focus your eyes on me."

"I uh… John…"

"We don't have time, John. We need to-" Lestrade stopped. They heard engines sounds, motorcycles sounds. Plenty of them.

It took them a lot of effort to take Sherlock out of the pickup and get him into the car. John sat at the backseat with Sherlock, trying to figure out what was wrong with him.

The detective was still trying to grab something on his back. John put his hand below the collar of his shirt, he touched the shoulder blades, making Sherlock moan in a very embarrassing way. But thankfully Lestrade was too into the driving to notice. John kept on looking for something, anything, on his back, that could make him figure out what Sherlock was trying to grab. The car reeled like a ship in the sea. Lestrade was a very skilled and quick driver; he had lost already the chasers and they were now into the safety of more crowded roads.

John's search stopped when he touched a patch very close to the armpit area. He took it off and recognized it as a transdermal patch; used in medicine to deliver drugs into the bloodstream.

"Oh, great…" John muttered, he blinked slowly, his face tired.

"What is it!" Lestrade screamed throatily, adrenaline still flowing around his system.

"He's been drugged."

"Wha- How- Again?"

Chapter 16: Hot Line Case IV – High and functional

Notes:

Part of this chapter is based in John's line from s02e01: "Oh I should warn you, I think Lestrade... filmed you on his phone"

It's unbelievable how small details says so much about someone's personality. I actually like Lestrade a lot. In the book too, he's a gentleman, but his backgrounds, knowledge and education are limited. But he has this... thing... He always wants to be the best in everything, but he also recognizes Sherlock Holmes as a superior. I kind of like that. He has a good sense of humour too, which is also reflected in BBC version. And the actor, Mr. Graves, is perfect. "Meretricious" "And a happy new year!" (Oh, how I laughed with that.)

They were back in 221B nearly for twenty minutes now. John sat at the kitchen table, tea in his favourite mug, Mrs. Hudson across the table. She was looking straight at him with a very enquiring expression, waiting for John to finish the answer to her question. A simple question it was, for such a thick answer: 'What happened?'

She worried when seeing Lestrade and John walking upstairs with a very lost Sherlock... for the second time.

John tried to calm her down by drinking tea and answering the simple question.

"...so, then in the car, I noticed Sherlock had this patch near his armpit area, it is used to deliver drugs into the system... like nicotine patches." John said mournfully, eyeing from time to time the direction of Sherlock's bedroom.

"The armpit?" She asked, confused.

"Yes... I think she did it so Sherlock couldn't take it off by himself, so the drug would have more time to get into his system. I asked Lestrade and he informed me the blond woman had her arms under Sherlock's shirt by his collar... I think she was trying to delay the process, so we couldn't find the patch, it was hidden there..." John answered; his voice was awfully quiet, as if he didn't want to disturb the quiet inside the flat.

John had his own theories about the patch. He knew it had been intended to be attached to Sherlock's skin for longer, it seemed as if it was placed far enough not to be seen. Now his biggest fear was; if the patch Sherlock had before had only half its desired effect on the detective, then... really, how powerful the drug was?

"And what happened to his face?" she asked, concerned.

"Oh, Lestrade also told me Sherlock knocked himself out on a desk..." Mrs. Hudson made a flinch and he smiled to give her assurance, "it's nothing serious... there was some blood, but there's only a little cut under the cheekbone, nothing else."

"That's awful, dear..." Mrs. Hudson was still concerned, John sipped his tea. Without Sherlock there, it all seemed so quiet and peaceful... awfully silent. "It really worried me, you know. Last time something like this happened, he wasn't so lost like now."

'So Mrs. Hudson took a hold of it too.' John thought.

"I know, Mrs. Hudson..." John sighed, playing with his thumb on the handle of the mug, "I just want to know what kind of drug it was... it seemed dreadfully strong... Sherlock had it on him less than ten minutes, and you saw the results." He gestured to Sherlock's room and gave a sigh. He moved the remaining of his tea inside the cup. "I sent the patch over to Bart’s lab with Greg... hopefully Molly can determine the drug type."

"Oh Molly! She's a lovely girl, isn't she?" she said with a grin, the corner of her eyes furrowed with the gesture. Mrs. Hudson always tried to cheer John up, whenever he was in this kind of introspection. At least John would talk to her, she knew he wasn't a very talkative man... except maybe with Sherlock. "I always liked her so much." She continued, "Not like the other woman... what happened to her? Sherlock never tells me anything... that pretty woman with wavy long hair?"

"Oh, Irene Adler. She's uhm..." John cleared his throat and hissed, "She is in America... in a witness' protection program." As long as he finished saying that, he took a big gulp of tea, eyeing, once again, in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. Mrs. Hudson just nodded.

"I'm worried, John..." She said, changing the subject. "If they think Sherlock is doing drugs, they can come here and run a drug's bust again, and if they find my prescription... they're for my hip...! Moreover the mess they always make... and Mrs. Turner next door, she complains every time the police come here..."

"I know, I know... Mrs. Hudson, please don't worry about anything. I can handle Sherlock... and I'm sure Inspector Lestrade won't bother with a drug's bust now... he saw everything, remember he was with us."

"You're right, dear... I'm just worrying too much. I will bring you boys some cakes from the cafe later in the evening." She said standing up and walking to the door.

"You're so sweet, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you so much."

"If there's anything you need, you can call me on my phone. Okay?" She added, turning to smile at the doctor. He smiled back.

"Will do. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

As soon as she closed the door, John became aware once more of the silence. It was heavy and disturbing. He wasn't used to this kind of silence. It was the same silence he remembered in the flat when Sherlock was knocked out by The Woman.

'The Woman', John thought bitterly. His mind travelled back in time. To the last New Year's eve.

'So she's alive, then... how are we feeling about that?' A bell echoed in the background, announcing twelve o'clock. For John, on the other hand, it was just to give a dramatic touch to the detective's next words.

'Happy new year, John'

'You think you'll be seeing her again?'

As the only answer, he played 'Auld Lang Syne'.

John wasn't surprised at the moment for that song, since it's often performed on New Years' Eve, but then he understood the double meaning of it. The song is also known as 'For the old times', a song meaning good bye.

"Joooohhnnnn!" Sherlock threw the door of his room open, abruptly pulling John out of his thoughts. The detective was walking barefoot only in a shirt and trousers. John had helped him out of the excessive items of clothes earlier.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?" John asked trying to keep his calm, standing up from the chair and walking to the other man.

When John was about to grab the detective arms to take him back to his room, the door opened, almost hitting Sherlock's face. It was Lestrade, who got to their flat with a very concerned expression. He had two laptops in his hands; the big one with the map software and the one the woman had on her lap, the one Sherlock had managed to sneak out before knocking himself on the desk.

"Sorry to interrupt, boys... but I was hoping... if you..." Lestrade tried to talk straight, but it was getting difficult with Sherlock's face a couple of millimetres from his nose. Sherlock wore a frown and was having a very difficult time on focusing his eyes on the DI’s. He was observing him as if there was something very out of place on Lestrade’s face. He continued talking, "...if you uh...could help me out." He moved his neck back, adding more space between his face and Sherlock's and eyed John, his expression was nearly scared. "Er... John? ...get him off me... please."

John, who was looking the scene whilst fighting a giggle, shook his head at the DI. "It's just Sherlock, Greg... not a poisonous insect." He added, positioning himself behind Sherlock and, with a firm grip, he took the detective's upper arms, making him face his bedroom's door.

"My face hurts... do something 'boured." [My cheek hurts... do something about it.] Sherlock said. He was spilling out the words but it was still understandable.

Lestrade placed both laptops on the kitchen table and snorted at the detective and the resigned face of the doctor helping him out. He walked back to help John to put a talking Sherlock back in bed.

"John... Joohnnn! What's Lestrade doing here at our home?"

Lestrade smiled and took one of Sherlock's arms firmly; giving a nod to John and making Sherlock to walk back to his bedroom, almost lifting his feet from the floor.

"At the Yard, I noticed they are password protected..." Lestrade informed them, "but in the state Sherlock is, I doubt he can do it today."

John nodded, his brows high on his forehead.

"Desrrrrrad!" [Lestrade!] Sherlock yelled, turning around almost completely and trying to fight the firm grip on his arms. "Desrrad, what happened to the laptops? I didn't catch what you said..."

"If I answer him now... will he remember later?" Lestrade asked. He had this big grin on his face as he watched the-always-composed Sherlock being in such an awkward state.

"I doubt it..." John answered, "I'm surprised he can even think enough to form a phrase, though... when will the results be ready?"

"Oh yeah, I have to call Molly..." John made a gesture to the DI with his head, taking both of Sherlock's arms and finally making him walk back to his room.

Lestrade took his phone from his pocket and dialled a number. He could see Sherlock trying to tell John something about the laptops' passwords. Even in the state he was, the detective's mind was still working trying to solve any mystery presented. The DI smiled amused, shaking his head. It was the same with the case of the hiker and the boomerang; Sherlock had been talking about the case even drugged, and he was almost certain Sherlock had solved out the case whilst he was sleeping. Sherlock really was worthy of praise. Lestrade admired him... but that doesn't mean it was still hilarious to watch the detective behaving like this. He stopped his thoughts when he heard the feminine voice at the other side of the phone.

"Hello?"

"Molly-"

"Greg! I just got to Bart’s, traffic is awful. How is Sherlock doing?"

"Ahm... yeah, sorry to bother you on your day off..." Lestrade heard a loud thud coming from Sherlock's room, he hurried to the door to see if everything was okay, but then he heard a loud laugh resonating around the place... and a curse from John. Lestrade chuckled standing outside the detective's room.

"What is that...? Is that Sherlock?" she asked, evidently surprised.

"Yeah..." the DI giggled, "Molly, please... I would really appreciate if you could take all the time you need to test the drug. I will stay here a little longer recording this."

"Don't be cruel, Greg. Does he need assistance?"

"No, remember he has his doctor."

Molly went mute for a couple of seconds. Lestrade frowned and looked at his phone.

"Molly?"

"Oh yes. You're right. I mean, if you need any help, please tell John he can call me."

"The only thing we need now, Molly, is to find out the contents of the patch." Lestrade startled right outside Sherlock's room when he heard more of the deep laughter, he added "... please."

"Sherl-! Jesus! Stop it!" Lestrade's brows went up quickly at John's pleading tone.

"Please call me as soon as you have anything. Anything will do." Lestrade sounded worried now.

"Don't worry, Greg."

Lestrade hung up and mentally prepared himself to enter the room and find... whatever he was going to find. But he stopped with his hand resting on the door handle.

"John...? Is everything alright?"

"Help!" Was the only answer from the doctor. Lestrade opened the door quietly, only to find John spread all over the floor; Sherlock was sitting over John's stomach, straddling his torso. He was laughing and his head waved a little, in a semi conscious state.

"Greg! Thank God!" John exclaimed, Sherlock was surprisingly heavy, so now the doctor had a little trouble breathing. "Help me out here, would yah..." John groaned trying to sit up. Sherlock tried to bring himself over his feet again but he fell back on John's stomach, making the older man gasp with the blow thrown directly over his lower torso.

"Sherlock! Stop! Stop it! You can't stand!"

"I can stand by myself... I dun need yar help!" Sherlock tried to stand up again just to fall back over poor John. This time, he groaned loudly at the pain at his lower belly. His face was red and contorted between pain and embarrassment.

Lestrade blinked a couple of times and then laughed. Hard. He took his phone from his pocket and started to record the scene.

"Boys!" he said, "I believe I will start a collection of Sherlock's moments. Now this time I present to you, my new show. How to train your detective, part two. Starring Army Doctor John Watson."

John glared at the camera and Sherlock frowned, still a lost expression, trying to focus his eyes on Lestrade, failing miserably.

"Dunno what you said, Lestrade but I didn't like it..." Sherlock tried to spell out. His attempt at glaring only made Lestrade laugh harder.

"Greg, please. This is not, and for second time, not material for your personal amusement. You did it once, and that was enough."

"Kids!" Lestrade continued, not really paying attention to John, "don't do this at home! I think I should put a parental advisory in my movie..." the DI laughed again, just to be rewarded with another glare of the doctor on the floor. "Alright... alright, John. You win."

Still chuckling uncontrollably, Lestrade placed the phone over the night stand –recording everything – and took John's arm to help him on his feet.

John only felt a couple of strong arms around his shoulders and neck. Sherlock's face pressed to the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. He coughed hard, surprised. They almost fell over John's back, but he kept his balance with his palms over the floor, supporting his upper body's weight and now Sherlock's as well.

"You!" Sherlock glared at Lestrade, who was looking at them from his standing position a few steps away from them, his expression was unreadable. "That's what you wanted, didn't you Lestrade! You shot John!" He was holding John protectively, his eyes like ice. Surprisingly, the sentence was very comprehensible and he didn't even seem drugged. The DI was petrified at the scene, John was the same. "You never cared if John died right in front of you! I screamed for help but you never helped! You and your incompetents from the Yard! Those... those... criminalists!" Sherlock spitted the last word with disgust and made a face.

"What the hell is he talking about? I have never shot you!" Greg whispered, taking his phone and pressing the STOP button from the recording. The voice and look in Sherlock's face giving him the chills.

"I'm as confused as you are, Greg." John answered with a groan, trying to stand up, but Sherlock's grip was firm.

"I will not let you die, John... I will not..." Sherlock said, his voice was muffled by the doctor's hair. John noticed that it was just another phase of the drugged state. Sherlock could cry, laugh or get violent at any moment, and very quickly. Even when he could form semi-coherent thoughts and words now, he probably still needed the whole night to recover. John shook his head at the realization: a sleepless night waited for him.

John tried to stand up again, but he stopped. The position they were brought a little memory, at the time not important, but now regained strength: few weeks ago, being in Netherlands, Sherlock had called because he'd had a nightmare. In the nightmare, Lestrade had shot John because he wanted to kill Sherlock.

Why was that so vivid inside Sherlock's brain? John blinked a couple of times, at lost. He could feel the soft breathing of his companion, somewhere in between his neck and hair. The position made John feel embarrassed, but at the same time, it gave him a weird sense of security, to know Sherlock actually cared so much.

"John?" Lestrade called, but John didn't hear him.

"Sherlock..." the doctor called in a very small voice. "Look, I'm alive. You really need to sleep it off. It was just a bad dream. Okay?"

"I'm not sleepy, John." Sherlock said, his voice was almost teary and broken. John sighed deeply and Lestrade passed a hand over his face, confused.

"You have to." John told him a firm tone, making Sherlock's head snap up and look at him, "now... here. Let's stand up..." he added taking Sherlock's hand. Slowly but laboriously, they stood up. Sherlock fell back quickly on the edge of the bed with a bump. John stood in front of him and looked down at the pale eyes. Sherlock looked up, his lips were closed and his face looked as if he was about to cry.

Forgetting completely about Lestrade, who didn't say a thing to disturb them, John moved some curls out of the detective's forehead. Lestrade noticed the gesture, it held a brotherly sentiment behind, it was very familiar, as if John did it often. He found himself smiling at the scene in front. He had never seen John being this nice with anyone, and certainly had never seen Sherlock being so obedient with anybody.

If there had been other circumstances, the DI would have teased them. But, some time ago, he realized the depth of the bond the two men shared.

He remembered, on one conversation he and Mycroft held, how the older Holmes seemed convinced to ask for John's advice when dealing with anything that had to do with Sherlock's sentiments. 'Sherlock wears his heart in his sleeve, Greg.' Mycroft had told him, 'and even though he knows it's not safe, he still does...' Lestrade was oblivious at the time, but now he understood what Mycroft meant.

"Sherlock... you need to sleep, okay?" the soft tone of the doctor brought the DI back to reality in Sherlock's room.

Sherlock smirked, never taking his eyes from John's and whispered "Alright..."

With a hint of humour, John placed his index finger on Sherlock's shoulder and pushed him back, and then he whistled as he fell, lifeless-like, over the mattress. The doctor threw a blanket over him and gave him a friendly pat on the back. Lestrade also turned to leave.

"John...?" the voice was so small that the doctor had to come back to hear him, Lestrade also stopped on his tracks and turned to both.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"My cheek hurts." The detective words were muffled by the pillow, but they still understood them.

"You knocked yourself out on a desk, remember?" Lestrade asked out loud with a grin.

"Oh yes..." Sherlock giggled, "It hurts... like... ugh... it hurts badly, John."

Lestrade giggled behind John. The doctor just smiled at the childish behaviour.

"I can only imagine how it must hurt, Sherlock... I can apply some cream over, if you want." John said.

"Cream...? Oh! Cream! Or lotion? Mrs. Hudson's lotion... I won't be loud thanks to the lotion..."

John froze. He felt how his soul left his body slowly. He felt himself going stiff and suddenly he had no control over his facial expressions... or body language. He didn't want to turn to look at the DI, but nonetheless, his words brought him back.

"Loud?" Lestrade asked, still with a huge grin.

"Lestrade, shut up!" Sherlock's scream was muffled by the pillow. "You're making my mind palace to fall! Into little... small... tiny pieces!"

"Loud?" The DI asked again.

John couldn't find his voice yet. Even if he did, Sherlock had found his first.

"She thought we were-"

"Sherlock!" John snapped out, getting closer to the bed. "Sleep! Please. You're making another huge misunderstanding here!"

Lestrade laughed again. He was having way too much fun with these guys. Last time it happened, Sherlock was blabbing nonstop about the car that backfired, 'Like fireworks!' he had said that time, it even made Donovan laugh.

**FlashBack**

"And the car... backfired! Like fireworks!" Sherlock screamed at the back of Lestrade's car, Donovan was driving with a huge grin on her face. The DI sat next to her, filming with his phone at the backseat.

"It's like... the car was on fire! BUM!" Sherlock screamed again, gesturing with his arms in the air, almost hitting the poor doctor who sat beside him. "What happens when you hear a loud sound, John?" the doctor shrugged, Sherlock rolled his eyes and screamed "Think!"

"If the loud sound is you, Sherlock... what happens next is me telling you, please... shut the fuck up."

Sherlock opened wide eyes, having a hard time focusing on John's "You said FUCK!" he yelled. "Oh now I said fuck... I never say fuck... John! You made me say fuck!" Sherlock giggled "You only say fuck when you're angry... are you angry, John?"

"No... no... How could I be, Sherlock... It's not your fault after all..." John lifted an eyebrow to the DI and muttered "...even when you're being a bloody pain in the arse..." Lestrade couldn't stop his uncontrollable laughter.

"It's the woman... that woman..." Sherlock clenched his eyes for a moment and then opened them again quickly, "she was there, with the hiker... hikah? Who the hell invented that word... hikah!"

Lestrade laughed even harder, John couldn't help his own at the depreciative tone under Sherlock's voice.

"John!" Sherlock turned to his companion, his face very close to the doctor's "Did you put away the ashtray I got for you?"

"Ashtray? But you don't smoke, do you?" Lestrade asked with a confused frown, looking at the doctor at the backseat. His torso was completely turned over looking at them.

John sighed, passing his hand over his face "It's a long story..."

"Come on! Tell him!" Sherlock yelled, very close to the doctor ear. John planted his hand over Sherlock's chest and pushed him away.

"Shut up. Sherlock. You really need to sleep it over..."

"Sleep? Sleeping is boring, John!"

John just sighed.

"It was a boomerang!" Sherlock screamed suddenly. "I solved... uh... John?" he added, quieter now.

"A... boomerang?" The doctor questioned quietly, he had his index finger in his ear, it was hurting already with the non-stop baritone screams.

"My head hurts... like... badly... hurts..." Sherlock mumbled, his head tilting to John's shoulder and falling there. John wasn't sure who received the worst part of that action; either Sherlock's cheekbone or his shoulder's bone. "And yeah, it was a boomerang... for the backfire..." Sherlock muttered, his voice muffled by the doctor's jacket.

"Awww! You guys look adoooooorable!" Donovan said sarcastically, looking at them from the rear-view mirror. They were in a red light.

"Shut up, you... you... woman. You're lowering the IQ of the whole... the whole... police car? John? Are we inside a police car?" Sherlock questioned, alarmed, lifting his face from John's shoulder and rubbing absently his cheekbone with his hand.

"No, Sherlock. We are in Lestrade's car."

"Oh...alright..." Sherlock let his face fall over John's shoulder once again, the doctor groaned softly at the blow received on his shoulder with Sherlock's face. Then he added "Don't talk to me as if I'm a kid... John."

"I'm not, Sherlock."

"See? You are doing it again!"

John sighed.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"I'm not sexy, am I? Why does the woman only think about you and I, being sexy just because we are detectives... and nobody gives a damn about my mental work?"

"I do, Sherlock."

"Don't talk to me like that."

Lestrade turned off his phone saving the video. Sherlock was now being childish and it was not longer fun to film.

"You're a romantic, John... our cases aren't adventures..."

"I know, Sherlock."

"I'm gonna shut up, John... you're talking to me like if I’m a kid."

"You are a kid. And I swear, I will be the happiest man on the face of earth if you do shut up now." John said looking outside the window.

"Earth? Earth goes around the sun... right?"

"Yes it does... Sherlock."

"Ugh. Shut up, John." Sherlock fell asleep.

**/FlashBack**

Now Sherlock was acting quite the same. Mycroft had told John once 'he has the mind of a philosopher...' and damn he was right, especially now, when Sherlock was being so damn talkative.

But John was worried; Sherlock was vocalizing his thoughts and, with the events between him and the detective, Mrs. Hudson's misunderstanding and now Lestrade there...

"Ugh... It's always about sex... John." Sherlock whined.

"What!" John opened surprised eyes at the figure on the bed.

"My cheek hurts..."

"Sherlock... please..."

"... and it's always sex... sex sex sex..."

"Oh for God's sake, Sherl-" John breathed out, tired. "Shut the fuck up, will yah..."

"You said fuck, John... see? Fuck is sex." Sherlock said, trying to grab something from his nightstand. He passed his hand there, finding only his lamp, it almost went to the floor if it wasn't for John's quick hand. "But fuck is a verb... I can say fuck me, I can say sex me, now can I... Ah! And fuck is an insult. I can say fuck you, but I can't say sex you... and I can say..."

"Oh my God..." Lestrade muttered with a giggle. John turned to the DI smiled weakly "I am going now, John. Make sure he survives, we need him alive to finish this case."

"Found it!" Sherlock yelled, making them both face at him. He held a little bottle of lotion between his shaky fingers. Only half of the bottle remained. John recognized it as the bottle of lotion given to him by Mrs. Hudson when she had the confusion. "John! I won't be loud-"

"Lotion?" the DI took the bottle from Sherlock's fingers and lifted an eyebrow to John. "Do I want to know?"

"Oh the lotion!" John laughed, trying to sound indifferent. "Mrs. Hudson gave it to Sherlock when he needed uh... something for his experiment."

"So he won't be so loud." Added the DI.

"Yes! It's uh..." John hissed, "...it's a long story, Greg. I don't really want to talk about Sherlock's experiment. I don't understand half of them, anyway..." he took the little bottle from Lestrade's hand and threw it inside the wardrobe. His expression was so serious that the DI didn't ask about it anymore.

"Alright. I'm going to the Yard kids... I will come here tomorrow to check on the laptops... any news, let me know."

The DI walked outside and again the flat remained silent after their goodbye. John walked to the kitchen, he needed a cup of tea.

As soon as John turned on the kettle, there was a loud shout from Sherlock's bedroom. The voice was calling for him. Again.

John walked in there, resigned. This one would definitely be a very, very long afternoon and night.

Chapter 17: Hot Line Case V – Enlightening

"And why do you want me to talk to Sherlock... aren't you the best for the job?" Armand's voice echoed in the dark place. He was questioning to a figure in front, somewhere in between many shadows. He was mad, he didn't like to be treated like this, he was a free man, always have been.

Armand wasn't a man to get depressed or easily desperate, but it was the first time for him to feel threatened and confused and to be, in general, a chaotic mixture of feelings.

As he walked away from 221B this morning, after spending the night on Sherlock's sofa, he was actually considering the possibility to be obsessed with the detective and he let himself to be lost in this line of thoughts: maybe he was just in love with an illusion. But it didn't fade after Sherlock's turn down, quite the contrary; he wanted Sherlock to trust him, he wanted to help him... and John as well. It was his real desire but it seemed fogged with the current – maybe romantic – interest towards the detective. He was sure he would have to sort out his feelings somehow... but he also felt them meaningless. The black car finding him a couple of blocks from Baker Street as he left the detective's flat didn't help to ease his mood either.

The car that had picked him up had stopped in an underground parking lot. A chuckle that sounded quite sad to Armand's ears resonated in the place. It was dark and he could only see a silhouette in the shadows. And he was standing there, at lost; he wanted to get closer to the man in the dark, but he was a bit terrified. The male voice had told him to talk to Sherlock, to make him withdraw from the case and to convince his friend Xavier to confess.

"I could talk to him, but my little brother never listens..." the dark figure walked to be seen in the light.

"I recognized your voice... you are my father's friend: Mycroft Holmes." Armand said tilting his chin up, defiantly. "I've heard about your job for the government. But sadly, Mr. Holmes, I have no interest in my share of the family legacy."

"It's a shame."

"My family is a shame." Armand snapped.

"You're underestimating them... your father is a great man, Armand. I'm sure you could take his place someday."

"I will never do that." the younger man walked to Mycroft, standing in front and taking a big gulp of air. "I've seen innocent people going down thanks to my family pulling their strings." Armand tried to ignore the weakened state of his knees when he saw how Mycroft opened big eyes at that, "I went to see your brother because I'm convinced he can make the real guilty ones to fall this time."

The older Holmes let out a soft chuckle. Armand frowned at that. This man in front displayed an emotional jumble; not even he could catch the meaning behind his words. 'He is made of ice...' Armand thought.

"What gives you enough confidence to believe that my little brother is enough to stand before the whole government?" Mycroft made a circular motion with the umbrella in his hand. Armand smirked, a confident little smile playing at his lips and it made Mycroft frown, surprised.

"You think?"

"How much do you even know my brother?" Mycroft asked.

"Enough, I believe..." Armand put his hands inside his pockets. He felt uneasy; he was being scanned. Last night with Sherlock he had felt similarly exposed, but that hadn't made him this uncomfortable. A shiver went up his spine at the scrutiny of the man in front. "I just trust him... and I trust Dr. Watson." He added in a smaller voice.

"You trust him!" Mycroft chuckled again, "in this world there are just few people trusting him at first glance... first it was Detective Inspector Lestrade, but I know he can be easy to handle. There was John and now, of all people... you?"

"Mr. Holmes, I'm sure your brother can bring the truth about this ca-"

"Truth!" Mycroft snorted, clearly irritated by now, "do you even have an idea..." he lowered his voice, it had been rising with each word and now the word 'idea' echoed in the place, "...an idea about what you're exploiting... about what you're getting Sherlock into?"

"It's just a case, Mr. Holmes..."

"It may be..." the older Holmes darted his brows up, never taking his eyes from Armand "And it will be if Xavier confesses. The case will be solved and you wouldn't have any more inconveniences... I'm convinced you don't want to endanger Sherlock, do you?"

"I'm not the one endangering him, Mr. Holmes... if Sherlock finds the truth, the ones falling down is going to be people in your side... my father's side..."

"Don't you think you've gone too far having as your sole purpose to bring disgrace over your family?"

"They were looking for it long ago... I just want to expose the truth." for some reason, Armand had started to pant lightly, his breathing was forced and his forehead had a layer of sweat. On the other hand Mycroft was calmed, he only had lost his usual self-control once and now he had this reassured expression again. Armand continued, "Try to understand, I'm doing this for my family. I still believe in justice, my family believed in justice before... but people like you just corrupted them, making them use justice for their own benefit..."

"Oh Armand..." Mycroft said with a condescending smile, "idealistic people can't go too far. But I'll give you credit for that..." he added, nodding lightly.

"I don't need your sympathy, Mr. Holmes. I respect you and your job, but I will never approve the way you practice your... your... so-called-justice."

"And I don't expect you to, Mr. Smith." The older Holmes frowned lightly, never taking his eyes from Armand's, "If you are not helping others as I see, and acting by your own ideals without minding who you step over... I believe we have nothing else to discuss."

Armand tried to calm down. The man in front seemed almighty. He was at lost, his knees were still trembling but his position was firm.

"I never believed we had something to discuss in the first place." He snapped and turned around.

"Are you going to see Sherlock? Do you need a ride?"

"No, thank you." Armand sensed how, even if the last lines were friendly, the tone was completely different. "I am going to see Xavier", he added.

**..**

John threw himself on the large sofa, exhausted. It was evening and the sun was slowly setting, giving the flat an orange glow. Sherlock had been sleeping since Lestrade left around midday, and had just awaked twice to throw up, helped by John of course. The doctor took the opportunity to clean his wardrobe a little, so he could keep an eye on him at the same time he threw away the adrenaline he managed to gather during the day.

Seriously taking his role as a doctor, he had been checking now and then on the sleeping figure; Sherlock had tossed a little and muttered a couple of things about lotion, massages, sex, Armand... about a phone call, about John... but since none of it made much sense, he had just opted to remain silent and not to ask for anything. He didn't want to have a yelling-Sherlock again, thank you very much.

Rubbing his temples, he lifted his legs to the armrest, making his knees to bend over it. His feet dangled and moved as he tried to get comfortable there.

Molly had called a few hours ago, letting him know that the drug was a variation of Phencyclidine; a recreational drug which had been modified to be absorbed through the skin. It wasn't dangerous, but the amount would last hours. The dose in the patch was still high in the lab, even when Sherlock's organism had absorbed almost half of it already. It seemed that the drug was given to the detective with the only purpose to leave him out of the battlefield for at least one day.

When Lestrade found out about the drug and the possible reason it had been given to Sherlock, he pulled his strings and went back to the facility with a warrant and the specialist firearm command. John was still waiting for news about the case; last thing he knew was Lestrade calling him before heading for the facility.

The doctor tossed on the couch. The tranquillity of the flat still disturbed him, making him to fall into a slumber slowly, his mind battled between the comical situations today with Sherlock and Lestrade and all of the dreadful case involving the hot line. He had been wondering about Armand the whole day, since in the morning the young man had walked out the flat with firm steps, like he knew exactly where he was going and what he was doing next. He had turned to John before leaving and had shook his hand, with a firm pressure, not saying a word, but the mid frown on his features and the secure smirk on his lips had spoken by themselves.

"Whoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson called quietly in a high pitched voice, entering the flat with a tray in her hand. Mycroft was walking behind her, chatting friendly with the old lady and gentlemanly carrying a couple of her bags from the grocery store.

"I'm so glad you came, Mycroft..." she said continuing their little chat, placing the tray on the kitchen table, Mycroft just listened with a gentle smile on his face. "I am sure Sherlock will be happy to see you care. He will never admit it, but he will be pleased." She nodded to the taller man.

"I hope so, Mrs. Hudson..." Mycroft said, placing his umbrella next to the mantelpiece, his smile widened as he spotted John lifting himself up from the sofa, the doctor was evidently annoyed at the sudden visit. "Hello, John."

"Mycroft." John rubbed his eyes and then stood up firmly. "Sherlock is sleeping, and I really don't want to wake him up after all the ye-"

"I'm here because I want to talk with you." He said, moving his eyes to look at Mrs. Hudson who was listening to the conversation. As soon as she saw the look Mycroft directed to her she turned to John.

"There is a tray... cakes and sandwiches..." she said talking in a very hushed voice, "I also brought milk because I didn't know if you had any. If you need anything else, let me know dear..." she added with a smile, walking to Mycroft who held the bags to her reach and then she quickly walked to the door.

"You're a saint, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. Really." John said, walking to the door as well. He closed it as soon as he heard the lady's slow steps. "You really need to be nicer to her. I hope you do apologize as soon as you go down..." he said, turning to look at Mycroft.

"I didn't come all the way here to talk about modals, John..." Mycroft sat on Sherlock's leather armchair, John sat in front. The older Holmes let out a long sigh and rubbed his temples. His position on the chair was casual and relaxed, usual composure seemed forgotten.

"Are you okay?" the doctor asked, frowning.

"John..." Mycroft said quietly and John's expression deepened. The man in front sighed and placed both arms in the armrests of the chair. He threw his head back and sighed again.

"Mycroft...?"

"I don't know what to do, John." He whispered.

"You?" John curved his lips up in an awkward smile, waiting for Mycroft to talk. He knew the Holmes' brothers were alike at some very rare aspects; the ability to get exasperated at some gestures being one of them.

"It’s not something to be taken lightly..." Mycroft said, closing his eyes and frowning deeply. "You and my brother... are always getting yourselves, somehow, on cases that are not your business..." John rolled his eyes at Mycroft. He knew the speech already. The man in front raised him an eyebrow. He was about to talk again when his phone went off.

"Sorry." Mycroft muttered as he took his phone from his pocket and saw the incoming call, he furrowed his lips when he saw the number. Giving a long sigh, he answered. "Gregory."

John only heard a murmur over the phone and Mycroft's quick replies "Who? Philip Smith?", "Oh God...", "Right, if Armand is with Xavier at the Yard, you can only retain the later for forty-eight hours...", "Don't tell Philip", "No, Armand is not going to be interrogated", "Don't allow Philip to get in touch with her."

The doctor just heard supporting his forehead with his index and thumb, his head tilted to a side, confused, but he had an idea of what was happening.

Mycroft hung up and sighed once again today. "Armand took Xavier to the police station to present his proofs." He said absently rubbing his temples and closing his eyes. The phone was still in his hand.

"That's a good thing, isn't?" John asked. Mycroft paused and opened one eye to look at him.

"You really don't get it, do you..." Mycroft said, he settled a little on the chair and gave John a long glance, his lips curved in a smirk. John weren't daunted by that look anymore, in fact it was almost welcomed, he knew that after that look a long explanation would follow. He could almost hear Mycroft's brain working on what he could tell him and what he could not. "It was from the Yard indeed..." Mycroft started, narrowing his eyes and tilting his chin up, "Gregory went back to the facility with the command, you knew that much." John nodded and the older Holmes proceeded, his voice was calmed and he was talking like being infinitely bored, "they captured the woman and found a big amount of drugs there."

"Who is Philip Smith?" John asked, keeping Mycroft's stare.

"Armand's father. One of the most powerful men in the country."

"I've heard about him... I didn't associate..."

"Of course you didn't..." Mycroft said with a little malicious smile and a short head shake. John rolled his eyes 'someday Sherlock would have to admit he grew up with this bloke' he thought. Mycroft's voice made him look up at him again. "Armand convinced his friend to declare because he knows he can't be blamed. The kid might have not followed his father's steps, but he grew up between laws, he knows them as well as the palm of his hand."

"Mycroft..." John frowned, again, not completely following the man in front. "What is that Philip can't know?"

"That we captured the woman at the facility."

"Why not?"

"She is Philip's sister."

John's eyes snapped open. Armand's images flashes through his mind; the over concern about the case, the old fashioned phrase passionate crime to refer to a crime usually involving family or lovers... everything made sense now.

Mycroft lifted himself from the chair taking his umbrella and walked to both of the laptops on the desk. John stood up as well and crossed his arms over his chest as he watched Mycroft.

"Are these the ones you brought from the facility?" he asked, opening the small one. A screen asking for a password opened and the older brother just stared at the screen.

"Yes, Greg brought them..." John saw how Mycroft lifted the device, stared at it for a while and then typed a few numbers, unlocking it. John's brows went up with surprise. Sherlock usually did the same when trying to figure out his laptop password. He saw how Mycroft browsed a couple of folders, then took his phone and sent over a couple of files by Bluetooth. He typed a few more things on the little computer and then shut it closed.

"I'm going now." Mycroft announced, walking to the door, "tell my brot-"

"Why don't you tell me yourself, Mycroft?" Sherlock's deep voice echoed in the flat, John blinked a couple of times, he was so concentrated in Mycroft's actions that he never saw Sherlock coming out from his bedroom, walking silently to the living room.

"How are you feeling, brother?" Mycroft asked, looking at his sibling with an inquisitive look from head to toe.

"Are you here to ask me to withdraw from the case, again?" Sherlock supported himself stretching his right arm to the wall next to him. John wanted to get closer to Sherlock and help him, but there was something in the aura of the place that stopped him in doing so. This was a conversation that had to be held, and he didn't want to interrupt. Sherlock seemed better, it was obvious it was still hard to maintain his balance, but now his pronunciation was perfect and his voice had lowered to a normal volume.

He couldn't help but stare at the scene in front; Sherlock's shirt was almost completely open and it dangled from his slender frame instead being tucked in his trousers as usual. His bare feet and dishevelled hair gave him a very contradictory look against the composed man in front. It was an awkward view for John; he had to admit it was always fascinating to observe Sherlock confronting his brother, he always was taken aback by the way Mycroft could lose his patience with him and vice versa, it was almost like a child dispute every time, even if there was such a serious topic at hand like now.

After a little eye battle between the two brothers, where they were clearly scanning each other, Mycroft spoke up. "I didn't come to ask you as your brother, Sherlock. I came here to order it to a consulting detective as part of the government." He said, darting his brows up.

"And you simply thought I would follow your order? I'm not Lestrade." Sherlock snapped, still supporting himself on the wall. His eyes were still fighting to focus, but he managed to do it on Mycroft's.

"You will withdraw when you notice how deep you are reaching, Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft said with a sigh. "John will enlighten you with the details of the case and I'm sure you're clever enough to figure out the rest." Sherlock frowned at the tone his brother used and he rapidly eyed John, who just shook his head quickly and closed his eyes, sighing silently.

Mycroft walked to the door, giving one last quick look to John and then he concentrated on his brother, who maintained the same position. "Now, as a brother, Sherlock: take care of yourself. Abandon the case, let the Yard do their job. Forget it, Sherlock. No spaces." Giving one last nod to both of them, he stepped outside and closed the door.

As soon as the door was closed, Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded from the first store "Are you leaving so soon, Mycroft?" John frowned, trying to listen to the conversation downstairs. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. And I apologise for my behaviour. I'm just... tired." John snorted and eyed Sherlock who was just staring back, confused. "Oh no worries. Have a good day, dear." "You too, Mrs. Hudson."

Shaking his head with a wide smile, John walked to Sherlock and took his hand that supported him on the wall. Sherlock seemed glued to it.

"You okay?" the doctor asked, Sherlock moved his head a little, focusing on John's eyes.

"I'm incredibly thirsty..." Sherlock complained. John snorted, his lip curving up lightly. "And I need you to tell me everything you know, John."

"Of course."

"But first..." Sherlock supported himself on John's shoulder and muttered "Forget it, Sherlock. No spaces." Giving himself impulse, he walked to the desk and this time he supported both of his palms there, his chin going down almost to his chest as he stared at both laptops below him. "Which one did Mycroft touch?"

"The smaller one..." John frowned and got closer. "Sherlock...?"

Still supporting himself with one palm over the desk, with the other hand he opened the little laptop, the password screen greeting him. "Forget it, Sherlock. No spaces..." he muttered again as he typed using only his index finger on the keypad. After a few taps, he pressed one last key loudly.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times at the now unlocked and bright screen. It had planes of the abandoned factory they had been in the morning and a file full of dates and vehicles' plate numbers. When John saw Sherlock's confused face, he got closer and looked at the screen.

Quickly, Sherlock grabbed a paper and almost fell over the desk. John supported him placing his hand on his chest with a firm pressure, almost falling with him.

"Sherlock... please." He said trying to keep their balance.

"John! Look at the screen! Look at the dates! One of them is tomorrow." Sherlock tried to grab a pencil and John rolled his eyes. He knew this was an urgent matter judging by the dates in the file, even if he didn't know what they meant.

"Sherlock...!" Trying to make Sherlock focus, he took the detective's face, placing both hands on his cheeks and he made him to look at him. "Sherlock. I am going to be your hands and eyes for this. So I need you to trust me. Okay?" The man in front just frowned at him. Sherlock tilted his head a little, confused, trying to focus his eyes on John's.

After a long pause, Sherlock whispered "Alright". He lowered his sight to the floor, knowing John was right. He didn't trust his body now, even when he felt his mind slowly going back to normal.

John knew Sherlock didn't like the idea, but he also knew his pride could wait. He guided Sherlock to the large sofa and the detective sat there, throwing his head back and coughing a couple of times.

"John. I need to write down all of the dates on the file. Don't bother with the old ones, we only need to know the ones from this month, so write everything from May first until June. I need the date and the respective plate number."

He wrote down everything as he was told, the laptop's battery was almost dying, but he managed to write everything down and, taking a memory flash, he saved a copy of the whole folder just in case.

Sherlock read carefully the list and he recognized the plate number of the white pickup and the date they had been in the port.

"John, phone Lestrade..." he said, his eyes looking for his phone. "Tell him a new boat will be arriving tomorrow." He handed the paper to John. "And give him this list. Tell him to search for those vehicles. Tonight."

John took the phone and walked to the kitchen with the paper in his hand. Sherlock heard how John gave him the instructions and he also asked about Armand and Xavier for some reason. The detective tried to move himself from the sofa but he felt weak. It was as if all of his strength had decided to go away. He eyed around the flat and saw the stack of psychology books he had left next to his armchair. He recognized his body reactions as the drugs were slowly fading from his system. Uncontrollable shudders ran up his spine and he found himself shivering.

Then his nightmare started.

He commanded his lips to open and speak, but there was no sound coming from them. None of the drugs he had tried before had this effect in his body and he was suddenly terrified. He couldn't trust any of his senses. He tried to concentrate on John's voice, but now he was hearing it like if he had a glass over each ear. He wanted to move his head and couldn't, the only things that seemed to be working fine were his eyeballs and fingers. He felt his legs trembling along with his torso.

Making a last effort to call John, he concentrated in exhaling the air through his vocal cords, there was an animalistic sound as a result.

Alarmed by the unusual growl, John popped his head from the kitchen, phone still in hand.

"Jesus! Greg... I'll call you later." John hurried to the couch. He saw the effect of the drug, he had seen it before. But still it was shocking for him to see the effect in Sherlock. A faint layer of sweat was forming on Sherlock's forehead and it went all the way down to his exposed chest. John took a blanket and covered his torso. Sherlock was still shivering, John saw his pale eyes full of desperation. His dry lips moved in a very erratic way making some soundless variations of the letter 'O'. His eyes were trying to focus on the doctor's.

John was nervous. He knew it was all a natural and a normal process of the body repealing the drug, but despite of all of his medical training, he wasn't mentally prepared to see his – usually composed – friend like this.

Following his instinct, John brushed his knuckles over Sherlock's cheek, the detective's lips seemed to calm at the touch. The rapid movements of his pupils were reduced, and the eyelids, which were visibly fighting between staying up or shut down, now blinked slowly. John smiled satisfied. He sat to the left of Sherlock on the couch trying to find a comfortable position; he moved his arm under the other's neck and Sherlock's head tilted a bit to him, the action made the detective's head to fall over his shoulder.

John smiled looking up at the ceiling, he sighed and then muttered 'ah... what the hell' his voice cracking up a little. He passed his legs over Sherlock's thighs and he supported his back on the armrest of the couch. He moved Sherlock's head and carefully positioned it over his chest. Sherlock shivered a bit more, his throat making a very strange and desperate sound.

"Sherlock, listen." He said quietly. "I know this is uncomfortable for you, but you need to keep warm and your body heat is very poor now. I know your mind is working fine, so relax." At that, the growls faded slowly, Sherlock's breathing was still laboured. John continued talking with a firm but soothing voice, "I'm going to wrap you in this blanket," he moved the blanket to cover his shoulders, "and we're going to keep you warm, okay?" John started to draw a circular pattern on the back of Sherlock's neck with his fingers, then he moved his hand up and stroked his scalp. His other hand moved up and down Sherlock's shoulder, trying to warm him up.

John noticed after a while, how Sherlock's legs stopped trembling under his own legs. He smiled satisfied. He wasn't very comfortable but he started to doze off slowly. At some point in his slumber, he felt Sherlock shifting his position and muttering something incomprehensible. He heard himself talking "It's okay Sherlock... it's okay" the only reply he got was a soft, throaty, but affirmative 'Hmm'. The detective lifted his legs from the floor and positioning them over the couch, next to John's.

**...**

Sherlock's ringtone went off and the detective woke up with a start. He blinked a couple of times, feeling his eyelids abnormally heavy. He shook his head and supported himself on his left elbow on the couch. Just then he took a hold of the way he and John were sleeping.

John was lying on his back snoring softly, his left leg and left arm were dangling from the border of the couch and his right leg was over Sherlock's left one. His head was tilted to his right and he had his right arm behind Sherlock's neck, his fingers resting somewhere between the curls, falling to a side when the detective lifted his head. Sherlock was sleeping on his left side, the arm of that side was buried between a cushion, the couch and John's body. His right hand was over John's chest, a huge blanket covering him from his neck down to his calves. His head had been somewhere between John's neck and shoulder and a random cushion.

In a couple of seconds, Sherlock knew exactly why they were like this. He moved his toes and felt relieved that he had a complete control of his body now. John was sleeping deeply. He knew he had been giving the doctor a hard time, he could hardly remember anything.

After a couple of seconds of realisation, he moved his head slowly searching for the source of the sound; his phone was inside John jean's pocket. Carefully, he passed his right hand over the doctor's stomach and reached for his left pocket. In the screen there was a private number. Blinking at the device's bright light, he answered, his voice an octave lower than usual.

"Hello...?"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes... Armand?"

"Yeah. Were you asleep? I heard at the Yard what happened to you... are you alright?"

"I am alright... I guess..." Sherlock felt John tossing a little, his right hand coming back to his head and stroking his curls softly. In his still sleepy state, a soft growl escaped his throat at John's action, he snapped his eyes open, surprised at himself.

"Sherlock?"

"Ah... yes. I told you, I am okay. What time is it?" Sherlock blinked a couple of times, looking outside the window and paying attention to his surroundings. He heard the sounds in the street 'sometime in between ten and twelve pm...'

"Almost eleven." Sherlock smirked. "I'm sorry I woke you up."

"What happened?"

"They are leaving Xavier in for an interrogation... I convinced him to bring all of the proofs he had. You told me he wasn't guilty and now he wants to prove it. He is sure he is going to lose his job though."

"Oh that's good. A job like that isn't worth it..." Sherlock allowed his head to fall over John's chest, his left ear pressed there, listening to the calm heartbeat and his phone in the other one. A light pain started in the base of his neck moving all the way up to his forehead. "We have more information about the case. The Yard is over it now, so I guess you should stop worrying over it." Sherlock added furrowing his nose absently as he felt the pain expanding all the way from his forehead to his palate.

"I... you're right. I will. Thank you, I'm glad you're okay."

"Are you sure everything's alright...?" he asked, frowning, suddenly worried there was more of the case. The movement of his brows just made his head hurt more.

"Yeah! Just family's interests on the way, but everything's fine. Thank you..." Armand let out a sigh over the phone and added "good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock hung up and placed the phone back into John's pocket. His head felt heavy and his stomach grumbled. He moved the blanket from his shoulders and threw it over both of them, feeling how cold John's hand was against his scalp. John moved unconsciously, placing his left hand over his own chest and finding Sherlock's hand in the process. The detective, feeling how cold it was, placed his hand over it, his headache making him go faster than usual into a slumber state.

The last thing he felt were John's legs moving over the couch next to his, and the already familiar soft murmur "It's okay... Sherlock..." After a couple of seconds, the cold hand on his scalp caressed him softly, soothing the intense pain away.

Sherlock's lips involuntarily curved up a bit. His mind was in a rare state of pause, not really thinking about anything but only concentrating on the hand tangled in his curls and the soft breathing of his companion under him. A couple of seconds later, he was sleeping peacefully.

Chapter 18: Hot Line Case VI – The End and The Beginning

It took only the faintest of the morning lights to wake up John Watson. Lazy brows moved up slowly and his eyelids failed a couple of times before opening up a little. He blinked lazily, his mind coming back from his dozed state. The first thing he felt were his frozen feet, so he tried to move his toes and hissed quietly as he did, the movement, besides hurting a bit also made him take a hold of the complete scenario.

He aligned his head to the rest of his body and the soft curls next to him brushed his cheek, tickling a little, making him give a short snort. At the movement of his neck, he realized how his fingers were still on Sherlock's nape; the detective's face was buried between his shoulder and a cushion, an arm was poking him near the ribs and the other hand on his waist, in between the jumper and the shirt, maybe seeking for warmth since it was a cold morning.

Somehow, Sherlock's legs managed to stay in place, John's left one was bent on the knee and dangling from the sofa.

He sighed, an incredulous smile ghosting his lips. His eyes fought between the detective's profile at his side and the window in front but finally he gave up. He kept his stare on Sherlock's sleeping face and allowed himself to observe. His eyes lingered at the parted pale lips, Sherlock was breathing softly through them, a little pool of drool had already formed on his own shoulder and he realized he didn't give a damn. In fact, he found himself smiling at it, feeling almost proud to be the only person with whom the detective felt comfortable enough to do... whatever this was.

His eyes travelled further down, he noticed the height difference as Sherlock's ankles were much further away than his own, his knees were bending a bit, which probably caused John's left leg to fall from the sofa and his smile just widened. Then he followed the detective's hand under his own jumper and the soft grip in his shirt.

John's mind travelled to the DI and, as many weeks ago, he thought, if he ever came in to check on Sherlock – or actually the laptops – they really would be cocked up for life.

But what was happening inside his body and mind was way stronger than his logical reasoning. He was used to the close presence of his companion, to be left out of personal space when he was around, but this was completely different. His most inner desire was surfing up; he wanted to, he really wanted to cut the space between his face and Sherlock's. A terrifying and thrilling sensation was forming in his body as it reacted to his desires since, almost by itself, his hand moved to Sherlock's face.

Slowly, his thumbs caressed the cheekbone and the little hollow forming below it, then he moved it to the eyebrow which flinched a bit by the contact, he travelled his thumb down and ghosted it over the parted pale lips. At that moment, he noticed his breathing had increased lightly at the sight. 'Oh God... I want to kiss you...' his mind spoke what his lips didn't dare to let out, 'You're making me lose it, mate... you really are...'

For the first time he didn't try to shut his thoughts; the few seconds he spared watching Sherlock's sleeping form, plus the dozed state in which he still was, has pulled his mind completely away from the case. He reached for the detective's chin and moved the other's face up carefully. Sherlock seemed to be following his hand. A knot formed in the pit of John's stomach when he noted how Sherlock had no resistance to his presence whatsoever, not even in his sleep. He remembered how, when they just moved in together, Sherlock always slept alerted; a little noise and he was already with big eyes searching and looking around the flat, even if it was just John coming downstairs to make tea.

Little by little though, Sherlock had grown so accustomed to his presence that he would never wake up when John was near, in fact, there were a couple of times when he was so deeply asleep that he wouldn't even respond if John shook his shoulder attempting to wake him up.

Once Sherlock's face was right in front of his, his cheek still supported on his shoulder, John moved his neck down a little until his own lips were inches apart from Sherlock's. Their breaths mixed for a couple of seconds and John found himself lost as he felt the soft brush against his lips. It was intoxicating; despite the feelings in his body - the fast heartbeat, the tingling feeling in his stomach which travelled down - the peace he felt inside his mind was unique; a feeling of security he had never felt before. As he has proved, none of any other partner he had ever had were able to give him such strong sensations with such simple acts. He didn't dare to close the minimal space between them.

After a couple of seconds of sweet self-torture, he brushed a bit more Sherlock's lips, giving a soft kiss over the detective's upper lip. He moved back a little and couldn't help a little sigh "Sherlock..."

The doctor startled at his own voice, his breath got trapped inside his lungs, almost with a sensation of fear. The whisper was extremely soft but it sounded incredibly loud in his ears. 'No, no... This is all sorts of... wrong.'

He moved his hand carefully from Sherlock's chin and the other man tossed a bit in his sleep, John felt a tug at his shirt below his jumper when Sherlock grabbed the fabric there, his hand moving over his waist and hipbone, his fingertips resting there lazily. It was such a simple and naive movement, but John felt all of his alarms sounding inside his head. He needed to get out of there, but he didn't want to wake Sherlock up. He threw his head back on the armrest and exhaled, his furrowed lips forming a never-ending "u". He stayed there, looking at the ceiling for who knows how long, his mind battling internally between the feeling in the lower part of his stomach, his heart about to break his ribcage and his mixed feelings with all the variants. Unconsciously, John lifted a bit his hands so they weren't touching Sherlock anywhere, and his fists began to clench and unclench in a rapid movement.

"Sherlock." he called quietly, feeling a little rush of guiltiness by waking him up. He was more than aware about the drugs' effects but he knew for sure they should be out of his system by now. "Sherlock...!" He called again.

Sherlock didn't wake up immediately. He moved his head slowly and snored softly as he inhaled more air. His hand moved outside John's jumper, pulling it up a little, all the way to his chest, making little pressure to support himself to lift a bit his head. His eyes were still closed and he struggled to open them. John watched in silence how Sherlock opened his eyes and frowned at the faint morning light. He was certain that Sherlock could feel his rapid heartbeat under his palm.

"John...?" he asked, John was about to answer but stopped when Sherlock hissed as soon as he spoke. He blinked a couple of times more and let his forehead fall over John's shoulder, letting out a pained moan. The headache was still there, a little more tolerable than last night, but still there. He rubbed a bit his face against John's shoulder in an attempt to ease the pain. John was almost petrified at Sherlock's action, but soon he knew that he still might be in pain and was just regaining consciousness; a combination he knew wasn't gratifying at all.

John cleared his throat softly and Sherlock stopped moving. Slowly, he lifted his face from his shoulder and blinked a couple of times again, focusing his eyes on John's. He noted the frown of the older man looking at him with a confused expression, his lips furrowed. The brows of the detective darted up and his hand made a fist over John's chest. He froze.

Sherlock's expression changed quickly from sleepy to confused noticing the position they were. John watched attentive every move of his companion above, how his eyes were wide open and the expression of total perplexity on his face, he saw how his eyes clenched shut for a couple of seconds and frowned. He moved the arm that was beneath John and the cushions to the side of John's face, supporting himself further away from the doctor, like noticing he was almost crashing on top of him, his right fisted hand making little pressure on the doctor's chest. The movement was very fast, and finally he lowered his gaze to the man beneath, like seeking for an explanation.

John exhaled and looked up at him, "You okay?" 'Excellent, John!' he snapped at himself mentally 'the first thing to tell a mate – a male mate – with whom you wake up cuddling on a sofa, after you kissed him – as the cream of the crop - rather telling him to get the hell off, is JUST that. Excellent.'

"Urgh..." Sherlock tilted his head quickly and moaned again, clenching his eyes. As he was now completely awake, his mind began to work in a very rapid way, even with the headache that didn't want to leave him alone. John shook his head, he could almost hear Sherlock's mind working and mentally he pictured the scene of a rocket launch.

"Don't try to remember, Sherlock" he said shaking his head, "I'm gonna tell you everything, but now you really need to take an aspirin and a good breakfast. Mrs. Hudson brought cake and sandwiches..."

As he talked, Sherlock's eyes opened quickly again, "The laptops!" he snapped, his right leg moving immediately over John's, trying to walk away from the couch to the desk.

"Nope!" in a rapid movement, John passed his right leg between Sherlock's parted ones and pinned the detective's left one to the couch, then he moved his hands to the collar of the other's shirt, keeping him in place. Sherlock had now his right foot on the floor and his left knee on the sofa with John's leg over it. It really was a mess of limbs. "You're not going to be on the case for the next two hours, at least." He sighed deeply at Sherlock's expression above him. "Even if I have to keep you like this until you listen to me."

Sherlock glared down but he stayed in the position, thinning his lips quickly he said "Mycroft was here last night." He frowned deeply and slowly he added "Forget it, Sherlock. No spaces... what was that?"

"The computer's password."

"Oh, the small one..." Sherlock's mind started to throw picture after picture of what happened last night. Mentally, he saw a door opening and he walked inside, hallways with different scenes, voices overlapping voices, Mycroft's voice sounded in his head 'I came to order it... as part of the government...' 'Now as your brother...' There was John's voice at the background of every image, the dates of the laptop, one of them being today 'I am going to be your hands and eyes', then John's voice talking to Lestrade, asking about Armand. Suddenly Armand's voice resonated inside his mind palace, it was dark, John sleeping beneath him, a soft caress on his scalp. 'What time is it?' 'Almost eleven' 'Are you sure everything's alright?' 'Just family's interests…'

John watched intensely how, after Sherlock's last word, his eyes suddenly closed and his pupils moved frantically behind the eyelids, a frown on his brows and his head gave some short and small shakes.

He was in his mind palace.

Yet again, John was fascinated; Sherlock usually asked him – ordered him – to get out of the room if he was going in there, but there were sometimes when his thoughts were so strong that John's presence didn't disturb him. And again, John felt proud. Sherlock was in his mind palace there, with him on the... sofa. 'Oh. Right. We need to uh...'

He eased the grip on the detective's shirt, hoping to get a reaction from him, but Sherlock was lost in thoughts. John smiled up at the ceiling and shook his head. He lifted his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck and, for the first time ever, John dared to bring him back from his palace. There was a little hesitation at first, but the pained expression on the detective's face convinced him it was a necessary thing to do.

"Sherlock, stop it now, would you?" He said with a firm tone, making pressure on the back of the detective's skull with his fingertips.

The taller man's eyeballs rolled back in his head, eyes still closed, he felt himself shivering at the contact of the hand in his hair, he felt how John's fingers moved near the back of one his ears and then to his nape, massaging there with the thumb and index finger. The sensation was marvellous when being still in his palace. Sherlock had long noticed how strong he felt when John did that and of course, the doctor also knew how soothing the effect of this was for the other man, hence he had found himself doing that often the last few weeks. Even though now, with the closeness that neither of them seemed to mind now, Sherlock's body reaction were a little further than a simple soothing effect, and John noticed this too of course, since the detective's hand on the armrest next to his head was replaced by his elbow when the arm started to shake, making the face of the detective fall back to the area of John's shoulder and neck.

"You like that." John stated as a matter of fact.

Sherlock snorted, the fist over John's jumper was gripping some of the fabric in a tight clench. "I told you before, John. It is... incredibly soothing." John smiled at Sherlock's repeated answer.

"I'm not going to ask... because I know you remembered everything already."

"I did." The detective replied, lifting himself again with his palm next to John's head, he gave a short nod and had an expression of extreme complacency. John giggled at this, Sherlock gave him a side glace and added "Well, more or less."

"Amazing..." John swallowed and withdrew his hand from the other's hair and placed them on the other's upper arms with a faint pressure. "Sherlock..."

"Do you want me to move?" Sherlock asked with a little frown and tilting his head a bit.

"The idea is appealing, yeah." John answered giving a light tilt of his head as well, his face was also very serious.

Sherlock smirked above him, curls falling over his forehead and the fist over his chest was replaced now by his palm. John's heart skipped a beat and started to pump rapidly again. The detective stared down directly into John's eyes, and his smirk was slowly replaced by a serious expression, the face John already knew, it was normally used when Sherlock wanted to say something nice, even though most of the time it didn't come out the right way. Sherlock inhaled deeply and then exhaling slowly he let out a quiet "Thank you."

John's eyes widened quickly, looking at the pale face above him with a surprised frown.

"What? Why!"

"What happened last night uh..." Sherlock began, his eyes fixed at some point behind John's head, "...the drug, John. The effect..." John’s frown deepened, Sherlock was at loss of words and that only happened before when the detective was scared with the hound. This time, he knew it was different; there was something else on his expression. "...when I was drugged before, can you remember, the effect of the drug?"

"The one you made me drink. Of course I do." John said lifting an eyebrow and moving a little under Sherlock, his leg about to cramp. The detective lifted himself reluctantly from the couch as he felt John moving.

"The amount was minimal to get a reaction from you. You know I had to, John." He said, sitting next to the doctor, who remained lying down for a couple of seconds before sitting himself up. The detective sat with his feet over the couch and his knees to his chest. "What do you remember about the after effects?"

"I only remember... I couldn't think. I was scared to death and I told you that. I saw the monster." John moved his legs as he spoke, bending his knees and letting his legs to dangle from the couch, leaving space to Sherlock's peculiar position.

"No, you thought you saw it, John. What I mean is the drug." Sherlock said, opening his palms in front of him. "The effect of the drug they gave me is similar. Only maybe... perfected..." he turned his torso to John in order to face him. "My senses were completely... taken. Not only was my mind playing tricks on me but also my other senses. Last night I couldn't move any part of my body, John... my eyes and my fingers were an exception. My biggest fear, my lack of control. You saw me last night, you saw I couldn't move." Sherlock blinked a couple of times, and looked around the flat, he was getting exited once more by the case.

"Yes I did, but what does it have to do with the hound's case?"

"John, we're getting closer every time. Each step further we get and Mycroft appears here. What if the drug on Dartmoor and Netherlands are all connected to the Hot Line... placing an underground business makes them all fall, can't you see it? It's brilliant!"

John got up from the sofa. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Even if it were true, Sherlock... what's the point in pursuing it? You know if Mycroft wants you out of this he will succeed." Sherlock's expression changed from exited to serious and John continued. "Mycroft is not your enemy, Sherlock... he is your brother at the end."

"But if Mycroft wants me out of this, then what about Armand's family uh? What is the connection? What if...?"

Right at that moment, John's phone went off. He searched in his pocket and found Sherlock's phone, he stood up at the same time he tossed the phone at the other man, he answered his. It was the DI.

**..**

The facility they reached was nothing like the usual quiet place it used to be; it was now surrounded by the force in every corner. Lestrade talked frantically by phone with someone when John and Sherlock arrived to the place. He gestured in the air and his voice was loud, now and then he would take the phone from his ear and roll his eyes to the sky.

"He's talking to my brother." Sherlock said as soon as they got out from the car Lestrade had sent to pick them up in the morning. John just eyed him, still surprised on how the DI followed every little desire of the consulting detective, to the extent to send Sally driving his own car and not the police's.

"How can you know that?"

"Mycroft knew we were coming here. Since he wanted us out of the case..." Sherlock said walking and jogging a bit to Lestrade, taking his phone from his hand. "Brother, dear!" He started, his serious expression being replaced by a tight grin. Lestrade's hand was still on his ear, surprised at the action of the taller detective, "I'm just here as the consultant detective, now please, go worry yourself about a nuclear war and let me do my job? Thank you!" John giggled silently and shook his head. Lestrade frowned, his face contorted between a laugh and a cry. "Oh!" Sherlock continued, "And I'm waaay better, thank you so much for your concern." He hung up and placed the phone back in Lestrade's hand, the fake smile fading completely in a matter of seconds.

"What was that?" Lestrade asked as he watched his phone back into his hand.

"Shut up and show me the vehicle."

John was still with a knowingly smile on his face. He had to admit, even if he complained about it most of the time, he utterly enjoyed when Sherlock was an arse with Lestrade and to his own brother. He knew the detective meant no harm about this, but the acid comments, the behaviour and body language never failed to bring this grin to his face. Most of all, because it never failed to exasperate Mycroft, and Lestrade was always acquiescent about it, even if he complained afterwards. A conversation from many months was always present when something like this happened. The deep tone of voice used by Sherlock rang in his head 'they just tolerate me because I solve their problems'.

John's grin faded a bit, turning into a bitter smile as he watched the back of his best friend walking in front, next to Lestrade.

The DI explained to both of them about a couple vehicles they had found; they had no documents and the plate number was gone. The methods they had to find the owners were ineffective, erasing every trace of what was done in the vehicle or whom it had belonged to.

Or so Lestrade thought.

Both; the DI and John watched closely how Sherlock got closer to a red car, it wasn't old but wasn't brand new either. Sherlock walked around the vehicle a couple of times, he opened the passenger door and, taking his magnifier glass, he watched carefully the wheel, then at the box next to the driver's seat. He lifted the cover of it and placed his hand where his eyes couldn't reach. After a couple of minutes searching in the most common and uncommon places, Sherlock let out an affirmative hum. He got closer to John and Lestrade with a card in his hand.

"This vehicle belongs to this person." He said handing the paper to the DI.

"Philip Smith?" John asked, eyeing the card in Lestrade's hands. "Armand's father?" he asked.

"Lestrade, we're on our way now, there is nothing more to do here. I give you the lead and you follow it as usual. Do not mix family interest here, tell my brother he can stop worrying now, would you?" he said to the DI as he walked away nonchalantly, followed by a confused John.

"Where are you going?" Greg yelled, jogging a bit to where Anderson watched the scene exasperated. Lestrade passed the card to the criminalist and caught up with John and Sherlock, "Sherlock!"

"Lestrade." Sherlock turned to look at him and stopped his walking, John stopping next to him, as lost as Lestrade was. "If you really can't see where this is going then my help is nothing but futile. As long as you obstinately work for my brother, this investigation will end in nothing, as the Netherlands' one. Even if you find the responsible of this black market or the drug's market, it is going to lead and end in nothing." Sherlock turned and kept on walking, Lestrade tilted his head, processing the detective's words. He turned and looked at the force surrounding the facility, suddenly not trusting anyone around him. Suddenly all of them were strangers and, as he watched John and Sherlock walk away, he wanted to reach for them, asking them not to leave him all alone.

"Sir?" Sergeant Sally Donovan got closer to the DI. He smiled at her, she was someone he could definitely trust, but he knew her way of thinking about Sherlock's methods. She, like almost all of the people he worked with, didn't trust the detective and would never admit, maybe out of pride, how an amateur detective, as they called Sherlock, could be in any way better than them... or all of them together for that matter. He moved his jaw in an indecisive gesture, he watched as Sherlock talked to John and for some reason, they were laughing; John bent over a little with one of his fists over his lips, he saw how Sherlock turned his face to the doctor and there was a big grin over his face. He seemed carefree, maybe too carefree for a man who had so many people against him. Maybe they were all rowing to the same destination; Sherlock and John, Mycroft as the face of the government, and himself as the face of the Yard, but it was not easy if at some point of the way, all of the oars were trying to prove themselves which one was faster and more effective. As he kept on thinking, his gaze fell on some point behind Sally's head, her voice bringing him back "Sir." she repeated. The DI shook his head quickly before fixing his eyes on hers.

"We're off." He said, his voice was throatier than usual.

"What?"

"This case was never our division to begin with. We've been told off. So we're doing it as requested."

"But... sir..."

"It's an order sergeant, don't make me repeat myself." Sergeant Donovan nodded with a frown. "And Donovan!" Lestrade called, as she turned to look at him, he added "Tell the men to keep an eye out until those two reach the city." He said lifting his chin to the direction Sherlock and John had taken.

"The freaks?"

"John and Sherlock."

"Right... right, sir."

As she disappeared in between the men, giving orders to the criminalists and the people from the force, Greg Lestrade rubbed his temples. He felt alone, the detective and his doctor were already reaching the entry to the facility near the canal, almost reaching the ghost town that had formed due to the evacuation of the place many years ago. He remembered the last time they were there, it was an adventure and, even with the danger, he had enjoyed it.

Shaking a bit his head, Lestrade took his phone from his pocket and dialled, sighing deeply as he waited to the other person on the line.

**..**

At the Diogenes' Club, Mycroft rubbed his temples slowly, a man sitting in front was talking to him about the case of the Yard. He had to admit; he was bored as hell.

"Phillip, I told you..." he repeated the same sentence, as polite as possible, "I can't cover your back all the time. The Yard is already into this and they are going to track you."

"And I told you Mycroft... it is impossible for them to track the cars to me, I left the cover up to my best men." Phillip had his legs crossed and the teacup in his hand moved from time to time to his lips. He cleared a bit his throat and placed his elbows over his knees, looking intently at the older Holmes' brother "To our men."

Mycroft pulled all of his self-control together not to roll his eyes at his friend. "You should've never ordered to release that man."

Phillip laughed shortly. "Leaking away information is not a way to deal with an enemy, Mycroft... you have to admit that even a great mind like yours can be defeated if used the right tool..." Mycroft's confident smile faded slowly, being replaced by a disgusted expression.

"I only leaked useless information."

Phillip laughed, his almost bold head shinning with the faint lights of the office. "Come on, Mycroft... you're better than that!" Mycroft's disgusted expression was deeper now, his discomfort was clear, "you know how even the most minimal non important detail can be transformed into a very powerful tool. I tell you this as a friend." The man in front of Mycroft took his phone from his pocket. "Would you mind if I make a call?"

"Please, be my guest." The other said with a fake smile.

Phillip smiled and dialled. He waited patiently and he only said, not even greeting. "Sebastian, show is about to begin. Take care of the cars."

Mycroft frowned, his mind trying to connect the dots quickly, as he saw the man hanging up, he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Making an apologetic gesture with his face, he picked his phone.

"Gregory."

**..**

Armand was just arriving home from the Yard. After the proof presentation and an audition, Xavier was released and after a quick lunch, each one had returned home.

The young man was having a hard time; he knew the decision he was about to make was going to change his life forever. After a long talk with his friend at the restaurant, they had both agreed that leaving the country and start from scratch was the best thing to do. But Armand wanted more than that; he wanted to fight his dad and bring the honour to his name. Not only because of his family but because of what they represented. He knew his father was long ago corrupted, but he also believed that there were people out there trying to make things better; each on their own methods, like Mycroft Holmes.

A knock on his door alerted him and pulled him out of his thoughts. He walked to the door and looked through the peep hole. A tall man like himself, dressed in jeans and a black shirt, long hair and moustache was knocking the door. It was the first time he saw him and he immediately distrusted.

"Who is this?" he called loud enough.

"Sir, can you please invite me to a cup of coffee?" said the voice from the other side of the door. He snapped his eyes open. It was Sherlock's voice, even if he tried to disguise it by lightly high pitching the tone.

"Yes? How would you like the coffee?" he asked, remembering a post from John's blog, saying Sherlock drank his coffee with sugar, just to make sure.

"Black, two sugars, please... sir." With a smile, Armand opened the door, the man entered and the door was closed behind him.

"Right away, Sherlock." he said, still with a smile "See? Dr. Watson's blog can come in handy sometimes, even if you don't want to admit it."

"No. I knew you would recognise my voice." Sherlock replied taking off his moustache and the dishevelled straight hair wig, his voice lowered back to normal.

Armand entered the kitchen and turned on the kettle. "So, what brings you here?"

"I believe you already know. It's your father after all." Sherlock said, leaning his body on the kitchen door's frame. It wasn't a big flat, the kitchen was small and it had a little table in the middle with only two chairs.

Armand remained silent, two cups in his hands, his back turned to Sherlock, who just stayed there not moving, waiting for a reaction of the younger man.

"It is embarrassing, Sherlock." he started, at the same time he placed loudly the two cups on the kitchen table. "I knew my father was involved somehow but I only thought it was because of my aunt. I had my suspicions since she was the only one offering me her help when she knew I had gone away from my parent's home. It seemed suspicious and I thought my father had sent her, but then I realized that she knew an awful lot about my job. After talking about it with Xavier my suspicion rose, but I never imagined..." at this point, Armand's voice trembled. The usually low and calmed voice had now a little tremor and it slowly high pitched with every word. Sherlock looked at him expressionless, waiting for him to finish.

"You never imagined what." The detective demanded, taking off his gloves and leaving them inside his jean's pocket.

"I never imagined it was my aunt the one ruling the... the... thing," He took a deep breath and continued "I thought it was only my father and now I know it's his sister as well... I just... feel... ashamed, like... I feel like shit." He sighed heavily, cleared his throat and then took the kettle to pour water in the cups.

"I can't see why it affects you so much... it wasn't you the one who did all those things after all."

"I know... I know, Sherlock. I don't expect you to imagine my pain, I grew up with them, I grew up admiring them... I feel as if I'm part of this too." Armand sniffled silently and passed the coffee to the man in front, who still didn't have any expression on his face. "Dr. Watson is right." He stated.

"About what?" Sherlock sipped his cup, never changing his expression.

"About you. You can't sympathise with normal human emotions. There are only a couple of moments on the blog when he actually writes about them. And he always seems surprised by those."

Sherlock let out a little snort. "John knows I'm a highly functional sociopath. You should know that too."

Armand shook his head with a smile. His gaze travelled by Sherlock's figure as both of them sipped on their coffee. Sherlock wore a deep frown and seemed lost in thoughts, the phrase 'he always seems surprised by those' resonated in his head.

"Are you alright?" Asked the younger man, stepping closer and searching for Sherlock's eyes with a worried expression.

"Hm?" Sherlock lifted his eyes to Armand, just to find the younger man closer to him, he frowned and moved his neck back. Armand let out a sad snort, a bittersweet smile crossing his lips.

"Sherlock. I am going to leave."

"What?"

"I am going to leave. I'll be a lawyer in another country, I don't know. I will gather power and when the time is the right one, I will come back and stand up in front of my father."

Sherlock frowned but soon his brows darted up. "Seems fair enough." He said with a shrug.

Armand looked at the detective for a while. He left his cup over the table behind him and closed the space between him and Sherlock, who didn't move but only looked back with inquisitive eyes and his wrinkled brows. Armand inhaled deeply, like encouraging himself. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso. The detective moved his arms up, caring not to spill the coffee over the younger man, who inhaled deeply again against the other's shirt, gave a last friendly squeeze and then stepped back.

"I'm sorry..." he said with a little smile. "I don't really... well I mean..."

Sherlock sipped on his coffee again as if nothing had happened. "Uh... where are you planning to go?" he asked, not paying attention to Armand's lasts words.

"I'm not sure... I was planning France or maybe Italy..." he looked up at Sherlock who was with a lost expression again, "it was really... a pleasure to meet you. I'm going to keep in touch through your blog... or Dr. Watson's... if you don't mind."

Sherlock snorted and smiled at the younger man. His face seemed to illuminate with the detective's gesture. Sherlock put a hand on the other's shoulder and gave him a light squeeze and two quick taps. "You're probably going to be a good lawyer." he said looking into Armand's eyes, "I heard from Lestrade what you did with Xavier's evidence. They are checking all of the ports now, so the business stopped, but the case is not closed... it might never be."

"Thank you, Sherlock..." Armand said, smiling, "but my goal is fulfilled. Now my other goal is to step in front of my father at the same level." The younger man removed his hair falling over his eyes, his hand resting on his nape and looking at the floor. "It was all your and Dr. Watson's doing. I did a money transfer to you account. I know you won't mind."

Sherlock couldn't help a little smile. It was the first time he was properly thanked after a case including John in the process as part of the team. He felt proud, a similar feeling in his chest in as he felt at Dartmoor, after the doctor had showed his real significance in the army. He found himself smiling further and it wasn't because of the money. Out of reflect he was going to ask how Armand had laid his hands on his bank account, but he knew the man in front had his own methods too.

"Well, this is done, then." Sherlock said lifting himself from the leaning position on the other's doorframe.

Sherlock walked to the door and turned to Armand, who was looking at him intently. The detective offered his open hand to the surprised younger man, who took it and shook it firmly, wrapping the offered hand in both of his. Never taking his eyes from the detective's, who had a satisfied smirk all over his face, his eyes wrinkling at the sides.

There were no more words between the two men. Sherlock placed back his wig and his moustache, opened the door, winked at Armand and left.

Sherlock walked fast, his feet were taking him to Louis', the man from the homeless' gang, where he had left his coat, in the meanwhile, he took his phone and saw that it was a little after nine p.m. Then his thumb worked quickly over it.

'I'm going home. – S'

Chapter 19: No labels

John arrived home about nine pm. After they took off from the facility in the morning, he and Sherlock had stopped by to eat when he received a call from the clinic. He always thought his 'adventures' with Sherlock were pretty much incompatible with clinic hours, especially those times when Sarah asked something from him and he really didn't want to go. This time, he’d asked Sherlock if there was something else he could help and the detective had given him his blessing since the case was pretty much solved by now.

And after that, Sherlock had complied to everything this morning; he had allowed John to take his temperature, blood pressure and oxygen saturometry. He had eaten a normal meal – finally – and then he even drank tea. John found it really odd at first but then he decided just to enjoy it and not give it extreme thought. It was not like Sherlock never do this kind of things once in a while anyway.

"Sherlock?" the doctor called as soon as he opened the door of the flat, there was no answer and it was extremely silent, Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be seen, she probably was with Mrs. Turner. He sighed and turned on the light over the desk and moved to the kitchen to turn on the kettle.

With slow and tired movements, he tossed his jacket to his chair. The night wasn't chilly as usual but he felt the flat freezing at the item’s loss. He walked then to Sherlock's room, knocked a couple of times and let himself enter at the lack of response; the bed was a mess and the closet was open, completely disarranged. Sighing, he pulled the sheets off the bed and arranged them quickly, used to it already by the military service. In less than two minutes the bed was completely tided up. He moved then to the closet, picked up a couple of jeans from the floor and groaned, taking all of the items in an armful and placing them inside the closet, barely closing it since he placed a big wool blanket at the top. He smiled to himself at the thought of Sherlock opening the closet and all of the fabrics falling over him, if his calculation was correct, the blanket should land somewhere on Sherlock's stomach or chest. That would teach him to be more organized, alright. After a quick nod to the closet with a childish smile playing on his lips, he went back to the kitchen. The minimal physical exercise helped him to warm up a little.

He poured himself tea and walked to the living room with the cup in his hands; he was about to sit on his chair, but then he moved and sat on the considerably comfier sofa. He rested his back and got comfortable in between the cushions, letting out a long and tired sigh.

He was drained and happy at the same time and of course a bit shocked by the coldness of the case. Happy because they were able, with Armand's help, to stop the black market; a case he couldn't post on the blog, even when he thought at first that Irene's case was far more complicated since it threatened national security. Was this case so important? Last thing he knew this afternoon was about the bust they had to do at the port thanks to the dates on the laptops’ files. But the case was now under the status of Disposed. Detective Inspector Lestrade had come in to take the notebooks away, just after Sherlock had changed the password to both of them.

And then there was Armand. At the thought of the young man he couldn't help a sympathetic smile. The bloke had feelings for Sherlock. It didn't need a master in deductions since it was as clear as water. But the reason of why the bloke was so friendly towards him as well was a mystery... maybe there are still people out there believing in justice, people with a noble heart, with a pure heart... something he was pretty sure couldn't brag about himself.

He sipped his tea and his phone emitted the message ringtone. He sighed, he knew it was Sherlock, the bloody phone sounded like Sherlock; he didn't want to read it, he was almost certain it would be something along the lines of 'Please come to the Yard' or something like that and he really wasn't in the mood for it. But the prospect of Sherlock being in danger was stronger so he grabbed the phone from his pocket and read the message.

'I'm going home. – S' received 21:18

Smiling now, he sighed and allowed his mind to wonder free for a while. Maybe he needed a mind date again. Well, maybe since he and his mind – her – were at home, they could just hang out. He laughed at his own thought; he was starting to think like him.

But his smile faded after a couple of seconds. He had to admit: he was frustrated. There were a lot of feelings going through his mind now but frustration was the most prominent of them all; he was mad at himself for his lack of control this morning, but strangely, he was mad because he liked it. His doubts about his sexuality were ever present, he still couldn't help but lust after some nurses at the clinic, but he also had to admit it was only his body reacting to them. He was certain if a woman would come to him, as it had happened already a couple of times last year, and would offer herself to him, most probable thing is his body would react normally to a female stimulation. But he was also pretty sure that the feelings he had for Sherlock would probably block him halfway... and that terrified him. He loved Sherlock. He knew for sure.

He loved a man.

But he wished it could be a process as simple as that, just to say "I love you" and there. In his mind, the word 'love' moved and was replaced by several others, not one of them being more important than the other.

In his usual order of things, he tried to create a list of his feelings, similar to the list he had prepared when he had first met the detective; the list about his fields of knowledge. He smiled at himself. Exactly. He was fascinated with Sherlock since the very first moment; he wanted to know more about the detective since that first meeting at Bart’s. Why would he ever deny that if as soon as he met him, he couldn't take him off his head? His world was secluded to him, he orbited the man...

Orbited.

Shaking his head and giving a light chuckle at the thought, he tried to finally, put some order in his mind.

'All right. John Hamish Watson... Do you feel admiration? Of course, incredibly much. He is brilliant, a genius beyond genius. Friendship? Yeah, more than I could ever imagined. Respect? He is the man I have respected most in my life. Trust? Of course, with my life. Oh God... Lust...? Even I am afraid it could eclipse a bit my respect for him, yes... yes, damn it. Romantic feelings...? Do I? No... no, it's way stronger than that. Brotherly love? True. Care? Excessively.'

Smiling for himself and exhaling slowly, Mycroft's voice resonated inside his head; 'What might we deduce about his heart?' John's smile was once again replaced by a bitter smile. Sherlock felt? 'Hell of course he does!’ he snapped mentally. Just exactly, how many times had he laid in bed wondering if he had hurt Sherlock's feelings when he had just met him? One scene after another, the doctor noticed how his mind refused to shut up, it showed in repeat mode some of the most significant moments where Sherlock had let his feeling to surface a bit.

'Freak...!'

'I'll bring a candle... it's more romantic!' 'I'm not his date!'

'Fantastic...! Sorry I'll shut up...' 'No, it's... fine.'

'Not good?' 'A bit not good, yeah.'

'He is my friend, John Watson.' 'Colleague!'

'God! We hated him...!'

As scenes were recreated in his mind, John's torso slowly moved forward until his stomach was almost over his thighs, the cup of tea in his hands long forgotten, he rested his elbows over his knees and left the cup over the coffee table in front.

The night in Sherlock's bedroom began to play inside his head. It felt like a dream. But then, looking deeper, he noted how the insecurity Sherlock displayed every time when leading with human emotions were present that night as well. Then it hit him; Sherlock was always insecure about people loving him, caring for him, as if that was something impossible. Was Sherlock really that alone before he turned up? Greg?

'You know him better than I do.' 'I've known him for five years... and no, I don't.'

'So why do you put up with him?' 'Because I'm desperate, that's why...'

'That's why you're calling yourself Greg!' ‘That's his name, is it?' 'Yes. You’ve never bothered to find out.'

And that night, in Sherlock's bed, the detective had been insecure about John's feelings, it was all the same but this time translated to a physical and sexual context.

'Sorry, Sherlock... I... I don't know what to do.' 'What would you like to do, John?'

'Do you want me to touch you, John? Do you... want to touch me?'

'Oh God... I'm so sorry, Sherlock...' 'Don't be...'

'Sherlock... really, if we don't stop aaaall of this now...' 'Do you want this to stop?'

"Argh! Damn it!" his yell brought him back to reality and it made him pause, his fingers were buried in his own hair, his elbows still on his knees. Sherlock was standing at the door, observing him, expressionless except maybe for his typical frown.

"Are you alright?" He asked taking his hands from his pockets and pulling off his gloves. His deep voice resonated softly in the flat after John's desperate cry.

John startled, his heart skipped a beat. He lifted his head quickly and saw Sherlock staring at him with a curious expression. Their gazes locked; John's chest moved up and down in a steady rhythm, visibly flustered in contrast with Sherlock's calmed presence.

After a couple of seconds Sherlock broke the eye contact and took off his coat. John smiled at the homeless attire; a black t-shirt and jeans.

"How long have you been there?"

"Enough." The other replied, hanging the coat behind the door and walking to him.

"Where were you, by the way?" John cleared his throat. "Aren't you cold?"

"I went to the yard and stopped by at Armand's." Sherlock replied with a groan, throwing himself to the couch next to John. "No, not cold."

"Okay... How's the kid?" Sherlock snorted at the question and settled himself nearer the other man, who didn't move from his position; he tangled his fingers in front of him, still with his elbows over his knees.

"The kid." Sherlock chuckled a little and adopted exactly the same position John had, his right arm was aligned to John's left one, just a couple of centimetres apart. "Well he is leaving for France or Italy. Italy, most certain; his name is Armand, and his grandfather name was Armand as well, family tradition, Italian. I believe he might have a family history there. Probably that's why he insists on sticking to a family convention even if he was a rebel, he actually never stopped caring." He looked to some point in front of him as he spoke, he supported then his chin over his knuckles.

"Mm-hm..." John gave Sherlock a quick look by the corner of his eye and saw the lost expression on the detective's face, he lifted his brows and exhaled. "How are you feeling about that?"

"Why would I feel anything about Armand going away?"

"Hell... I don't know, Sherlock... you seemed awfully friendly with the bloke. He has feelings for you, you know it too. But you don't seem to mind."

"I don't mind."

"Why?"

"John... Armand is easily readable, a trustworthy ally, I dare to say. He is idealistic, yes; but he also pursues his goals and that, as much as I understand over the matter, is a good thing. It is only in our benefit."

"Liar."

Sherlock snorted and turned his face to John. "Why?"

"You really care about him. You went to see him. You went there to see if he was okay. Just like you did with Henry at Dartmoor." John shook his head and turned his face to Sherlock as well, "Sherlock, why is it so hard for you to admit you care about people?"

"Because, I simply don't. I went to Armand’s just to check what he knew about his father and his aunt."

"And incognito?"

"Remember, John. He told us he'd been attacked. I was just making sure they weren't waiting for company."

John let out a little sigh. "You were making sure...!" he shook his head again. "You're unbelievable, you know that."

Sherlock's lips curved a little and they stayed in the same position for a couple of minutes. None of them wanted to interrupt the loved tranquillity they shared, but soon Sherlock broke the silence.

"John."

"Hm?"

"When I came in, you were definitely displaying some sort of frustration."

"Oh... that." he cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Are you alright?" Sherlock focused his eyes on his companion's, repeating the question.

John's face contorted with several different emotions; he turned to look at Sherlock again and frowned, then he furrowed his lips to a side and closed his eyes lifting his brows. Finally, a quick smile crossed his lips. "I think you know what's bothering me."

"I don't."

"So, you play fool just when you want to? What happened to your deductions, then?"

"Even if I make my deductions about you, you would simply stick to your speech, it's pointless."

John separated his fingers and opened his palms, they shook in the air when he spoke, raising his voice "Well, deduce me for Christ's sake! Oh you almighty detective."

Sherlock smirked. "You're not gay." He said simply.

"Wait- What?"

"That's what you're wondering John. You're not gay."

"No. Sherlock, I wasn't analyzing my... No... No."

"You were what."

John rubbed his temples, closing his eyes. "You're a dick most of the time. A pain in the arse." He whispered. Sherlock looked at him with an unreadable expression, he lowered his sight to a side, obviously hurt. "But that's your undercover, isn't? You do care, you do feel... but you're so bloody insecure with your own emot-!" John sighed as he realized he was raising his voice, Sherlock lowered his head, completely, looking at the floor. "I'm not like most people, you know?" he added softly, "I'm not with you because I want something from you..."

The detective lifted his head slowly to look at him. There was a side smile on his lips, he stared into John's eyes again. "Yes." Sherlock said, his voice throaty and almost whispered "You put up with me just fine."

"I don't... Sherlock, I don't put up with you, I'm with you because I want to."

Sherlock stared back for a long time. John felt extremely exposed; just staring at his companion's face, eyes, lips, nose... and he knew Sherlock was following his gaze and he didn't mind. Sherlock's eyes followed John's. He also danced his eyes along the other's face, taking in every detail, the light stubble, the shape of the ears, the little wrinkles around the doctor's eyes, the manly jaw line... Everything about John Watson felt right. Sherlock found himself smiling.

"Thank you." The detective said finally.

"You don't have to." John placed his hand over Sherlock's thigh and squeezed. "Don't do that... Sherlock. Please."

"Do what?"

"That face."

"What face?"

"That face... the face that clearly says 'I'm so bloody apprehensive with my feelings right now, but I have to keep being cool' face."

Sherlock smiled a bit at that and John smiled, never taking his eyes from Sherlock's. The detective's smile widened and his lips moved, still closed, into a more confident smirk. He placed his hand over John's and the doctor separated a little his fingers, letting Sherlock's fingers to fall in between.

John supported his back on the couch but Sherlock stayed in the same position, staring at some point in front of him again. After a couple of minutes, in which John struggled to keep his calm, his thumbs rubbing lovingly the other's hand, he dared to speak.

"You're clueless when dealing with emotions, aren't you, Sherlock... emotions are for you like the solar system; you know the basic chemistry, the basic body functions, we talked about the pituitary gland..." He squeezed the fingers between his and Sherlock turned around slowly to look at him, "you were fine with the teasing but now, Sherlock..." John made a pause and turned to the window.

"Now what?"

John sighed again, the piercing stare from the detective next to him wasn't helping, quite the contrary. "There is... this line..." he began, trying to calm himself down, "... a bloody line, Sherlock, I don't dare to cross it. I don't know if you want to cross it, I don't know if we should cross it, I don't even know if the bloody line exists..." he sat straight on the couch now, throwing his unused arm in the air and slapping it back over his own knee.

Sherlock turned his torso completely to John, grimacing. He moved slowly, separating their hands and changed to a position where both of his hands were next to John's head, supporting his palms on the back of the sofa. John's eyes snapped open, at the same time Sherlock's narrowed his.

"John. Where's the line?"

"Sherlock." John lifted his gaze to the detective above and smiled at the odd position Sherlock's torso was contorted. The doctor was surprised, horrified, excited, and even a little angry. Adrenaline ran through his veins at the proximity. "Hell, if you're fucking teasing me again, I swear I'm gonna..."

"Where is the line?" Sherlock demanded this time, his voice firm and deep.

"I can't see it if you're this close..."

Sherlock moved closer to the doctor, shifting his position in an attempt to make himself comfortable. "Exactly." He smirked and locked their gazes.

John smiled again and moved his hands to Sherlock's chest, grabbing the shirt with both hands; he tilted this head down and pressed his forehead below Sherlock's neck.

"I just-" as John was about to respond, they heard slow steps on the stairway and suddenly their ability to move was taken away. Sherlock tore his eyes from John's head to the door, and he felt a rush of panic he had never felt before. The door wasn't locked. A mere push and it would leave them completely exposed.

Rapidly shaking his head, Sherlock threw himself over the sofa, his torso bent further over the back of the furniture, as if looking for something there. John took the hint quickly and said, loudly enough for anyone there to listen, probably was Mrs. Hudson anyway.

"I believe we agreed cold turkey there, Sherlock."

"If you don't tell me where to find them John, I swear-"

"Woo-hoo!" called the friendly voice. John smiled tightly when she opened the door with a tray in her hand, then rolled his eyes at his companion, "Boys, I brought you some goodies we prepared with Mrs. Turner this afternoon. Sherlock has a sweet tooth I know that much." She started, smiling at the detective who wasn't moving from his position, rummaging whatever there was in the little space behind the sofa and the wall. John cursed mentally; the image of Sherlock's arse up in the air almost right next to his head wasn't helping much to the current situation, so he stood quickly, helping Mrs. Hudson and heading to the kitchen, just hopping she didn't notice the half erection tenting the fabric of his trousers. He smiled at himself. No matter what, he could never be angry at her.

Sherlock saw over his shoulder the doctor and their landlady disappearing into the kitchen chatting friendly, he exhaled. With fast movements, he literally threw himself under the desk, tossing papers and letters around the room. The chattering of the two helped him to relax against his all predictions and precedents. He felt utterly comfortable with the familiarity of the situation, and again, against all of this predictions, he wasn't mad about being interrupted, quite the contrary. Being dramatically outrageous, putting a show as if he was looking for cigarettes had helped him to distract himself and analyze the situation.

Even thought he was sure of his now oh-so-known sensation inside his body, the things his mind had come up with were a bit frightening. He knew about sex. He and John had gotten off together, and he tried to avoid his mind going to different scenarios. The chemical process in his body had been proved to be strong enough to bring him out of his mind palace. And - here is what he was frightened about – he didn't... mind.

He made a fuss and fell near John's armchair, dishevelling some papers there. By the corner of his eye he saw Mrs. Hudson leaving with a shrug directed at him. Good.

The flat remained silent as she walked downstairs. Sherlock heard a click on her door and lifted himself quickly, walked to the door and locked it without a sound. John was still in the kitchen placing the contents of the tray inside the fridge.

John was about to turn around to face Sherlock who was in the living room supposedly, but one hand on each upper arms stopped him.

"Sherlock?"

"Don't turn." He breathed out. 'Oh God...'

John stopped moving completely and there was a long pause. Neither he nor Sherlock moved, but John could feel the firm grip, the breathing at the top of the back of his head for all the agitation Sherlock had done. Then he felt how Sherlock stepped a bit closer and lowered his forehead, making it fall softly over his shoulder.

With still a firm grip, Sherlock rubbed his hands up and down all the way from John's shoulders to his elbows. John didn't know where to put his hands, but when he realized about them, they were clenching and relaxing at his sides in an absent nervous gesture.

"Sherlock...?" he dared to ask again.

"Shhh... just..." a sigh, "let me find the right words. I don't have them."

"You?" the tone was genuinely surprised; John wanted to tilt his head to look at Sherlock but stopped halfway.

"I've locked the door." Both of them snorted at the same time and giggled shortly.

"You're not teasing me this time, then." John was surprised at himself. It was supposed to be a question but it went out as an order instead.

"No. You don't observe, do you..." Sherlock let out a sigh. "I... had to move when I heard Mrs. Hudson."

"And?"

"I have never done that before."

"You were serious, then... I was right."

"John... I'm..."

"Sherlock, I might not be a genius but I saw your eyes. You... Are... Terrified."

There was a small pause until the baritone tone resonated again. "Yes."

"You admit it!" the tone John used was high pitched, clearly surprised again.

"Yes."

"Why?" his tone was the same. Surprised.

"My body... doesn't follow my mind's commands when I'm with you. I think I'm going to lose control. I've never before..."

"Sherl-" John attempted to turn, but Sherlock's grip was firm.

"Don't. Turn."

John let out a sigh, resigned. "And before, Sherlock..." he took Sherlock's hand in his, away from his upper arm, moving it almost to his eye's level, examining it. He ran his fingers over the palm. Sherlock didn't attempt to move it away, "...when we..."

"I lost control then. After that I've been able to handle this but..."

"But?"

Sherlock sighed. "Nothing."

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock... you're being childish now, and it doesn't suit you, you know... Open up a little, would you? I'm your friend. I think I've earned the right to know..." John's tone was a bit harsh and demanding in contrast with his actions, he still massaged Sherlock's hand and fingers one by one.

Sherlock's breathing became sharper behind him, he clenched his jaw and exhaled heavily. "I've been observing you these past days... after we masturbated each other in my room." John's heart skipped a beat at the deep and breathy voice, but his hands continued rubbing Sherlock's fingers. He was captivated by that hand, massaging here and there, the knuckles, the wrist.

Sherlock lifted his forehead from John's shoulder and gave a little step further, his chest was against John's back now. His chin was right next to John's temple.

"And I'm terrified, yes." He continued, his voice held a purred undertone now, "I can do anything to you, but you never stop me. You allow yourself be guided by me, John. I can touch you, I can be close to you. I can even hurt you... I can lure you to danger..."

"Did you want me to stop you?"

"No- Yes. I don't know. John... John, I am afraid of my boredom, I am terrified of my mind. I can't consider another way of living, I am like this. What if we get old? What if there is...?" there was a pause, "At first I thought you would only be my flatmate but now you see..."

There was a short pause in which John closed his eyes and threw his head back, supporting it on the shoulder he found on the way.

"You mean, if we get old and grey and we couldn't be able of...? I guess it will be okay, too." He snorted and felt Sherlock do the same. "Do you realise..." he added, lowering his tone and his volume, "I'm a grown up man?" the doctor added using his most normal voice.

"What?" Sherlock flinched subtly, a little taken aback.

"Sherlock... I am perfectly capable to kick the shit out of you if I want to. I'm not a fine china you have to take care of, you know...? I'm strong. I've been in the war. I've seen..." he gulped and cleared his throat, Sherlock's grip on his arm tightened a little in a silent support, "God if only you knew... if only you knew, Sherlock... I've gone through things you can't even fathom to imagine. You have no idea of what I used to dream of, no idea of what I wanted..."

Sherlock moved his head so their cheeks were touching now. It was stimulating. John felt a weird state of contentment despite his memories; it was the first time for them to talk about such matters. Even if the growing sensation in his pants told him otherwise, he wanted to hear Sherlock, he wanted to tell him everything. The feelings? A mixture between sexual arousal, friendship, unconditional love, tenderness, frustration, understanding, longing... all of that in a simple hug. And he loved it, he felt alive.

But on the other hand, Sherlock was frightened, he had never opened to anyone before, there was so much he wanted to tell John... his mind's barriers were falling apart, and suddenly all of the rooms of his palace had an underground access to John's room. He was at lost. It was all impossible to classify and sort, but he was still curious about all this. He would make sure to collect all of this data and then take a time to think and put an order to all but... later.

"What did you want?" Sherlock asked softly.

John snorted, sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "I wanted a wife. I wanted kids. I wanted a nice little cottage in the field..."

"Ahh... sounds lovely." Sherlock snorted as well.

"Shut up." John gave a friendly punch with his elbow on the other's stomach. "I find that incredibly dull now."

"Obviously." Sherlock smiled now. John felt the muscles of his companion's face get tight next to him, he smiled a bit too.

"I don't want that anymore though. I want this... I'm strong enough to be by your side, Sherlock... I can take care of you, even if you don't want me to. I can be there when you need me. I can kill for you if you want. Hell, I can even d-"

"I know that, John... oh I know that." Sherlock's reply went out shaky, in a nervous sigh. Oh yes, if there were something he was certain of, was just that.

John kept on rubbing Sherlock's hand, feeling the strong heart pressed to his back. Both of their heartbeats were mixed in a weird drum solo. Sherlock moved his other hand from John's upper arm, roaming it to the doctor's chest, embracing him, pressing him even closer.

They stayed like that for a couple of seconds, taking in the other's presence. Just breathing, feeling, squeezing, rubbing. Sherlock's face lowered to the juncture between John's neck and shoulder and he inhaled deeply, holding onto John for dear life. Soon, he moved a bit and John could feel Sherlock's erection pressed above one of his buttocks, the detective let out a soft moan at the contact, John felt his skin with goose bumps at the sound and the feeling.

With slow moves, John tilted his head forward, his chin almost over his chest, he smiled against his will, he suddenly felt the urge to laugh out loud, he was nervous as hell, his mind running through every possible scenario with the man behind him. But then he felt Sherlock's hands trembling against his chest, those hands, the ones that were so secure, the hands that held chemical supplies in the most delicate way, those were the hands that were shaking. But at the same time, the touch over his chest was secure, manly, with the faintest of pressures.

He turned around slowly and Sherlock's hand roamed all the way to both sides of his face. Making him look up, John's gaze danced over the flushed face in front and lower, taking a hold of the t-shirt and jeans Sherlock was wearing, he looked extremely younger, his erection was evident and his breathing was heavy.

'Oh God... this man is breathtaking...'

Lifting his arms to Sherlock's shirt, he grabbed the fabric there and felt the pressure of long fingers on his jaw, moving his face to close the space between them, Sherlock's expression was utterly serious and concentrated, his lips were parted seeking the much needed air. Then suddenly everything was turned upside down.

Sherlock kissed him eagerly. John was taken aback by the sudden action, lost in the rhythm Sherlock had decided out of the blue, but he allowed himself to relax. Soon the mess of teeth and tongue took a normal course; he flicked his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth and it was sucked by the other, his fingers got lost in the dark curls, Sherlock's hands moved indecisively between his shoulders, neck and scalp, his breathing erratic through his nose, little sounds forming in the depth of his throat. It was madness, and soon John felt himself getting lost in the kiss.

Kissing back and trying to get some control, he nibbled Sherlock's lower lip and they found themselves moving from the spot they were, John guided Sherlock to a wall almost outside the kitchen and pinned him there, trying to kiss him slower but it was nearly impossible. Suddenly Sherlock parted their faces a little and started a rhythmic kissing; a parting of lips, tilted his head to the other side and kissed him again, only opening his mouth and closing it back over John's. With the same rhythmic movement, he lowered his head to John's neck, kissing his left, then his right, moving to a collarbone, nibbling, licking, tilting his head again and repeating the process on the other side.

John was left to pant and gasp at Sherlock's ministration on his neck, and rapidly he felt his jumper being pulled over his head, he lifted his arms to help and soon was being kissed again, Sherlock's slender fingers worked over the buttons of his shirt and he pulled it over his shoulders, Sherlock walked forward making John walk backwards to his room, tossing the shirt near the sofa on the process. The door was open so they just went through it, still with lips on John's neck and jaw, he gave a quick glance at the darkened room, noticing John had been there at how tidy it was, he smirked. He was about to turn on the light of his end table but he decided against it. The light entering by the window was enough.

"Sherlock..." the back of John's knees touched the mattress. "Oh God... Sherlock..."

"Hm?" Sherlock hummed back, he moved lower until he reached a nipple. He stared at it curious, John's fingers still tangled in his hair, his eyes narrowed as he watched Sherlock's every move. Deliberately slow, lifting his gaze, Sherlock kissed the nipple and then took it between his teeth. John couldn't help a loud moan and his eyes flew open at his own sound. He heard Sherlock hum again as he pulled on it not so gently.

"Ahh... shit!" Sherlock felt a little pull at his hair. He smiled at that. Apparently, John cursed in this kind of situations.

The pressure of Sherlock's head over his chest made him sit on the bed, a rush of fear passed quickly by his mind when he realized that he, out of instinct probably, had opened his legs and now Sherlock's knees were in between his tights, he looked up, panting heavily. Sherlock was in the same state of arousal he was. He pulled a bit Sherlock's shirt and the detective took it off.

"Oh..." John let out a shaky whisper when Sherlock got closer. He placed his palms at both sides of John over the bed and crawled over him, their chests touched, and after some movement, they were almost on the middle of the bed, Sherlock still between John's legs, who supported his heels at the edge.

"John..." the detective breathed in John's ear, rocking his hips, their erections painfully trapped under both of their jeans. "John... I uh..."

John focused on the man above and the view made him freeze again. Sherlock was a bit frantic about this whole situation. He wanted to do so many things but he felt inexperienced. His usual composure was out of the window and John felt himself watching a whole new Sherlock, almost a teenager consumed by his own hormones, the expression on his face was priceless.

"Sherlock..." John lifted himself over his elbows and gave a small kiss on the pale neck. "Do you want... whatever it's going to happen...?"

Panting and staring back into John's eyes, the detective managed a nod, he licked his lips and breathed out a barely audible "Yeah..."

John smiled at it. Suddenly he felt a strange dash of power. He sighed audibly and moved his hands to Sherlock jean's button and zipper, his back falling back over the bed.

Sherlock's eyes flew open, he stared at John like looking for something, his eyes wandered all over the doctor's face. He tried to read him but his mind seemed blocked. The only thing he could feel for sure was his own state of arousal, John's eyes over his, there was an odd sense of familiarity, concern and curiosity. He felt his erection being pulled out and he kicked his shoes, and after a while of awkward movement over John, pressing their chests further together, he was completely naked over the doctor.

It was an incredible sensation at being half dressed next to a fully naked body. John stared up and tilted his head up, placing a soft kiss over Sherlock's lips, he trailed little kisses over the exposed neck and then brushed his lips over Sherlock's collarbones. An animalistic sound let the detective's throat when John nibbled his Adam's apple. John shivered at that. One of Sherlock's hands moved to John's waistband and, kicking his shoes off, John helped with his own button and zipper, the item of clothe soon discarded somewhere over the floor.

"Fuck, Sherlock..." he moaned out, grabbing Sherlock's hair, oh God how he loved to do that, he saw the detective's eyes roll back in his head and he couldn't stop himself. He supported his torso with one of his elbows as the other hand gently tilted Sherlock's head back, the detective nearly lost his balance, but his palms still supported him. John kissed roughly his neck, his ear, he traced the shell of it with his tongue earning an incredible sound from the detective, who started to rock his hips in a rhythmic slow but hard movement over him; still their erections trapped between their bodies. John had his eyes open; he didn't want to miss anything about the man above him, nor an expression, nor a sound.

"You're beautiful, you know that..." John growled, he knew he was vocal in bed, his mind raced with so many things he wanted to tell Sherlock. How good he tasted, how superb he smelled, how fucked up he had him, how incredible his cock felt against his own, how he wanted to shag him senseless. Maybe he told him all that as he kept on kissing and murmuring incoherent words against Sherlock's flesh. "I want you so badly..." he said in Sherlock's ear, "...you teasing bastard, you are so fucking delicious, so... uhnng perfect..." he groaned, Sherlock's thrust were fuelled by each of his words.

"John... this... ahh...!" Sherlock moaned out loud as he kept on rocking his hips against John's. He knew they were close. John's panting and gasping became rapid, he wasn't able to speak anymore and he fell back against the mattress again, his elbow not able to keep him up anymore, the hand on Sherlock's hair moved somewhere on the other's back, his ankles had moved behind the detective's thighs at some point but he couldn't remember when.

Sherlock's hands gave up and one of them was replaced by his elbow. In the middle of all this frantic movement and mess, he saw John tilting his head back, panting intensely, he felt the fingers digging into his skin, one of John's hand moved between their bodies, taking both shafts, stroking, matching his thrust. Sherlock buried his face in John's neck, nuzzling harshly, kissing, nibbling, his own gasps and moans muffled by the other's skin.

Remembering a book he had read ages ago, he reached one of his hands between them, placing it over John's thigh; he moved to the testicles and massaged them slowly. John's eyes snapped open but they were completely unfocused, Sherlock smirked at this, even when his own release was so very close. John's mouth fell open when he felt Sherlock's finger pressing the sensitive flesh behind his scrotum.

"Sherl-!"

"Come... John!" Sherlock growled out as he moved his finger further, pressing John's entrance, never stopping the movement of his hips.

And, as if by command, John came hard, Sherlock's middle finger stroked the entrance as John's quivered beneath him. His orgasm hitting him hard, he rocked his hips against Sherlock and the movement of his lower half made the sensation all the more enticing. Sherlock was still rock hard and his hips moved rapidly as well as his finger, John found himself pressing his hips up against Sherlock's; his back arched and his grip on the detective's skin was almost impossible to abide. He was pretty sure he would leave marks afterwards.

Almost immediately after, Sherlock came too and, at the sensation, his finger entered a bit and John's jaw clenched as he let out a long and low moan by both; the feeling of watching Sherlock come – and oh God he was gorgeous. His deep indecent growl, his neck thrown back, his fist grabbing the sheet, his hips jerking still shortly and erratically, his jaw clenched but his lips parted and all of the muscles of his body tensing at the unison – and the feeling of that invasive finger entering rapidly and going completely away almost immediately.

Sherlock was panting loudly, he fell over John and the doctor moved his legs with a hiss; keeping them in the same position for so long had made him sore, and that without counting Sherlock's weight over him and... all of the exercise.

They tried to catch their breath. Sherlock moved lazily still panting; he saw John's struggling with his legs at both sides of him and he moved to the side, sitting on the bed next to him, looking the glow of the mess they had between their stomachs and chests.

John looked up, his breathing still heavy, he allowed himself to observe Sherlock, placing an arm behind his neck.

"Jesus... Sherlock..." he whispered, Sherlock smiled between his panting. "Where the hell did you learn to do that?"

"A book." He said breathlessly, moving his hand to turn on the faint orange glow of his night lamp.

"A... book." John repeated, after a few seconds he chuckled lightly and closed his eyes at the light. “What kind of book?"

"An erotic book, obviously." The tone was monotonous but still breathy.

"What?" John frowned but there was a little amused smile there too.

Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I wanted to learn the reactions in the body to certain stimuli when I was younger, so I tried reading." He shrugged, "Reading stimulates the mind by default, so I thought it would stimulate my body as well. It was only dull data anyway, but I only saved a little amount that might come in handy with cases containing any perform of rape."

John's mouth fell open at that, because seriously, who talked about rape cases after... "Wh-!" he let out an incredulous smile and shook his head. "Okay, forget it. Did it work?" at the confused expression of the detective John clarified, lifting his brows. "Mind stimulation, I mean."

"Nnno." John smiled wider at the answer. This kind of intimacy felt extremely odd but extremely good. "Did you like it though...?"

John snorted "If I liked it... well you certainly took me by surprise with that thing... with your..." he cleared his throat, "...finger."

"Well, I read there that even straight men might come if you properly stimulate the outer side of the an-"

"Sherlock!" John gave a little laugh. "I get it already."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and then his gaze moved down to the mess. "We should probably..."

"Yes we should.” John eyed himself, “please, Sherlock... my legs are..."

"Oh." Sherlock moved quickly and walked to the bathroom, taking one of the messy sheets and throwing it over his shoulders.

John heard the water of the sink running; a little smile crossed his lips as he placed one hand over his forehead. "Oh God..." he whispered.

Soon Sherlock was entering the room again, tossing him a wet cloth, he was perfect again and John shook his head, 'you frigging elf... good as new!' he lifted his brows at him but soon discarded the thought as Sherlock walked to the closet.

"What are you doing?" John asked, lifting himself on an elbow groaning as he cleaned his stomach. He was sore, the small of his back hurt like hell and his legs were about to cramp.

"I want my dressing gown. It wasn't in the bathroom so I assume you put it in here." He said, turning the handle of the furniture.

John remembered the mess there, "Wait! Sherl-" but it was too late. Sherlock fell over his butt as an avalanche of clothes fell over him. The heavy wool blanket fell somewhere at his thighs and that was actually the thing that made him fall.

John's lips stayed in an o shape, his brows up and his gaze over the chaos. In his mind a little victory.

"What the-" Sherlock lifted various items of clothes and turned to look at John with a fake glare. "Seriously, John. It was completely juvenile and unncal-" but he couldn't go on. John's expression was changing from surprised to a light chuckle and, as usual, Sherlock had this inevitable smirk on his face as well, soon his deep laughter echoed in the faintly illuminated room, he still on the floor, John still on the bed.

Yes. This was definitely beyond any word could describe, even more than love, more than friendship, more than lovers, more than... any other label. They were just them.

Chapter 20: Sorting Out

"Your pet is always so submissive, Sherlock" a mocking voice echoed around him, he knew the voice, he knew it very well.

He tried to open his eyes but it was nearly impossible; his eyelids felt terribly heavy and so his head that now hung pressing his chin almost over his chest. With a big mental effort, he could open one of his eyes a bit; the only thing he saw was a red glowing dot floating over his chest. He lifted his head slowly, feeling sticky with sweat, clothes plastered to the skin. He didn't know where he was, the only thing for granted was the weight of his eyelids, the pain in the thighs for being kneeling for so long and the pain in the wrists which were tied up firmly at the small of his back.

"And so responsive! It's... amazing, really. You loved his face when he was coming, didn't you. His eyes closed..."

"Shut up..." he managed to growl between clenched teeth.

"Oh but you like it, Sherlock... you love it when you see him. Oh well!" there was a pause and then only breathing. "It's normal you know," the voice continued, "when you own a pet, you are happy just when you see it moving its tail, don't you think?"

He tried to open his eyes again but it was a task impossible to accomplish. He tried to speak but the sensation was the same as when he was expulsing the drug from his system; a feeling of anxiety and exasperation... he wanted to scream but he needed air for that and he could barely breathe.

"Tonight!" the voice spoke loudly again, he couldn't tell where it came from, "tonight will be in your mind forever, I already know the process, Sherlock... you and I are just the same! Our attention is focused and then we want to learn everything about a matter as long as our mind is stimulated. Did John do just that? Did he stimulate your mind the way you wanted? Because I'm certain he did, you are a horny little bastard in the end, aren’t you?" the voice continued. The speech was fast and with a lot of variations in the pitch.

"But you loooved it," now the voice was right behind his ear, whispering. "You loved it so much, the dirty talk... you love to be admired, even in bed, you selfish bastard! You have no shame at all, don’t you agree?"

There was a pause in which he saw everything that had happened, a movie playing in front of his -now closed- eyes. There he saw John, saw that time when he was willing to give his life for Sherlock's.

"He killed for you the second day, you know..." the psychotic tone of voice from earlier was now replaced with a lower, calmer one, "are you familiar with that sensation, Sherlock? Have you ever killed anyone?"

He felt like throwing up. The figure speaking was now in front of him.

"No, of course you haven't. You couldn't sleep that night, could you?" there was a dark chuckle, "that night your pet killed my cabbie. He was going to die anyway, oh yeah, I almost forgot about that! You loved to deduce that, even if it was a baaaad deduction, don't you think? People die and you know that, Sherlock. But you're still pained about death... you do care! You knew the cabbie, what was his name? You knew he was going to die and you felt sorry for him! Mixed sensations, isn't it? You're full of those; sorry for the cabbie and joy, of course, 'cause you figured it out."

The feeling of throwing up turned into a cough; a single, violent cough that almost made him lose his balance on his knees, his stomach contorting violently.

"But you know what the real problem is?" The voice echoed in the walls again, far from him. There were some steps circling him and he felt the weight of a finger at the top of his head; it felt exceptionally heavy, "the real problem is Sherlock, that you love him. You allowed yourself to open for him, and that my dear, will be your doom."

There was a hand roaming down his chest now. Suddenly the feeling of wet clothe was replaced by the feeling of cool air around his naked skin. He tried to scream but a whimper was all he could manage.

"You were right to be terrified, you know... you should learn how to control your body needs" the voice was right in front of him now, lips millimetres apart from his, "you really should have the control to restrain yourself. In the end, you and I are the same; we can get stimulated, we can get aroused, we can... do all of this if we want to...

“But that's momentary, you know? You were going to get bored in the end, so you should thank me..." there was pause before the voice talked again, "everything changes now, Sherlock... you allow John to become your heart and I told you clearly: I'm going to burn the heart out of you and I'm going to enjoy when I see that face of yours contort with fear and hurt for the first time... you were terrified also when you were drugged but now it's going to be different, you know?"

He tried to speak, but his throat was sealed, he felt gag reflex and pain. He coughed and soon he was about to vomit. He felt a hand on his chest and a pinch in his nipples, he managed a sound somewhere deep in his throat.

"You said once, that you cannot let your heart control your mind. You're stupid, Sherlock; that's exactly what you've done, what you're doing. This thing... with Johnny boy, you know what I mean."

Now there was a shiver down his spine, his eyes moved frantically under his closed eyelids. "And you, Sherlock, are going to remember this night, the night when you slept together. You're going to remember how he touched you, how he smelled... you're going to remember how his neck tasted, how that filthy finger of yours touched him where no other man had touched him before..." now he felt a tongue all the way from his shoulder to his ear, a bite on his earlobe "you're going to remember his voice, the way he talked to you, and you, my dear, are going to get aroused, but you are going to feel so guilty that you won't have the heart to touch yourself to release your body needs, you won't touch you, you won't come..."

He tried to move again, to lose himself from the grip, but his body was unresponsive.

"And it's going to hurt, it's going to hurt your mind, your body and your soul..."

He made his last effort to speak, "Why?" It was all he could manage in a throaty growl; a rather simple but confusing question.

"Why?" the voice repeated, a high pitch tone, almost hurting his ears "Why!"

There was a hand grabbing his hair and throwing his head back roughly, a hot breath over his ear, a presence behind him, fabric touching his bare back.

"Simple. Because I am you. I want to shake hands with you in hell... because you, Sherlock are the fallen angel, aren't you? You always thought of yourself like that, since you were rejected as a kid, remember? And I? I am your counterpart. You're the human part who wanted to remain human, who wanted to stay here whilst I am the part that went deeper. The part you don't dare to surface. Your darkest half. Everything in the world is all about light and darkness, Sherlock... and we're that together: the perfect combination."

The hot breath talking in his ear was making him uneasy, he listened, his breathing erratic.

"And John? Well Johnny boy is the brighter part of you now. Your... little... heart. You let him control you because he lets you control him. Isn't it beautiful?"

There was a hand moving down his chest to his forming erection. He didn't want it, but he couldn't help it.

"Once you learn, Sherlock... you're in an over hormonal body now. I am arousing you even if you hate me. I am your mind, Sherlock and you're confused. You're going to wake up. Wake up! There is nothing you can do and you know it. Live, wake up and live. Stay alive!"

Sherlock woke up with a strangled sound coming from his throat, panting and gasping; his breath caught in his throat as his fine ear got the last bits of "Stayin' Alive", Bee Gees' version, coming in from the bedroom window. The neighbours, apparently, they loved the Bee Gees. He coughed and noticed he had his own hand wrapping his erection under the sheet.

His eyes opened frantically and he scanned the room quickly before closing them again. There was the mess of clothes next to the closet, the blankets next to him were dishevelled and he noticed he had company last night. After all, he and John had spent the night talking in his room. They didn't touch after everything, they were satisfied and content by just talking, they lay next to each other, looking to the ceiling, shoulder to shoulder, covered by blankets. They fell asleep at sometime as they talked.

And then the nightmare.

His body felt heavy and his eyelids fought to stay open. The sheet over him was wet with sweat and his ankles were strained by it. Maybe he tossed and managed to get himself into this. The hand that wasn't around his erection was behind his back, painfully trapped between his weight and the mattress.

Now that explained a lot.

Why was he like this? He couldn't explain. He remembered the nightmare, the words...

As soon as he blinked a couple of times, his brain came back to reality completely. He felt the soreness of his body and his arm going limp as he removed it from its trapped position. He moved his ankles as well and he was surprised how even his toes hurt. He was panting lightly too.

Releasing his erection, he also released a big gulp of air from his lungs in the form of a loud sigh. He blinked slowly again and turned his neck to the side of the bed in which John had slept. It was cold already and that made Sherlock feel incredibly lonely, words burned into his mind again.

'You love him...'

'It's going to hurt, it's going to hurt your mind, your body and your soul...'

With a last sigh and a headshake, trying not to think, he stood up and walked to the bathroom. The shower was running and he placed his hand over the door handle. Why was this so difficult now? He was used to enter the bathroom sometimes to release his bladder when John was in the shower and John did the same. And now, his bladder was hurting and the semi erection wasn't helping, and some sort of force was holding him out of the bathroom.

It was awful.

And against all his wishes, he kept on thinking about the dream. It was just a dream, but he felt it was much more as if his own demons, fears and doubts were reflected in that dream. He frowned. It was actually terrifying being told about your fears and weaknesses in the voice of your enemy, an enemy that turned out to be the only mind in the world working like yours.

The shower turned off and he froze. He gave a last look to himself and realized that his cock was still emerging from his body almost gracefully. He coughed against his will. Just how long was he standing there just holding the door handle?

"Sherlock?"

**..**

John woke up early, there was this huge grin on his face as he opened his eyes, a hand going up to scratch his eyes a bit, he moved then his palm to his forehead.

Scenes from the night before replayed immediately in his mind. "Oh God..." His voice was hoarse and throaty and he couldn’t help a furious, quick blush at the memory and felt a tingle in his lower belly. He chuckled silently with a light headshake.

He heard a light snoring next to him, almost inaudible. He turned his neck slowly and saw Sherlock; he was tossing a bit, it was clear he was dreaming, his head gave little small shakes and John thought he was inside his mind palace, so he didn't wake him. Besides, it was still early and Sherlock sleeping was always a good sign.

John stood slowly and carefully from Sherlock's bed and smiled when he turned to see the mess of sheets and blankets over the mattress they shared. He eyed the closet, it was still open and the clothes were still spread all over the floor. He couldn't help a silent laugh as he recalled Sherlock falling on his arse.

Despite his good mood, he needed a shower, and he knew he needed to think. There were so many things he ought to sort out; Sherlock's words from last night were haunting him, even in dreams.

'I think I'm going to lose control.'

'I am afraid of my boredom, I am terrified of my mind.'

John sighed. There was still a tickling sensation in his lower belly and he cursed mentally. In his mind, everything that happened last night was replaying nonstop; Sherlock's voice, how warm he was, his movements, how lost he seemed. It was the first time seeing Sherlock so discomposed, so out of himself.

He smiled again. He was actually surprised how those two times with Sherlock had no comparison with any other partner he'd ever had in bed. And he laughed a bit thinking how they ended in bed, actually. It was almost unbelievable, but at the same time it seemed almost logical, the only possible way out. The romanticism, longing and holding with previous partners didn't exist between him and Sherlock. What did he expect? A kiss? Taking it slow? Was it even possible with a man craving for data like Sherlock? Possibly, yes. John shook his head. The course of events and the precedents said otherwise. They met the first day and they agreed sharing a flat, second day he killed a man for Sherlock's safety. Third day it was almost as if they knew each other all of their lives.

But things were slowly. He had to admit, he had the fantasy and it came to life again when Sherlock touched him. He wanted to touch him in more intimates ways still, he remembered he actually had said he wanted to shag him senseless. He closed his eyes at the memory and what that actually meant.

As he kept on remembering, he noticed he was blushing, his skin felt on fire. He sat on the bed and looked down at himself, he was aroused again. Teenager, fucking teenager.

He stood up and turned to look at Sherlock; the blanket covered all the way to the middle of his chest and he found himself looking at a little mark he had on his neck, near to his collarbone. He smiled wide and blinked a couple of times. Why was that little fact so incredibly sexy and arousing? He thought about the nail marks he was sure he left on Sherlock's back and buttocks and his grin widened even more. 'I must be seriously damaged... damn bastard...'

With a loud sigh he made his way to the bathroom.

Once alone in there, he stood long minutes with his palms over the sink, unable to look at the mirror; he didn't want to look at himself, he only glanced shortly and noticed the red of his cheeks and then again, he was incredibly embarrassed. One could think that being alone those things didn't have to happen. Why would he be embarrassed when no one could see him? He had no idea, but he still was. His heart rate incremented as he stayed there; his hands still with a firm grip on the edge of the sink. Sherlock was in his mind in repeat mode, he could clearly hear the moans, the panting, the demanding and the naive insecurity. The rush of power he felt over the younger man for the first time, but he still let him lead the whole... session. Even with those feelings, he felt like they were equals for the first time. Sherlock would respond just like him to his stimulation and that had him... fascinated?

Yes, fascinated and nearly obsessed. It was insane.

But still, he allowed Sherlock to touch him. In fact he expected it, when he felt Sherlock's hand moving down his thigh he felt anticipation. He wanted that but was unsure if Sherlock knew what he was doing, but then, when he felt the invasive finger he lost it. And now, most part of his embarrassment was because he was left almost with a feeling of dissatisfaction. He was curious, a lot of what ifs were forming in his mind; 'what if he had demanded for more?' 'What if Sherlock had gone farther?' 'What if he... liked it?'

And again, there were no labels for this. Oddly enough, he didn't feel gay. He just loved Sherlock, he tried to imagine a random male body and no, there was nothing there, but Sherlock... his hands, his chest, his arms... those were unique because they were him.

John shook his head and turned on the hot water in the shower, his body was over sensitive. The water around him was almost aphrodisiac as well as his soaped hands; he moved them around his torso and he wasn't surprised how his mind had only Sherlock's images once again.

He was not able to hold on anymore so soon he was supporting his arm on the tiles, water hitting his back, his forehead searching for support on his arm as he touched himself, Sherlock's name on his lips. A very deep part of his mind was telling him how ridiculous this was, how stupid this whole situation was, how embarrassed he should be of himself.

But there was another side of his mind telling him this was right, his body was sensitive and this was the most logical way out, he needed the release and the experimentation as his hand slowly travelled from his erection to his scrotum, he moved his fingers down there teasingly. His eyes were closed, he didn't dare to open them, he didn't dare to watch himself going there.

He moved a finger outside his entrance the same way Sherlock had done it, the tip of his finger entered a little and he clenched his teeth, it wasn't so bad, the soap and the water were helping a lot to do this smoothly.

Seconds later, half his finger was in and the back part of his head screamed in rage how moronic this whole situation was again. He could have even cried in shame but there was no stopping now. A second finger was in and he had to clench his lips together before opening them again to take a long gulp of air.

"Sherlock..." the moan that escaped his lips brought him back to reality. He wanted – hoped – that Sherlock would come into the bathroom and would... no. Maybe this was for the best. This was his experimentation.

He pulled his fingers out and noticed he was even harder than before. With a sigh, he stroked his erection, silent moans making their way out from his throat as he did, Sherlock's images all over his eyes, the voice, the smell, the taste, the warmth, the soft lips, the wet tongue... it was over sooner than usual.

Calming his breathing, eyes still closed, he cleaned himself down the stream of water. He opened his eyes only when everything was back to normality and he smiled as he tilted his head up, water falling over chest.

"John Hamish Watson..." he told himself, "you are... completely... and utterly... fucked up."

He couldn't help but laugh shortly at that. He was pretty sure if he was being seen, he really would look like a madman.

But he didn't care.

He finished his shower, slowly coming back to his normal self.

When he was out of the shower he allowed to look at the mirror this time, his skin was with a shade of pink for the hot shower. He got a bit closer to the mirror with a frown as he realized a red mark near the left nipple. He opened big eyes at that and giggled shortly. Yes, that spot was burning a bit with the shower and the foam but he didn't pay attention at the time.

Surely Sherlock's marks on his collarbone would itch in the shower as well. He surprised himself as he smirked in front of the mirror; he never knew his face was capable of such a lascivious expression.

God, he loved the man. He let himself be lead, Sherlock was right; Sherlock could do anything to him and he would never say no. Sherlock was right to be afraid. But John allowed himself do it because he trusted Sherlock with his life, and he knew it was the other way around.

With a loud sigh, he dragged the bathrobe over his shoulders, making a loosed knot over his middle, grabbed a towel and proceeded to scrub his hair roughly.

He was doing that when he heard a cough outside the bathroom.

"Sherlock?"

**..**

Sherlock had to fight the impulse to remain silence and run when hearing John's call. "Yes" he said as he opened the door.

John was wearing his bathrobe and he was moving a towel over his short hair, he lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock's lower half "Good morning" he tried not to pay attention to that.

"Good... morning...?" Sherlock greeted with a confused expression. They looked at each other and soon there was a burst of nervous giggles.

"You slept good, I suppose..." John smirked and Sherlock frowned confused again.

"Hm? Why do you-?" he glanced down at his own body, he had almost forgotten. "Oh"

He made his way to the toilet and John had to repress his laughter as Sherlock fought with his erected penis trying to release his bladder, even when he wasn't looking, frustrated noises narrated what the detective was going through.

"John." Sherlock said, his tone grave and husky.

"Hm?" John hummed behind the towel over his head.

"Shut up."

John snorted repeatedly, unable to help himself.

Seconds passed by and they both were amazed how normal everything was – and felt.

Sherlock was thinking deeply about that fact; it combined with the dream made perfect sense; John was part of him, his heart. Even thought it was terrifying, he noticed how nothing changed inside him, and it made perfect sense because that only meant that, somehow, nothing seemed to change because nothing had actually changed. The only thing that was modified was his behaviour about his own feelings.

And John was relieved; inside, he knew things were going to be the same. Was this what they called... perfection? A crazy partner, with whom he was able to do even the most minimal daily routines – like now – and at the same time, somebody who had cured him, somebody who had completed him in every sense, who had accepted him for what he was without changing anything about him. Somebody he would give everything for. It was overwhelming; to think about unconditional love like that, to feel at home... it made him feel a knot in his chest just to think about that, something moving in his stomach and his limbs going a bit numb.

And there was the other part; the routine. He didn't feel obligated to do things with Sherlock, he didn't feel obligated to cuddle, to kiss him, to hold him... it was almost like a silent pact, they would do all that, but when they wanted to, not obliged by some sort of social accepted rule.

It was great.

John didn't notice he was looking at Sherlock all the time, and Sherlock was eyeing him back, a frown, his eyes narrowing, the dreamy face John had was confusing him a bit.

"John?" The detective was still naked, his erection already fading.

"Ah. Yes?" John lifted his brows, coming back from dreamland.

"Are you alright?"

"More than alright, actually."

Sherlock smiled, blinking slowly. He looked down at himself and then back to John's eyes with a deeper frown now, "After all we uh... did. Is this normal?"

John had to suppress a little laugh at Sherlock's serious face "Uhm... yeah, pretty much," he rasped out clearing his throat.

"Did you-?"

"I took care of that already"

"Oh."

Sherlock seemed a bit uneasy, John knew what was going on inside his head, and they really needed to talk about it.

"Sherlock, get in the shower." John tossed his towel to a side.

"What?"

"Shower." John pulled his bathrobe off and walked to turn on the water.

John waited patiently. Sherlock was looking at him with a frown. "Are you...?"

"Sherlock..."

The situation was awkward; they both knew it and they both felt it. Even when nothing had changed there were many things unsaid, Sherlock was still haunted by his dream and his own personality and logic. And there was also the foreign feeling of home, the feeling of... John not only getting into his mind, which he was already used to, but also getting into his skin now, into the deepest parts of his mind. He really couldn't place a name for all this. His mind palace was destabilized and his body refused to do many things.

That's why it was a relief when John told him what to do; he got into the shower and the hot water over his overheated skin felt oddly pleasant. He didn't dare to talk, to spoil it, for the first time he needed to hear, needed to listen the data he didn't hold, a data he never had to manage before.

He felt light when John started to speak behind him, he felt himself loosen up when John reached in front of him and closed his hand over Sherlock’s semi erected penis and started to stroke slowly with one hand, John's other hand moved to his hip, caressing firmly his thigh, back up his stomach, tracing the muscles there. John's firm chest was almost glued to his back with the water falling over them.

His mind palace started to fill up with new data about this, especially when John told him exactly what he needed to hear.

"Sherlock, you're not obliged to do anything, there are no rules between us. We don't have to go and tell everybody we're a couple because nothing has changed between us..."

Sherlock supported his forehead on the tiles in front along with his fists, he was panting heavily, the water was falling over his head and John's voice resonated against his shoulder blades; Sherlock felt the texture of the unshaven face at the middle of them.

"What we have..." John tried to keep his words under control, but they held the overwhelming sentiments he knew he was feeling, he knew Sherlock could tell too, "what we have has no name. This... thing between us is my most precious thing, I don't want to spoil it, and it has nothing to do with these physical reactions... you're terrified about getting bored, Sherlock. I am not. I'm not leaving you, ever, unless you tell me you don't want me around anymore. If you want to go back to the way we were before this, that's okay, if..." John couldn't help a sigh at this point, his mind was working faster than his lips.

Sherlock was gasping but he was still silent, listening. John kept on stroking and talking, "hell, Sherlock. I love you. But I don't love you just this way, I love you all the ways, I like you, I want you, I want to be with you, I respect you, I want to protect you, I want to see you, hear you..." John sighed again, he planted a kiss on the taller man's shoulder blade, the muscles there were tense, Sherlock was still gasping, it was almost inaudible, "but I don't want to change you, Sherlock... ever."

He didn't stop stroking, he knew Sherlock was close, especially when Sherlock's hand moved over his demanding more speed and pressure, his hips rocking into their hands, making his arse bump lightly against John's lower belly, managing a wet sound caused by the water falling over them.

Sherlock came with a low, almost silent moan. John heard gasps and felt the erratic jerks in his hand and Sherlock's hand squeezing his own.

There was no need for more words, John noticed how his own breathing was hard now, but he was also silent. He felt Sherlock taking his hand out of his erection, his fingers squeezing his, both hands being washed with the spray of water above them.

Sherlock turned around slowly, face flushed, lips parted, hair plastered to his face. He placed both hands over John's shoulders and stared into the doctor’s eyes for a couple of seconds, or maybe minutes, neither could tell. And it didn’t matter. His eyes danced around John's face; it held a firm, secure and sincere expression; he was breathing hard but his lips were sealed, his face was all Sherlock needed to see, to observe, to scan. Those extraordinary words were coming from the extraordinary man in front of him. The firm doctor, the secure and loyal John. Nerves of steel John Watson. The soldier, the doctor, the friend, the heart.

He pulled John into a resolved and long hug.

"Thank you."

Again, there was no need for unnecessary words or actions.

**..**

At the Yard, in Lestrade’s office, the DI rubbed his temples with an untouched cup of coffee in front, Donovan sitting right across him, her breathing heavy from the discussion they just had.

"Look, we're calling him, I don't care what you say," Greg said in his usual raspy voice, it sounded even harsher when he was mad like now.

"Sir, this is the last time I'm going to say this. It is not a good idea! We've been in the track of this painting for only one week, and I'm sure..."

"One week!" Lestrade placed his fist over his desk, startling Donovan, "one week and you have what? Nothing. I'm calling him, Sergeant Donovan, and for the last time, I don't want you to bother him, I don't want you to call him freak, either..." he paused. The woman in front opened big eyes. "I'm sorry... it's just..." his voice softened, "there must be something we're missing..."

"We can manage it, Sir."

"No, no you can't. It's clear you can't do-" Greg waved a hand dismissively to her.

"Our men can do it."

"They can't!" he hit the desk again with his fist, this time louder.

There was a long and awkward silence, she scanned her superior's face for an answer, for anything, he was stressed and his eyes were piercing hers.

"Okay." She said finally, placing both hands on the desk in front of him, a somewhat submissive gesture, "what do you want us to do?"

Greg inhaled deeply, he moved his jaw to a side and exhaled, his eyes glanced down for a bit, thinking. She waited patiently. "Just don't bother him..." he lifted his gaze to her eyes, "he is going to help us, he does a great job, it's not that I don't trust our men, Sally... but I'm desperate by now."

At the use of her name she frowned and sighed. She was mad, but that simple petition didn't seem that hard to follow, especially if the man in front seemed so disarmed.

"I don't trust him." She muttered.

"I know, but I do," he said, smiling lightly, "and I trust you, so you're gonna have to trust me as well."

"I do trust you, Sir."

"Good. Now I'm going to call him and you're going to step aside and let him do his bloody job."

Sgt. Donovan stood up and glanced once more at the DI. She sighed deeply and walked to the door.

"As we always do." She said with her hand firmly grabbing the door handle.

"As you always do." He repeated. She didn't look back; her stare was fixed over her own hand. Slowly she opened the door and dismissed herself from Lestrade's office.

The DI sighed, placed both of his elbows over his desk and let his head fall in between his hands. "Fuck." He muttered for himself.

Several minutes passed until he finally took his phone and dialled a number.

"Gregory." He heard.

**..**

At the Diogenes Club, the story wasn't at all that different.

"I told you, Mycroft, I have nothing to do with the painting." An almost bald man spoke from a chair in front of the politician's desk.

"How is your son, Phillip?" Mycroft asked, changing the subject completely, he had his own interrogation techniques.

"He disappeared in thin air last night. We are aware your brother paid him a visit."

"He is not responsible for Armand's disappearance, in case you're wondering." Mycroft rasped out with a little growl.

"We know... you wouldn't be here otherwise but at his funeral. My son grew really fond of your little brother."

"I know that." Mycroft tried to keep his calm; he smiled as gently as he could.

"You know getting close to him is not good. James Moriarty wants him dead, ruined, you're aware of that..." he made a pause. Mycroft blinked slowly "...what am I saying, of course you're aware of that... it was you in the end who gave him the information about Holmes the younger."

"I am aware of that, yes, but that's not what brought you here, is it?" Trying to change the topic, Mycroft offered him a cigarette; Phillip took it and toyed with it between his fingers. The gesture somehow annoyed Mycroft.

"No, of course not..." Phillip shifted on his chair, took a lighter from his pocket and lighting Mycroft's and his cigar he continued, "It's the Turner's Reichenbach."

"Where is it?"

"You still believe I stole it, don't you?"

"No, you probably didn't. Your hands are never dirty, Phillip. I admire you for that." Mycroft exhaled slowly, the smoke around his face gave him a somewhat dangerous aura, even more than normal.

The bold man snorted and Mycroft frowned lightly "Come on, Mycroft! I'm your friend, you don't have to be flirty to gain information, you know..." Mycroft smiled gently at him with a tilt of his head, but inside he was a totally different story, "no, we didn't steal it."

Mycroft was about to reply, but his phone went off. He excused himself and answered to the DI, there was a troubled breathing, he knew the raspy tone and what it meant.

"Gregory."

"We're calling him, I'm desperate, there must be something we-" Mycroft knew the speech, he fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yes, I figured. You do that." He interrupted, his voice was like a knife, making it clear to the DI that he couldn't talk anymore. Phillip was looking at him intently, he knew what was going on. For a moment, Mycroft thought he saw a smile there but it banished in less than a second.

"...right." Was the DI's answer, he understood Mycroft's tone and hurriedly hung up the phone.

"Business?" Phillip lifted one brow, cigarette lightening due his long inhaling, Mycroft tensed his toes in an attempt to calm himself as he saved the phone in his pocket. The man in front made him uneasy to the utmost.

"You know with the painting issue things got... complicated." He said taking the item to his lips once more.

"That was expected, yes... it's not only the painting is it?" Phillip frowned and supported his elbows on Mycroft's desk. He stared at the iceman's eyes for a while through the smoke.

After a couple of seconds of stare holding, it was Phillip's phone turn to ring. Smiling an apology, he checked the receiver and answered "Sebastian."

Mycroft knew he had to be careful with this man, the name Sebastian already rang a bell. He watched silently as he heard the other's conversation. Italian names rang a couple of bells as well, being Ricoletti the most prominent of them all. Mycroft tried to join the dots once again, but he had to admit, Phillip bewildered him. He assumed it had something to do with Armand, since the younger man and his friend Xavier had been spotted leaving for Italy early in the morning. Although, why naming the Interpol's most wanted? He had no idea, but he was certain that, somehow, being the man he was, Phillip would want to take advantage of his son being in Italy, using him as an excuse to have eyes and ears there as well. Mycroft smiled almost bitterly and triumphantly this time. Yes. His son was an excuse.

For some reason, he wanted to tell Sherlock that, Mycroft knew there was something between them, a friendship perhaps? A mutual understanding? Simple attraction? He was certain that it was not near as deep as with Dr. Watson but, knowing about his little brother had always been a mystery to him. Even though he claimed it wasn't. It was too easy to just check Sherlock's history of the last months, phone conversations, for example, but he knew there had to be something deeper there. Sherlock would never leave everything exposed to simple view.

And Armand, the kid liked Sherlock and the detective apparently wasn't at all that indifferent about the matter. There had to be something deeper there and again Mycroft questioned why his brother let himself to feel and to care about people. Why did Sherlock have to be like that? It was something that he would probably never understand.

Mycroft sighed as he recalled the report Greg Lestrade had given him at the end of the Dartmoor case. The DI had been casual about that, not paying attention but simply almost as a joke and anecdote 'he almost seemed human!' Lestrade had told him, half joke, half serious. Similar was John when writing about that on his blog.

But in Mycroft's eyes it was deeper; ever since they were at the mortuary recognising Miss Adler's supposed corpse at Christmas, it was the time in which he felt the need to remind his brother what he had been telling him for years when Sherlock repeated the same question he had been asking for years as well. Sherlock had noticed that time something he was always curious about and watching from afar: the family's grief for someone who had just died. 'Look at them', Sherlock told him that time in a quiet voice, 'they all care so much'.

Mycroft knew what Sherlock expected, he expected a change in the answer, he expected that something in his older brother's life would have impacted him enough to change his mind about that life's philosophy.

And the iceman – nickname that Mycroft had somehow held in the solitude of his mind – felt how Sherlock's voice had an undertone of hope, every time, and probably every year 'Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?' and the same automatic, rehearsed answer, he didn't even think about that anymore 'All lives end... all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.' That time, Mycroft knew Sherlock had been disappointed, once again, because of the answer. Sherlock had changed the subject that time and referenced to the cigarette's bad quality and the older brother threw his last dart 'You barely knew her.’

Sherlock was silent that time. Mycroft felt a knot in his stomach seeing, rather verifying, that his little brother was different, he did care, he did feel. But it was easier for the younger man to hide behind his highly functional sociopath mask. He knew the irony behind the self-inflicted title.

Phillip was right about what he said the last time they were here 'Leaking away information is not a way to deal with an enemy, Mycroft', he was frustrated and had told James Moriarty a couple of things he shouldn't have about his brother and now he was worried, he had to admit. 'You have to admit that even a great mind like yours can be defeated if used the right tool' and again, the knot in his stomach was felt and he closed his eyes for a while, a sigh escaped his lips.

The actual voice of the man in front of him brought him back from his thoughts. He noticed how his face had changed his usual cold mask to a worried expression; he returned his features to his usual semi frown slowly. Phillip wore a little smile, his eyes scrutinizing his face, his phone still over his ear and his elbow up in the air, body language said he was in a hurry; he wanted to hang up soon. The older Holmes frowned and returned the little smile.

"Yes, yes... I know that much, just keep Ricoletti and his... lovely, lovely wife safe until he gets there... yes... do that, tell him it's going to be on the news soon, send miss Hickey to report about the tale and once the article is ready and the case is solved, leak it out to the press... yes of course, the Daily Star as always..." there was irony and a grimace behind some of the words, as if Phillip was joking, he rolled his eyes a couple of times at Mycroft as he spoke, and the iceman just smiled a couple of times and shook his head, almost a clear 'Yeah, mate, I know what you mean.'

When Phillip finally hung up the phone he snorted and hissed at the ashes of the forgotten cigarette between his fingers.

"Awful," he said, "the press is all over the place, they are following the Yard no matter where they go, that Lestrade fellah gives little information, he keeps saying that he will talk about the cases once they are solved. Just then he would give the press information and not before," he shook his head with a smile "he really knows how to handle them, doesn't he..."

Mycroft frowned. Really, what Phillip was talking about almost made no sense and was irrelevant, the man in front was clearly trying to avoid any matter about the real important one.

But this time Mycroft was not going to ask anymore. He needed to think. He needed to talk to John about this, perhaps telling him... no. He thought against that almost immediately. The doctor would want to protect his brother even if there was information to be hidden. Mycroft smiled again. It was like that, wasn't it? John was protecting Sherlock's feelings, but why? He had done that with Miss Adler's supposed death as well, even when Mycroft knew Irene was alive. He had tested John that time and John had proved to do what he never thought of: he lied to Sherlock in order to protect him. Was John really up to live with a lie over his corrects, moral shoulders all for Sherlock's feelings sake? God.

He needed to think.

Phillip noticed the discomfort of the man in front and placed a hand over the other's arm from across the desk.

"Are you not feeling well?" he asked politely, a squeeze on the arm.

"I'm fine." Mycroft smiled, even though he felt the betrayer's touch, "just a little headache, that's all."

"Perhaps you should open the windows, smoking in here was not a good idea after all, was it?" the bold man stood up and opened the window behind Mycroft's desk, a rush of clear air entered the office. This was the last time that he would talk to this man probably, he knew what was coming. "Better?" he asked.

"Much. Thank you." Mycroft stood up as well and walked to the door, Phillip followed.

There was something in both of their eyes as they said their goodbyes. The firm handshake and the couple of seconds their eyes meet was enough for Mycroft. He recognized an enemy when he saw one.

Once alone in his office, Mycroft placed his head between his hands over his large desk. He needed something sweet, he was anxious. Diet forgotten, he opened one of his drawers and took a fine, expensive little chocolate wrapped in gold. The taste was bitter sweet and for some reason, it was a glimpse to the future. He knew what he had to do; he had to talk to John. At least if John was so protective with Sherlock, John had to know.

And if he was right, if the chess game was planned as he and Sherlock had talked about several days ago, an evening when sharing a coffee and a cigarette in this very same very room, talking about childhood and work, about plans, government and cases, John had to know.

Two more chocolates later, Mycroft frowned at his own reflect on the phone. A stupid feeling of guilt and anxiety formed in the base of his stomach as he texted.

'Reichenbach case taken? – MH' sent at 12:24

A couple of minutes passed in which Mycroft just stared at his phone and the golden wrappings. He threw them to the trash can under his desk. His mind was in pause, in a strange state of blank. He startled when his phone vibrated in his hand before emitting the message tone.

'Yes. In our way to the Yard. JW' received at 12:32

**..**

Sherlock sat on his chair neatly dressed except for his blood red bathrobe and his bare feet as John read the newspaper in front of him. They had tea in silence before that, sharing a couple of complicit smiles now and then, not really talking that much and not really touching more than necessary.

After that, the consulting detective sat on his chair, knees over his chest, toes tapping the leather. Now and then John would look over at the concentrated expression he had. Sherlock was thinking, and he was thinking hard. He had a frown over his features and, except for his toes, he was immobile, one could think he wasn't even breathing.

John couldn't concentrate. He tried but he couldn't. After all, all of what had happened between them was surreal; he never thought seeing Sherlock so disarmed and now? Everything seemed back to normal, except John now knew what was hiding behind that smirk in the morning, he knew what was hiding behind that clenched jaw.

The doctor also needed to think. He was tempted to go over Sherlock and touch him, just touch him. But he controlled his urges, he noticed that he was content with only looking. He looked and watched at the taller man, he observed and absorbed, taking in every curl, every finger, every toe, the muscles over his shoulder, the firm ankles, the carved jaw, the concentrated frown.

Why? Why was he doing all of this? He had plenty of girlfriends before – well not "plenty" but enough – and he never had this need of just look. Ever.

Minutes passed by and John couldn't look away. He kept on thinking, staring, observing, even deducing, by Sherlock's nails on his toes, the impeccable hygiene of the man. He could be very untidy, dishevelled sometimes, but he was always clean and worried about his persona. John smiled at that. He was also worried about his hair, he combed it sometimes, he always arranged his shirt before leaving the flat, even after some runs around London.

Suddenly, he was staring into two deep, pale eyes. At some point, Sherlock had opened his eyes and now he was staring back, his expression unchanged. They didn't share a word for a long time as they stared into each other's eyes.

Some part, in the back of John's head, this was ridiculous. He felt like a character of a Disney movie, the prince staring back at his... prince, he was about to start bating his eyelashes. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to laugh at himself, but something in Sherlock's eyes didn't let him. The detective was analysing him, he was staring into his very soul and soon he found himself doing the same; he analysed the curve of Sherlock's clear pupil, the iris and the eye, the eye lashes, he saw the little marks beside the eyes, the hair line above his forehead. He lowered his gaze and observed the pores of his cheeks, of his nose.

As his eyes progressed with the scrutiny, he noticed Sherlock was doing the same; his eyes were no longer over his eyes but somewhere between his nose and neck. None of them were moving a muscle except for their eyes. John still had this urge to smile, to get up, but the detective's gaze still held him to his chair like the most powerful glue. He stared at his nose for a moment, remembering the feeling of that bump against his cheek last night, against his neck, the noise it made when inhaling deeply and when exhaling loudly.

If this is what Sherlock called data then that's why the detective spent so many hours thinking, John thought.

Moving his gaze a little lower he fixed it over the cupid bows on his upper lips. Little red marks above them, a hollow at the end of each curve where it met the lower lip. He remembered the texture, how warm and soft they were. Somehow his mind flew back to their first kiss. A stupid peck first and then a dry, naive, inexperienced kiss. His heart started to beat loudly against his chest but he ignored it. He moved his gaze to the beauty marks above his neck and he had to blink. Somehow blinking right now was a waste of time.

He couldn't stop. He analysed everything and he thought he might be hours doing the same. He sighed deeply when he realised his eyes were itching. He blinked a couple of times to get rid of the feeling and his eyes flew back to Sherlock's. The detective had a lost glance, now lost somewhere at his stomach and legs and then Sherlock looked back up again, meeting John's eyes for some other moment.

Sherlock took a hold of what he was doing that last time he looked up. He had been lost memorizing every bit of John, remembering every feel, every texture, storing it all up carefully. He was breathing heavily and noticed John was in the same state. Something close to a smile crossed his lips when he observed John holding that last stare. He took a deep breath and returned to look at some point behind John's head, towards the kitchen.

None of them wanted to break the silence and that strange intimate moment. In the flat only their breathings were heard at the proximity and some of the noises from the street.

"John."

John shook his head quickly coming back to reality.

"Hm?" was all he managed as an answer.

"I need a case." The phrase was quiet, whispered almost and John couldn't help but laugh, he took the newspaper again and began to scan it quickly.

"Hm..." he hummed, "no, no cases Sherlock, the only one still hanging is the one from last week, remember? The one about a bloody painting... did you check your website?"

"No."

"Check it, then." Sherlock stood quickly and paced with long steps to his laptop, just when he was about to open it, Sherlock's phone went off with the message ringtone.

'Sherlock. I assume you're aware of the Turner's? Meet me at the Yard in an hour – GL' sent at 12:07

"The Turner's..." Sherlock muttered, "The painting?"

"What. The waterfall? Yeah, it was on the papers last week, unsolved one..." John continued his reading.

"The Reichenbach..." Sherlock shook his head and rolled his eyes, "sounds boring."

"It's up to you." John retorted not lifting his gaze.

His lips clenched and his frown went down but soon his expression changed, his lips curved in a smile, he bit the lower one childishly and his eyes smiled. "We're doing it."

"You sure?" John gave him a side glance from his newspaper. He smiled gently at the expression of the detective.

"A week missed? No clues? This could be fun..." Sherlock spun around the room dramatically to get his laptop and John rolled his eyes at the happy display.

Several minutes passed and John only heard the keyboard of Sherlock's laptop pressing rapidly, obviously he was looking for data of the painting. John's phone vibrated over the table, he looked at the screen.

'Reichenbach case taken? – MH' received at 12:24

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" the detective didn't lift his sight but merely frowned.

"Text... from older Holmes."

"Delete it; he wants to know if we took the case..." Sherlock was typing on his laptop as he spoke "he only does that to spite me, he could've simply asked Lestrade."

Sherlock pressed a couple of keys more and closed the laptop.

John rolled his eyes and saw the detective putting his socks and shoes in order to be ready, jacket and all ornaments. At the time, by the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John with his thumb over his phone.

"Seriously. You're going to reply...?"

"I don't see why not. This is your brother, Sherlock"

Sherlock stared back for a few seconds before walking to take his coat. "Fine, do whatever you want."

John smiled and shook his head. He walked to Sherlock and took his own jacket at the time his thumb moved slowly by his phone.

'Yes. In our way to the Yard. JW' sent at 12:32

Chapter 21: Slumber

Insufferable. A pain in the arse. A real, royal dick.

Really, John Watson was about to write a whole synonymous dictionary to describe Sherlock Holmes in one of these cases' days; even if he was somewhat used to it, there were still times when Sherlock managed to drain the patience out of the good doctor.

Eleven in the night and Sherlock wasn't moving from his position on his chair, knees up to his chin, arms around his legs. How many hours again? About six? John frowned from the kitchen. The request had been almost dramatic and now his heart still hammered in his chest since, after hours of silence, a single request made him jump from his own chair and nearly drop the laptop on his knees, where he kept on looking for the information requested by the genius in front.

"I need coffee!"

And the single phrase, screamed with a baritone, throaty voice still resonated around the flat.

John was not the one to start complaining; he just eyed at Sherlock with a frown and made his way to the kitchen. Coffee was good. Coffee meant at least some sugar inside the detective's body. No matter how he requested it.

So there he was now, waiting for the kettle to boil after a long morning at the Yard. Mycroft had called John at least three times today and Lestrade was being desperate and almost crazy towards Sherlock about the case and the lack of evidence, and the obvious pointing of Sherlock at their incompetence every chance he'd got.

And Donovan, irritable all day long behind them, glaring to the DI every two minutes and to the little joke John had managed to try to lighting up the ambiance 'Greg, I imagine your eyes hurt now, you know... with all the rolling up.'

Sherlock, on the other hand, was quiet about all of what happened between them. John wasn't expecting a romantic moment, holding hands in the cab or anything, but today after the shower the detective came back to his old self and John wondered what was going on inside the mind of the detective. Was Sherlock right to be afraid? Maybe he had enough of the doctor? Maybe it was a mere curiosity that had been already satisfied? John tried not to think about those, he really didn't.

Once the coffee was ready John walked and placed it in front of Sherlock who, as always, took it without looking. John prepared a coffee for himself and came back to his place in front of the detective. There was a thick silence between them and John didn't want to talk, he knew Sherlock and the current mood, even he had to admit the case was complicated; the yard had no clue and Sherlock had only a couple of ideas. And John was worried because, even if he chose not to think about it, Sherlock seemed very out of it when he heard the details at the Yard.

After a last glance at the curled up detective, John stood up and walked to him, standing right next to the chair. Sherlock looked up, blinking a couple of times and nearly dropping his cup at the doctor's closeness.

"Sherlock..."

"Hm?" he lifted his brows and blinked slowly, lazily.

"Is there anything else I can do? I moved the files to the folder you asked, I sorted the data of the laptop from the hot line facility we were talking about in the cab."

"Excellent. What did you find?" Sherlock's voice was a bit rough, unused for the last six hours.

John sighed, "Some dates of the movements in the museum are consistent with the dates from the folder you saved in the memory flash."

"The folder you saved..."

"Well, you saved the other ones."

Sherlock smirked looking up at John. He was awfully quiet today, lost in thought. John saw something behind those eyes, there was something new and a different, even if the detective was back to his usual self. He couldn't help but smile back at him.

"Irrelevant." Sherlock muttered and added quickly, "you need to sleep though, you look tired."

Sherlock fell back to his pensive state, ignoring John when he turned, muttered a "right" and went to his room.

The flat was empty, the night was cold and he was left there alone with his thoughts. He was a mess, he recognized the work of Moriarty behind and finally convinced himself where the evidence was leading him. Theorizing before having all the data was something he never did and he was doing just that. He cursed mentally and closed his eyes, his mind palace was in place and there was a room that needed to be rearranged; he thought about the case, the painting and the hard time he had today when he left John at the Yard with Lestrade going through files as he went back to the port to gather evidence of the ships coming for the last week.

On his way back to the Yard, a cab nearly hit him and he couldn't see the driver. It was odd, since the cab seemed to be waiting for him. Again, not enough evidence so he didn't reach a conclusion. Then, near the Yard, a falling brick almost hit his head; he looked up everywhere and even thought about calling Lestrade but decided against it in the middle of the dial. Instead he walked up to the roof of the building, spending there almost an hour, observing the people below him, looking for anything suspicious.

Louis - the man whose daughter was saved by Sherlock - was near the place and had noticed the detective over the rooftop. He waited for the detective to come down from the roof and, after some talking and data comparison, they reached to the conclusion that is was probably a simple accident. Sherlock was quiet after that; he didn't say a thing and asked Louis especially not to mention anything to Dr. Watson. Just in case.

Ever loyal, Louis had just smiled and nodded before getting lost with his gang.

And now, with John off to sleep he knew exactly what he needed to do. Even if he didn't like it. The plan was settled, he knew what was coming.

He waited until two in the morning before taking his phone, calling, not texting.

"Sherlock... you actually waited for John to fall asleep?"

"I don't have much of an option, Mycroft" he younger man said as he took his coat and scarf and walked out of the flat.

"Diogenes. Coffee?"

"Yes."

With that, Sherlock hung up and walked into the deserted London’s street.

Drunken people walked silently, a few homeless, he was silent and felt the chilly air hurting his nostrils a bit as he inhaled deeply. He lifted his gaze to the sky and admired the stars. He noticed that now, alone, the stars weren't beautiful as he had commented to John once, now the stars seemed lonely, just brilliant points, all separated from each other, light years away.

Sherlock smiled to himself, a bitter smile as he thought about that. It was true at the end; feelings and current moods give people a different perspective of the same fact. That time with John next to him, the stars were beautiful and he went as far as to comment about it, making John smile.

Now they looked as lonely as he was now, with no John next to him, but further than that, they seemed brilliant points trapped in a darkness canvas. Like flies trapped in a spider web.

He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled deeply again, the corners of his mouth draw down, the scarf up to his nose.

As he kept on walking to the Diogenes Club, he noticed someone was following him, a cosh hanging from his belt. He could be a police officer undercover but the face wasn't known. Sherlock turned into a corner and he heard the steps and the cosh hitting some part of the jeans of the tall man as he walked. Sherlock gave another turn and found a confined space between a ladder and a wall. He couldn't help a smirk as his mind flashed the feeling of John next to him, trapped between his body and the wall.

He entered the little space and waited. He clenched his jaw to release some of the tension; his heart racing in his chest and it was hard to breathe. He cursed mentally as his mind took the luxury to dedicate a couple of seconds to think about John, about the way his body felt pressed against him.

Soon he heard steps and saw a silhouette of a tall, thin man, long hair in a pony tail. In less than a second he was over the man, straddling him against the cold floor, the collar of the man's jacket grabbed in the detective’s hands. Sherlock demanded answers through clenched teeth, his voice reduced to a growl in a low volume. Who was he? Why was he being followed? He demanded to know about the cab and the brick from this morning... but there were no answers, the man was nothing but mute.

With a frustrated groan, Sherlock released a bit the grip on the man, who took the cosh and gave him a blow behind his knee, making him fall hard on the cement. He was about to give Sherlock another blow, this time directed to his head, but he managed to roll around the floor just in time. Sherlock rolled over the cement a few more meters until he could stand. He fought his attacker until he could finally pin him against a wall, the attacker’s chest pressed tightly against bricks. The detective took both of arms behind the small of the man's back, making pressure with his own stomach. He patted the sides of the man until he found the wallet inside his trouser's pocket, he opened it helped with his teeth, checking its contents immediately.

The ID was blank and the face of the photograph was a mask. He wasn't recovered of his surprise yet when he heard steps and was about to leave the man there when he realized it was Louis.

Two men of Louis' gang came quickly to each side of the attacker, taking his hands, pinning him against the wall harder, one of them even knocked him out against the wall, leaving him almost unconscious and groaning in pain.

Sherlock rearranged his clothes, cleaning himself patting roughly over his coat with his palms, settled the collar of his shirt, jacket and coat and saved the fake ID inside his jacket's pocket. Around them, the only sounds heard were a few cars and a shushed rustling of people moving.

Remembering a couple of Mycroft's words, he walked away from Louis and his gang, but Louis followed him just when he turned around a corner.

"You okay?" Louis got closer to Sherlock and patted his shoulder hard and friendly.

"I'm fine." Sherlock cleared his throat and took a big gulp of air as he bended the collar of his coat up again, out of habit.

"Who is that arse?" Louis asked pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.

"I don't know." Sherlock answered sincerely, his eyes scanning the perimeter around them.

"Do you think he has something to do with the brick this morning? Maybe it wasn't an accident after all..." he said pensive.

"I can't reach to any conclusion." Sherlock said and smiled at the worried face of the man. "I need him at the police station, he has no ID. My name can't be involved."

"Sure, he was going behind a small lady and she beat the shit out of him." Louis added with a wink and a wide grin.

"Shut up, I imagine you can do better than that." Sherlock and Louis laughed shortly and the detective paused, a smirk on his lips now. "Thank you."

"No problem, mate."

After a couple of seconds, Sherlock seemed pensive and Louis tried to follow the detective's gaze; his pupils were moving frantic, taking everything, observing, collecting. To the loyal homeless, it was like looking a vampire; he associated Sherlock with those vampire stories, in which the protagonist is about to be hunted down.

Sherlock's lips were parted to take in more air, his skin was pale; even though he should be flushed for the little wrestle. Louis felt fear, not for the man in front, but the situation; Sherlock's strong expression was distorted, just for a few seconds, by fear. Like the proud vampire being hunted, he knows he is more powerful than humans, but still feels fear for he doesn't know the weapons that might be used to attack right to his few weaknesses.

Louis took a deep breath; eyes fixed on the detective in front and asked with a strong voice "What?"

"I need to prepare a little something..." Sherlock said, he blinked slowly and fixed his stare over Louis.

"What?" the man repeated a little high pitched.

"Your alibi." Sherlock got closer to him with a smirk and out of nowhere gave the tall man a firm but not painful blow to his stomach, pinning him against a wall roughly. "And stop following me!" he added loudly now, each word spoken through clenched teeth. Louis fell over his knees with a huff, coughing and cursing. He was about to return it, more out of habit than rage, but something made him stop. He lifted his head and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He frowned at the sudden blow but soon he was smiling. "Alibi..." he repeated as he got up and proceeded to take the attacker to a police officer.

**..**

"What took you so long?" Mycroft asked from his desk, there was a faint light over it, a few papers and folders. Sherlock scanned the room in less than a second; a few security cameras, a coffee machine, a drinkable water tank next to it and also a clean ashtray over the desk, a cigarette holder and a lightener.

Sherlock just walked into the office, took the wallet of the attacker from his pocket and tossed it to the desk, it slid until it reached Mycroft’s hand. The detective sat down heavily; the chair cracked a bit as he crossed his legs and placed his entwined fingers over his stomach.

"Well?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft's expression was blank except for a light frown as he read Sherlock. [Hair] He was moving excessively and strongly in the street. Wrestle. [Red mark below his hear] Love bite? No, he probably got beaten somehow around the wrestle... even though it's not resent. File up to ask later. [Trousers] Wrinkled at the back of the knees. Same position for a long time. Thinking. [Knees] Dusted, straddled his attacker against the cement. So the fight was in an ally. [Shirt] Wrestle. [Jacket] Wrestle.

Mycroft could almost recreate the complete scene of Sherlock's attack in his mind in a nanosecond. Sherlock just stood there, completely aware of what his brother was doing.

"Well?" Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and rested his elbow over the desk. He watched intently at his little brother, shadows making his face even more angular than usual and his eyes even lighter and brighter. "I assume you didn't call me just to fight in the way."

"Something is wrong about the painting."

"Wrong!" Mycroft chuckled "out of all the words you know, you choose wrong."

Sherlock ignored his teasing "if everything else is eliminated, I can easily suppose it's a set up, though I can't reach that conclusion yet. You took the information of the laptops in the facility as well, I know you did a backup, I know you."

With a frown, Mycroft took his phone, he browsed a couple of files and placed it over the desk, the screen glowing white. "See for yourself."

He took it and saw the facility planes, the dates John had wrote down that time, his suspicions were confirmed. "So it was a set up."

"You must... be careful, brother" Mycroft thought about the conversation about him and Phillip this morning, "I told you have to take care if you want to be close to John. I told you once and I'll repeat, no matter how many times you need to understand: you are not safe, you know that m-"

"Don't threaten-" Sherlock interrupted hoarsely.

"It's an advice, Sherl-"

"A warning!" There was a pause and it seemed the entire world was quiet after the slam over the desk and Sherlock's voice. It had been calmed but it held a little resonance to it that made Mycroft keep still for several seconds. He couldn't move and Sherlock liked the little power that word had over his brother. It only proved Mycroft knew more.

With a deep sigh and his eyes over the coffee machine, he asked in a throaty voice "How many, Mycroft...?"

"I beg your-"

"You broke your diet today."

Mycroft clenched his jaw and lifted his brows tilting his head to the side a bit. "Three. Are we doing this again?"

With a smirk for making his brother fall into a stupid childish game to distract him, he continued with what he wanted to ask "Doing what?"

"The same you liked to do when we were younger. Playing the mind reader."

Sherlock frowned. He never thought Mycroft would remember that; great minds playing the game of deduction of one another, hiding and showing. He liked the challenge.

"If you rather do that than speaking directly to me... though I doubt it would suffice now..." he sighed loudly, "I'm sure you're aware of what happened before I came here. I can't reach to conclusions but I can be almost certain that I'm wanted dead."

"Pieces of the chess started to move, the king has to fall... we are all part of the game, Sherlock." And Sherlock started the game. He knew what Mycroft meant. He was the king since Moriarty, the other king, wanted him destroyed. The only way to achieve that is to fall into his doom. Mycroft knew about it, he made the same logical assumption.

"The king has to fall." Sherlock repeated almost in a questioning, incredulous tone. He looked at the floor for a few moments and thought deeply about some weeks ago, he thought about the same, in John's arms, on the couch. John...

"You are thinking about him now, lovely." Again, Sherlock read behind that 'you're caring about someone again, stupid.'

"What?"

"You, thinking about John Watson all the time... I assume that little red mark below your ear is-"

"None of your business."

"Come on, Sherlock." Mycroft stood up and walked to the coffee machine, turning it up "I am your brother! You hadn't been so defensive since Victor, even though I know nothing ever happened between you two... and you weren't that closer with him as you are now with John... he was still your friend, the word you use with so much solemnity."

"Mycroft...?" Sherlock shook his head and chuckled lightly after his warning tone, "you're assuming too much, you're losing your touch, dear brother."

"You are defensive, Sherlock. Did Armand reach the friend status too?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw, "he was a good ally, I know nothing about him now though." He couldn't help a little sad tone under his voice, down casting as the words left his lips.

"Italy, consider the information as a little gift."

Sherlock didn't reply, a loud sigh from the younger one was heard and soon the air was filled with the smell of fresh coffee. Mycroft handed him a steaming cup and soon Sherlock was grimacing as he burned his tongue.

"You never change." Mycroft spoke with the cup touching his lips, index finger pointing at his little brother. 'You're going to keep caring, Sherlock, even though it has brought you nothing but disadvantage. You're as stupid as always.'

"I don't have to." 'It doesn't have to be a disadvantage if I know how to handle it'

"You will." 'You'll have to learn, Sherlock... maybe you need something tragic and definitive to happen, like it did with Victor, and you're going to be alone again.'

Mycroft sat at his desk once again and offered him a cigarette.

"Low tar, again?" he said almost mockingly, 'so you think this is not important to me, you think I care and I don't care if I do, you take it lightly just because I'm not who you want me to be?'

"No this time, no." 'I still think it might be important, I just don't understand why you care that much, why do you risk so much.'

"So this must be an especial occasion." 'So I'm actually falling after all, I have to leave everything behind, and this might be the last time we can be carefree, to drink a coffee, to smoke a cigarette.'

Sherlock took one and smelled before pulling it to his lips.

"It is." 'You're right, next time we see each other things are going to change, Sherlock.'

Mycroft lighted Sherlock's cigarette. The younger brother dragged a big gulp of smoke, held it inside his lungs for a couple of seconds and then exhaled slowly.

"So be it." 'I'm ready for whatever comes, Mycroft.'

Mycroft lighted his own cigarette and joined Sherlock in polluting the air inside the office. After a while the air was heavy to breathe but they stayed there, in each other company, watching the smoke dance along their breathing.

Around four o'clock in the morning Sherlock stood up and walked to the door, Mycroft following close behind.

"Nobody else needs to know." 'John doesn't need to know.'

"Probably, but I'll be there in case anything goes out of hand." 'I am going to help you, no matter what.'

The younger brother didn't respond. Mycroft was expecting the question, the usual question.

Sherlock looked over at his face, lips tightly sealed. And Mycroft waited.

On one hand he was happy Sherlock didn't ask. He knew his answer was going to be the same, but he didn't know if his brother was up to listen the same thing.

Mycroft grabbed the front of Sherlock's coat and roughly pulled him closer for a hug. Sherlock hesitated for a couple of seconds before returning it. After a while, both brothers were holding each other for dear life. It was brief but intense, a firm grip and suddenly, without a word, they separated and rearranged their shirts, shared a last smirk and Sherlock was off, back to 221b.

**..**

Once inside the flat, Sherlock took off his coat, his jacket, scarf and disregarded everything over John's chair. He was hesitant; he wanted to go curl on his chair and think. Mycroft knew something else, he felt it in that brief hug, Mycroft never did that. Only possible solution he came up whilst in the cab, after eliminate fifteen others theories, was that Mycroft knew something he didn't. And it had to do with Moriarty plans. And probably someone else was involved. Perhaps himself, or someone close to Mycroft.

'I'll burn the heart out of you.'

His heart.

John.

In the cab, he had gone through his contact list and had deleted one by one, he had passed over John's speed dial and Mycroft's. His phone was only left with those two contacts. Every time his phone had asked for a confirmation to delete the contact permanently, Sherlock would smirk and say, almost an audible 'Yes, I don't need him', except two times:

[Lestrade - Delete permanently?]

'Yes, I don't want to have him.'

[Armand Smith - Delete permanently?]

'I uh... yes.'

Right now he was feeling like that, he didn't need anyone. He knew he needed John though, he was certain, inside his logical mind, an illogical thought wondered freely 'A man can't live without his heart'. He tried to suppress it, but he knew he couldn't and he asked himself when did his mind started to have a life on its own. Maybe that's what they called to 'think with one’s heart.' Chemical defect presented in most of the humans; in the losing side because love usually always blocked reasoning and logic, making people just lose it.

And he needed Mycroft. Financially, conveniently and, even if he didn't want to admit it, emotionally. His last name being a big advantage for him, bringing so many upside downs to Mycroft's life as he cared about his little brother...

An almost sinister chuckle escaped his throat at the realization; he didn't pay attention on how mad he must sound now for the outsider. Of course, stupid... stupid!

Sherlock curled up on his chair. His eyes felt heavy, even when he had slept several nights on a row. He was aware about Mycroft's reasoning being the right one, but he couldn't understand why he had to be destroyed.

There was still something odd about Moriarty's reasoning as well, why did he want to destroy the only distraction he claimed he had? Was it because Sherlock had ruined several plans before? He closed his eyes and entered his mind palace to a new room he created there, it was a kind of spider web, a mental map joined by several threads, cases from years, new cases, the Hot Line case, the last one being the painting, that he had somehow managed to link. Moriarty was the common between all of those.

He had to admit it pained him. And it confused him even when everything in his mind was in order. On one hand he was relieved; his mind being in order was something he could trust for sure and then the events that would follow he knew exactly what to do. On the other hand, he knew Mycroft was right. He cared, deeply, about John. He knew it.

For some reason he remembered that time when Mrs. Hudson had been taken as hostage by those American blokes. He remembered the rage he felt and the fear of losing her. He recalled the moment and his heart started to hammer inside his chest, a bit frantic. He also remembered the gun held against her temple and also the relief of his mind, despite the rage and the fear, it was still in order and he had known exactly what to do that time.

The case in Dartmoor was an exception, but then again, it was the drug’s effect.

Sherlock tried to block out his mind for a bit, nearly dozing off. As soon as he did that the image of John was in his mind. He clenched his jaw at the inappropriate thoughts of the night before. His mind was in order, yes, but his body wasn't, apparently.

'Sherlock, you're not obliged to do anything, there are no rules between us.'

He sighed and answered out loud, habit he had for years now. His brassy, throaty voice echoed in the flat.

"Thank you, John."

'...you're terrified about getting bored, Sherlock. I am not.'

"You should be, I'm not safe and you know it..."

'I'm not leaving you, ever, unless you tell me you don't want me around anymore.'

"I would never ask you that. I want you by my side, I'd be lost without my..." he sighed, "I'd be lost without you, John."

'Hell, Sherlock... I love you.'

"Oh God..." Sherlock inhaled sharply as he heard John's voice in his mind. Mixed feelings flowing inside his body. He shook his head and soon he was fully awake again.

He also was fully conscious about the way John felt and John's feelings. It wasn't the same; Sherlock didn't feel the need to be closer to the doctor at all times and, even if he had to admit that every time they were close the changes in his body were evident, he knew he wasn't the same person John was. John needed the closeness. John needed to be touched and touch all the same.

He made his decision then. He had to act, try to be normal towards and around John; his own definition of normal at least. He was worried, yes, he cared, yes, but John didn't have to know that. He took the decision to complete, or at least try to, his research about John and his own body urges and needs. It was all new and he couldn't deny how curious he was still about all that. He had to learn to separate those things and to try and ignore the big poster at the entry of his mind palace.

Maybe if he tried to separate a bit his work and his own needs he should be able to keep John safe from it.

With a sigh, Sherlock found himself going slowly to the doctor's room. There was no snoring and Sherlock smiled, finally putting his thoughts about Mycroft, Moriarty and the case aside. At least trying to, as his mind focused completely on the soft breathing inside John's room.

He opened the door and was rewarded with John's silhouette under the duvet, he was sleeping on his right facing the door.

Sherlock took off his shoes and his socks outside the room and walked bare feet to the bed and watched, observed. His head tilted as he did and his eyes softened, a wider smile made its way through his lips and soon his eyes crackled at the sides.

He lowered himself next to the bed and took the hand that was holding the duvet near to the doctor's face, moving it softly to his own face. He observed it, he smelled it, he rubbed his thumbs lovingly at the back of the palm, he brought it up to his lips and brushed the tip of his nose at the inner wrist, his lips followed, brushing lightly that spot all the way until he reached the middle part of his arm, rolling up the top of the pyjamas. He flattened his tongue there and then he tasted, he gulped and analysed the salty flavour, moving his tongue against his palate. Oddly enough, he liked the taste, in fact he loved it, he wondered if all of John’s skin tasted like that. His gaze moved around the complete figure of the doctor and remembered all the flavours he already knew; John's jaw tasted bitter, aftershave, but there was a bit salty flavour there, earthy flavour. John's lips were bitter sweet. His chest had a sour flavour from soap and perspiration. He wondered if John had always the same taste at those places as well.

His thoughts were interrupted as John moved lazily, still fast asleep, and laid on his back. Sherlock's brows went up; he was delighted to know that John had gotten so used to his presence that he didn't wake up, not even when he was touching his arm like this. He had noticed so a few months ago, when they fell asleep on the sofa. He had moved his arm around John's shoulder and John hadn't even shifted.

He also remembered that was the first time he had an erotic dream concerning John. He knew all along John knew about the dream and had tried to be oblivious about it. It was almost impossible John hadn't notice, he was getting better at observing after all.

And John had claimed it to be a nightmare. Sherlock smirked widely.

He touched the hand softly and then brushed his fingertips all the way till the elbow. He noticed that John's hand was heavy, so was his arm. He pulled the covers down until the waist. John was wearing a buttoned grey pyjama; his chest rose and fell in harmony with his soft breathing.

Buttons got opened one by one by Sherlock's fingers, using only one hand with secure but quick movements, not frantic, but not soft or slow either. His other hand still caressed John's. Once the pyjama top was completely open, Sherlock noticed a shiver; fair tiny hairs on John's chest and the lower part of his stomach rose up with goose bumps, the light coming in from outside the window allowed them to glow golden, Sherlock’s fingers brushed around them causing John to sigh and arch his back in a heavier shiver than before.

Leaning forward, he really considered waking John up, but there was something he wanted to try he had read in the psychology book; being in a slumber, responses are not filtered by the brain since the body just feels and acts accordingly to a stimulation, raw feelings. John was responsive even in his sleep, he noticed by the shivers. He wanted to make John feel; he wanted to observe John feeling him even more than before. He wanted to be the only responsible of John's feelings, not a response of a stimulus that he they had built together but this time built by Sherlock alone.

"John" he called on a normal voice and was pleased to know he had arrived into a moment of REM. That gave him around 5 minutes.

It was a selfish thought he knew, but he wanted to observe John feeling him badly.

Sherlock was leaning over John, supporting himself on the mattress, carefully not touching him, he leaned further and ghosted his nose by John's neck, breathing deeply the scent of aftershave, soap, shampoo and John's own fragrance. He stopped when his lips brushed against John's life vein. It was pumping vigorously, steady. He moved then his nose close to John's nose and lips and he smelled the air that went out from there, same with his cheek, he brushed his lips against them, both sides, inhaling and cataloguing every smell he could collect.

Then Sherlock moved lower, to John's neck and collarbones, he tried to reach his Adam apple but it was nearly impossible by the way his chin blocked the way to the rest of his neck, so he placed a finger below it and moved his face to the side, carefully. John obediently turned his head with a loud huff. At that time, Sherlock noticed that his own shirt was brushing John's naked torso and moved back so he could take it off.

Once the shirt was disregarded on the floor, Sherlock made a mental map of John's sensitive spots over his torso. In his mind, a lot of white lines moved everywhere and he started by the place he was left; his neck. He moved his lips softly over John's Adam's apple and then brushed down to John's nipples. He flicked his tongue over the right one and soon did the same with the left one. John tossed a bit but he didn't wake up. He moved then his lips to the side of John's ribs, he licked there and sucked a bit whilst his finger brushed the other side softly. He noticed how his own body responded to that and he was a bit astounded on how all of his actions on John's body seemed to concentrate on his own cock. He was hard now and he was barely touching John.

He sat back on the bed and tilted his head up to the ceiling. His body really was fully of hormones. His body screamed to wake up John, to touch him roughly and kiss him and touch his erection with his own and push his finger inside... no. He had to calm down. He ought to calm down.

He remembered a little conversation from some weeks ago, when John had tickled him on the couch.

"...mind stimulation is necessary for body reactions. Now, involuntary body reactions, like tickles, pain, itching... sexual arousal... they are all possible to be controlled by the mind. It's a very simple chemical reaction, like drugs."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

So here he was now, trapped by his own words. Yes, sexual arousal could be controlled. He took a deep breath and looked down at John again. He stood up and took off his trousers and freed his arousal from his pants as well.

Completely naked now he went back to the bed, pulled the covers completely from John's figure and sat. John was nearly hard has well, a bulge was evidently tenting his pyjama bottoms, muscles in his stomach were clenched and pupils moved rapidly behind closed eyelids.

Sherlock continued his exploration through John's body. He kissed his navel and smelled again, he was fascinated how, being the same body, the smell remained essentially the same but the intensity was different. His nose brushed the hairs below it and he inhaled hard as he moved his hands to the waistband. Sherlock's heart was crazy inside his chest and his breathing was heavy, even his hands were a bit shaky now, even when apparently he was still under control. He didn't want to lose control like last night now, when he could barely remember and control his own body, he wanted to be in charge.

He moved the fabric down, sliding it slowly and carefully, pants and trousers together. He had to remove himself from the bed to slide them completely from John's body.

Deliberately Sherlock stood next to the bed for several seconds taking in the naked form of John Watson, something he couldn't do before. He found himself incredibly aroused only by looking and taking in little details such as scars, there was a very visible scar below the knee. Sherlock could almost see the scene in his head of John falling over a sharp object; he got closer and by the irregularity of it he concluded it was a stone. Soon he was bending over, brushing his finger over the scar tissue and then his fingers were replaced by his lips. He kissed the spot and then smelled again. There the smell of soap was stronger than other spots.

He moved down, as soon as he did that John shivered, a light tremor that ran from his legs all the way to his torso, finishing at John tilting his head further back sinking in the pillow, it concluded with a heavy exhalation of air through John's mouth and Sherlock nearly thought John would wake up. He waited expectantly, not moving a muscle as John tilted his head a bit again.

He didn't wake up.

He turned to his side.

With the new position, Sherlock was able to look at John's back and the spot where a bullet had gone through John's body, down there was a lovely shape of hipbones finding each other and bellow that, John's well formed and firm buttocks. Sherlock, still standing next to the bed, placed his hand and started to touch as calculatingly as he could not to wake John but just enough to give him raw sensations in his sleep. He was fascinated when he saw goose bumps this time on John's back, arms and legs.

He started with the back and shoulder blades. With a feathery touch, Sherlock moved his hands down John's back all the way to the hips, pressing the bone softly. He considered spooning John for a moment, wanting to feel the pressure of the older man's body closer to him but the thought was disregarded immediately; this was about John, he wanted to gather John's data and pleasure him at the same time, raw sensations, not filtered, he reminded himself.

Sherlock knelt next to the sleepy figure and touched the thighs, he bent his head lower and kissed the back of them, again, it was all soap smell and, as he reached more intimate zones the smell became earthy and wild and Sherlock found himself burying his nose between both thighs and he kissed, bit and licked John's buttock.

John started to pant in his sleep and his erection, that had been quiet whilst Sherlock was just observing, started to gain life once again.

Moving forward, he couldn't maintain his weight and his back bent at such angle, so he lowered himself as he placed soft kisses from John's buttock to his navel. John moaned in his sleep when Sherlock swirled his tongue and licked all the way down to his cock.

He had to stop to catch his breath as he looked intently the shaft in front of him. John moved in his sleep, face lost in pleasure and his hips rocked against nothing, touching the tip of his erection to Sherlock's cheekbone as he did it. The sleepy man searched for more friction and his hips rocked steadily. Sherlock took a hold of the base of it and John stayed still for a few seconds before turning over his back again.

Sherlock observed John's erection almost touching his navel, the tip was glossy and he couldn't help but lick it, it was tentative at first, but then he moved his hand to tamp from the base, grabbing it. John moaned when he did that, tilting his head further back in the pillow, the sound went directly to Sherlock's erection but he had other things in mind. He licked softly and then tasted, moving his tongue along his palate again. The taste was incredibly raw and it made Sherlock feel something very strong at the bottom of his belly. What was that, but just a flavour? He parted his jaw and sucked at the tip, looking for more. It was sour and salty and held a bit of vinegar too.

As he was doing that he felt John's hand over his hair, pulling. He froze. He removed the tip from his lips and looked over at John. The doctor had his back arched, he was panting really hard and loudly and Sherlock noticed that he had been sucking the tip of John's cock with his eyes closed and all of the other senses had stopped functioning somehow. He stared at the figure below him, taking in John's sounds - God he loved to hear John's moans and those strangled sounds coming from his throat.

He crawled over John and reached for the drawer of his bedside table. He opened it and searched blindly. He found Mrs. Hudson's bottle of lotion and he almost laughed out loud, despite his aroused state. He let the bottle over the stand and straddled John over the bed at his torso height, his own arousal touching John's stomach. He bended over and inhaled, once again, the scent on John's neck. He couldn't help but kiss there, all the way to John's mouth until he kissed him fully. John slowly started to kiss him back, his movements were lazy and soft, the sliding of tongues was wet and hot, until Sherlock felt John's hands going up to tangle in his hair, and started to pull again, John made Sherlock head to tilt back and their mouths separated with a noise of Sherlock's gasp.

Sherlock stared down as John slowly opened his eyes, he was panting hard, his lips parted and his expression contorted in pleasure, the pleasure that Sherlock had brought alone.

Sherlock's stomach twisted as he stared down at that expression; there was lust, confusion and tenderness, all put together on John's face somehow. Sherlock pushed himself up on his palms, his curls damp against his forehead.

As they both panted hard, their chests moving up and down with each gulp of air, and their eyes locked on each other, Sherlock felt how John's hands pulled him back down, slowly, slowly until Sherlock couldn't take it anymore and they locked their mouths in a desperate kiss.

The room was filled now with heavy breathing and muffled moans, both of their sounds combined; perhaps the only way to tell the difference between them was the pitch; John's voice was fairly more high pitched than usual and Sherlock's, as usual, was a mixture.

John moved his fingers around Sherlock's hair, still pulling, grabbing, moving Sherlock's head to his own will, kissing every inch of the detective mouth and Sherlock let himself be guided by those rough hands, by the nails digging into the flesh at the back of his neck, loosing himself in the sensation of extreme anxiety and wanting. He felt John's legs sneaking around his waist and he also felt how his hips started to grind against him. John's whole body was moving against Sherlock's and soon Sherlock understood it was because he was moving over John as well, his whole body was sliding against John's as they kissed.

It was hard to stop now, but Sherlock had a very clear idea of what he – and John as well - wanted. So he reached for the little bottle of lotion, it was a oily against his fingers, he took John's hand, coating his fingers with his own and then he moved that hand to the back of his scrotum, his mouth still working with John's as he opened his eyes a bit to see John widening his own in surprise. John removed his tongue from Sherlock's mouth to swallow, but still, tentatively, his hand moved the way it had to; kissing Sherlock again, slowly, alert, he moved his middle finger around Sherlock's entrance, circling it and forcing the tip inside. Even if it was a light touch Sherlock moaned even louder inside his mouth, it was almost as if someone was performing CPR on him; it felt oddly intimate to touch Sherlock's arsehole as he breathed the air coming directly from his lungs. It nearly made him dizzy.

"Sherlock..." John managed to say in between the kiss, Sherlock separated them a bit, almost understanding what John wanted to ask.

"You wanted this, John..." he panted, "you said you wanted to shag me..."

"I did say that, but..." John's finger still moved around Sherlock's entrance as he spoke. It was truly difficult to try to speak under these circumstances. Specially after he heard Sherlock say that. The word felt alienated in Sherlock’s voice.

"Let's be blunt, then..." despite his heavy breathing and parted lips seeking for air, Sherlock managed a little smirk, his eyes fixed on the man’s beneath him.

"Ah?" John breathed out, he saw Sherlock's face coming closer, their noses touched.

Sherlock tried to recover as much air as he could, trying to make his voice to sound as normal as possible. "Do you want this, John? Do you want to penetrate me?"

John locked his stare with Sherlock at the voice and the tone it held. All about that question went right to his lower half. "Oh fuck... yes."

Sherlock lowered himself until his lips were next to John's ear. "And before you ask anything, John, I do want this." He whispered.

Sherlock's voice did things to him. It was a known fact, the breathy tone, the security that it held now was nothing compared to the two previous intimate nights. Now Sherlock was secure and, for the first time, John felt as if he could demand more from this man above him, he wasn't looking at the oddly young Sherlock now; he was looking to a secure, completely manly, grown up man.

"Tell me what you want." John felt Sherlock's lips twitch into a little smile against his cheek at this demand. John's voice was breathy and raspy, almost inaudible but still firm.

"I want you to move your fingers inside me," at this, Sherlock moved his own hand to take John's behind his balls and moved John’s fingers, making the middle finger to enter him slowly. John's air got trapped in his lungs when he saw Sherlock closing his eyes and his jaw falling open into a soft 'oh'.

"God- Sherl-"

"I want you to penetrate me, John" he said, his eyes still closed, Sherlock's face completely lost in pleasure, "I want to feel your cock ravishing me. I want you to come inside me-"

"If you continue talking, Sherlock, I'll forget to be gentle..." John said with his voice strangled, a little smirk playing on his lips. If someone had told him that Sherlock was ever going to talk dirty to him he would have laughed.

"I don't want you to be. I’m not a fine china you have to take care of." Sherlock smiled despite his aroused state and John did too as he heard that same phrase he had said before. His lips were attacked once more by Sherlock’s, the detective’s tongue invading John's mouth immediately with a renewed urgency. John moved his finger in and out Sherlock's entrance intensely. The doctor was able to see the frown on Sherlock's face when he accelerated his pace. Sherlock growled as John's other hand moved a little to tease his erection. He pressed then his nose against John's cheek, panting hard, listening to John's gasps in his ear.

John fingered Sherlock several seconds before moving another finger in. He growled as his index and middle were buried inside and he couldn’t help but stare the expression on Sherlock’s face; pure lust, pure wanting, Sherlock's hips were moving above him, searching for more pain, for more pleasure. John crocked his fingers up and Sherlock cried incredibly loud, his head tilted back and his grip on the sheets beneath him tightened, his jaw fell open and his eyes widened at the ceiling. John watched in pure awe as he mentally thanked his medical knowledge about prostate exam.

"John... God... I can't..." Sherlock spoke to the air now, his gasps were nearly indecent as John circled inside and carefully pushed a third finger. It wasn't easy. All of his focus was on Sherlock face and his expressions. Sherlock told him what he wanted, and John's insecurities about having sex with this man, with this incredible man, went flying out of the window.

With a swift move and a groan, John managed to roll them. He kissed Sherlock's neck as he moved his fingers as gently as he could. Sherlock was relaxed, he trusted John and John knew it. Soon the taller man was reaching for the little bottle of lotion, placing it in John's hand and John understood what Sherlock wanted now. Immediately and with unusual nervous movements, John coated his shaft with the lotion and placed the tip right outside Sherlock.

Sherlock lost track of time as he felt, without a word, John filling him. The doctor's movements were slow and considerate, Sherlock held John's stare as he entered him, a look that spoke of friendship, of trust, a genuine look. Sherlock's raw expression made the task seriously difficult for John until there was a moment in which Sherlock couldn't keep it. His eyes rolled back in his skull as he moaned loudly, almost dramatically; his jaw opening in a deep gasp once John was completely inside him.

"You okay?" John asked, panting heavily as he observed his friend. A nod and the expression of utter arousal on the other was as he needed to lose it. He lowered himself over Sherlock feeling the erection of the detective pressed between them. John rocked his hips slowly, not actually going inside and out, but only moving, adjusting Sherlock until both of their hips started to move at the unison.

Sherlock legs tangled around his waist and John kissed Sherlock at that, it was messy at first but soon Sherlock's hands moved to his face, cupping John's jaw and kissing him slowly and softly. Deep in the back of John's mind, what he thought it would be chaotic, passionate and desperate, surprisingly ended in a sensual love making, as they moved and kissed, John couldn't separate his eyes from Sherlock's expression.

"You're so... tight..." John whispered as he took a gulp of air now moving his cock out, Sherlock hissed as John pushed inside gently but firmly at the same time, encouraged by Sherlock's pressure against his hips. "God, Sherlock... Oh my God..."

When John thrusted again he had to bite his lower lip not to groan so he could just hear Sherlock. The sound coming from his lips was amazing on a whole new level, John had to clench his eyes not to come just from hearing that. He did it again and was rewarded with another sound, Sherlock's hand moved to John's buttocks, demanding speed and soon John noticed that Sherlock needed more pressure on his cock trapped between them, but he couldn’t do anything but press, utterly concentrated on just not to come, concentrated on hearing, observing.

"John..." Sherlock moaned, "God, John... John!" The slow pace they held slowly went to a crescendo, John couldn't take it as Sherlock pressed his buttocks further against him, he buried his face below Sherlock's jaw, the taller man felt his whole body burn but specially that part as John's stubble rubbed the juncture between neck and shoulder, hot breath was falling over his skin there.

"Sherl- Sherlock..." John repeated kissing that spot as good as he could. He didn't dare to take his shaft completely out of Sherlock to pull it further or harder. He maintained his rhythm until he felt Sherlock's hand leaving his arse and crawling between their bodies. He couldn't help but lift himself and watch as Sherlock started to touch himself, his stroking on his own cock matching John's pace.

They lost it completely at that point; John started to pump into Sherlock's body as the other masturbated imitating John's speed. John’s face was lost, his eyes were fixed in the figure below, their movements became erratic at some point, Sherlock arched his back, moaning louder now and it was all John needed to push him over the edge, he stilled above Sherlock, pushing deep inside, touching Sherlock's prostate as he came with the incredible image of Sherlock beneath him and the baritone moans. John thinned his lips, his body tensed as he rocked his hips still after his climax. He took Sherlock's hand on his member, still moving until Sherlock came as well; an strangled sound escaped his throat as he coated John's chest and his stomach with his release, his jaw was open, his eyes were wide open and his voice managed a strangled sound between a loud moan and a growl. Soon he was panting, his back fell over the mattress again, trying to catch his breath.

John's eyes clenched tightly as he pulled out. Sherlock sighed heavily, his cheeks ballooning a bit as he did.

"Hmm..." Sherlock groaned as John remained on his knees, trying to breathe normally, then untangling his legs from John's waist, they fell heavily on the mattress.

But John didn't move, he watched in awe in between their bodies, his own semen was falling slowly from Sherlock's arse and he swallowed, his face lost in thought and realisation.

"John?"

John lifted his gaze and his expression changed into one of pure adoration as he moved over Sherlock, his palms rested at each side of Sherlock's face over the mattress as the rest of their bodies were pressed together, they both felt the sticky substance spreading between their stomachs but none of them cared. Without breaking his stare, John kissed the other man, both of their eyes locked into each other as the lazy kiss deepened. Neither of them could move anything but their lips and tongues. Butterfly kisses were given and received, some of them deepened, some of them didn't. John lost the track of time as he kissed his friend, eyes still open, none of them dared to break the moment or to close their eyes. They played with their tongues, they took in the whole of their visual field occupied by the other's face. Their noses touched, their breaths mixed, Sherlock's hand lazily fell over John's waist, pressing them closer together, not bothered by the weight of his friend over him.

John wanted to ask so many things, the first one being "why?" but now... now he wouldn’t change this bliss for anything. He loved Sherlock, and after this, all of his doubts dissipated into nothing. Probably Sherlock would never say anything, probably he would never say his feelings out loud and John was fine with that for now. He had learned that more important than words were the facts, as Sherlock had demonstrated oh so many times.

This thing between them, this opening, this realisation, being just one more of that list.

Chapter 22: BONUS: The morning after

It was bliss, everything. Waking up with Sherlock curled next to him, all of his defences down, his face peaceful, as he had never seen him before. John couldn't help himself when he messed those curls, he couldn't help himself when he popped up on one elbow to take a proper look at Sherlock. He couldn't help that huge grin over his face, nor when he kissed a sleeping Sherlock's forehead. He recalled last night's events, he still had so many questions. Not doubts. Questions. 'Why?' being the first one.

He fell back on his bed and passed his arm around Sherlock's shoulder. The detective was sleeping on his side, facing John, one of his hands placed over the arm that John moved around him.

John lifted his other arm and his hand nearly fell over his own face. He closed his eyes below his palm and snorted, then he giggled. His shoulders moved accordingly. 'I made love to Sherlock Holmes... to this insufferable, mad...' he thought and his giggle ended in a loud sigh. 'You're in love' was the voice in his head, apparently it was little white-John, 'you fell in love with this man, it was about time you recognised it...', John snorted again at his own thoughts. 'No, you're actually in lust with this man' little red-John said, 'you want him, you know. You always have for God's sake, it was about time though...'

"Both." John said aloud, surprising himself with his raspy voice. He didn't intend to actually speak, so he looked worriedly at Sherlock.

After last night, the detective had given himself to John. He had offered something John never actually thought about so much. He had fantasised about it, yes, but still it wasn't something he thought it would happen so soon. But last night's Sherlock was something completely different than their two previous sexual encounters. This time, Sherlock wasn't the young man getting off with him. He was sure about his actions, he was in control of the whole situation and John had felt something completely knew; he had felt wanted, cherished, loved, observed. And he had felt Sherlock as an equal, the adrenaline in his body last night was something he had never felt before and that was already saying too much, considering.

He felt as if he could demand more from Sherlock, from the man, something he had never done before with his previous sexual partners, he wasn't afraid of his demands, he wasn't afraid of what he might do or of what might have been done to him. He trusted him. That feeling of equality was something he had always wanted. All of his previous sexual partners, all of them women, could never give him that and he was surprised how easy it was. Everything with Sherlock seemed easy, logical. Even the fact that he had sex with a man.

He turned his head to Sherlock, who inhaled sharply through his parted lips.

"John?" Sherlock shook his head as he woke up, a little snore escaping his lips and nose. John couldn't help but smile.

"Yeah." The answer was whispered. John saw Sherlock's eyes opening, blinking, adjusting to the faint morning light coming in through the curtains until they finally focused on John's face.

John couldn't help it again, he leaned to Sherlock, who just frowned a bit and waited for John; who observed his face for a couple of seconds. He was fascinated once more with those eyes, those lips, that skin, the faint morning stubble on his chin and jaw, those manly features, reminding him of his previous thoughts.

Soon they were kissing; Sherlock cupped John's jaw. The kiss was a slow, gently slide of tongues, John leaned over Sherlock, his hands supporting himself at the sides of the taller man's torso. Sherlock rolled them and soon the kiss grew urgent, John's room was silent except for their breathing.

John's emotions flowed out, he groaned in the kiss, took Sherlock's face in his hands and separated them, looking right into the pales eyes, they opened slowly, immediately fixing in his.

"I love you." John's statement was followed by Sherlock's expression; it was dead serious, a bit confused, even. He kissed John again, the doctor's hands roamed around Sherlock's back, buttocks, neck, everything he could reach. Sherlock positioned himself between John's legs, John opened them, welcoming the detective between them.

"God... what have you done to me..." John asked when he felt himself getting hard again between them, Sherlock was getting into the same state. They moved lazily, they kissed softly, Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder, his mouth was open as he panted and kissed John alternately.

It wasn't frenzy as the other times before; it was slow, sensual, Sherlock's soft moans filled the room as he moved over John, his erection moved down and it rocked a bit around John's entrance and the doctor lost it, he groaned around a kiss he was planting on Sherlock's neck and Sherlock pushed further. It was a bit clumsy but John let Sherlock to do whatever he wanted. Sherlock straightened his back and his length was pressed below John's scrotum, he took John's into his hand and began to pump him, slowly, John circled Sherlock's waist applying pressure on his own entrance with the base of Sherlock's length.

"Sherlock... Sherlock...!" John whispered, Sherlock was observing, panting from above, one of John's hands was grabbing the sheets beneath them and his other hand was stroking Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock felt when they both were close, he moved over John again, pressing their erections together and reached down, behind John's balls with his hand. John opened wide eyes and shivered in anticipation. Sherlock moved his finger on his entrance, circling, he pushed the tip of his finger inside, much like that one time. John groaned loudly as he felt the dry intrusion but he encouraged pressing Sherlock's body closer to his own with his legs. Fuck, he wanted it, he wanted it badly and Sherlock knew it.

Slowly and gently Sherlock worked there with his finger, he teased John's cock with his own just enough to distract him. When John opened his eyes, he saw Sherlock panting silently, his eyes fixed on his face, concentration clearly expressed on his features. John reached for Sherlock's face and kissed him. He groaned loudly in Sherlock's mouth when he felt the finger enter him until the first knuckle, Sherlock was so gentle in his ministration that he didn't even notice when the detective had his middle finger completely inside him until he reached the prostate. Sherlock separated them so he could observe John's face; it was lost, his eyes rolled back and his teeth were clenched, he couldn't tell if it was pain, pleasure. Perhaps both.

With renewed energy, Sherlock kissed John fervently, his tongue immediately entering the wet tunnel of John's mouth, he was rewarded with a heated kiss as he moved almost frantically over John, this time, trapping their erections between them with enough pressure to make them both come. He massaged the bulge of John's prostate until he felt the muscles there contracting, John pressing his buttocks as close to him as possible and a loud cry echoed inside Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock was close too, he didn't take his finger out, but instead he moved it in and out for a while. It was a whole new sensation for Sherlock as well, his mind stimulation to such level that he could not associate which was his pleasure and which was John's. He supported his face on John's shoulder, his mouth open again, heavy gasps leaving his lips each time he rocked over John.

John, still dazed of his orgasm, kissed Sherlock's jaw, neck, ears and his hands moved to Sherlock's hips, making him increase his pressure and speed. He was sore, the spot between his thighs and buttocks hurt like hell but he didn't care. Of course he felt that after his orgasm, suddenly conscious that he was extremely sore all over, including down there where Sherlock continued moving his finger in and out.

"John... ooohhh! John..." Sherlock gasped out as he came, stilling over the doctor. He moved his finger out and collapsed over him, he felt John kissing his cheek, muttering how much he loved him, how fantastic he was.

After minutes and minutes of panting, Sherlock rolled over to his side.

"I can't move..." John said suddenly, a light snort from Sherlock indicated that he was probably in the same state. "You okay?"

"That was incredible..." Sherlock mumbled.

"Sherlock... we seriously need to stop." John said, Sherlock frowned a bit, but he noted a smile behind the words so he didn't say anything, "how can it be possible that, you and me, at our age, can't even kiss properly! We always end up..."

"You and I."

"Ah?"

"It's you and I, you said you and me."

"Oh... shut up."

They both giggled shortly. John rolled to his side, wincing a bit at the pain in his behind. He couldn't help but giggle again.

"What." Sherlock asked with a comical frown.

"You seriously are a pain in the behind now."

"Literally."

"Yeah."

They both snorted and the silent that followed was filled up with their eyes. They observed each other faces, their breathing were normal now. John's face changed its expression several times, Sherlock knew John wanted to ask but he waited. He was getting good at it, after all.

"Sherlock... why?" John asked after a couple of minutes.

"Why what?"

"Why? Last night, what did you do?"

"Oh." Sherlock frowned again, "I collected your data." He said with a shrug, as if it was the most natural and normal thing to do.

"You collected- what?"

"Your data, John. I also wanted to try about the psychology books I read... the REM state..."

"Raw sensations, no filtered by reasoning?"

"Exactly."

John giggled with a light head shake. "It was a bloody experiment."

"Started like one. I am very pleased to know I can sexually arouse you by myself."

"Oh God..."

"No, it's not what you think, actually. I want to know you. I wanted to..." Sherlock rolled to his side and supported himself on an elbow, his eyes fixed in John's, "I want to know all of you, John. I collected your smell, your taste, your sensations... I was actually very aroused when I was pleasing you, it was almost like self stimulation, it was..."

"Sherlock..."

"No, no, let me finish. It was almost as if I was touching myself when I was touching you... your taste, your fluids-"

"My... fluids?" John couldn't help a confused smile.

"Yes. Your seminal liquid, it tastes-"

"Hang on..." John closed his eyes and frowned, there was still a smile on his face though, "you sucked me?"

"What?"

"Sucked me, you know... oh God..." John fell back on the bed, his hand over his eyes, "I can't believe it..."

"Oh." Sherlock recalled that, "if you mean fellatio, yes, it was very close. I didn't deep-throated you though, I just sucked the tip... it was a very interesting flavour."

John shut his eyes closed again and bit his lower lip, he frowned. He didn't know how to take the news. Just the image of Sherlock's mouth circling his cock was enough to wake up his libido again, he tried to avoid the thought. "What else?"

"Hm?"

"What else did you do?"

"I just tasted you, bit you, kissed you. Now, places? Almost everywhere, to be honest."

"Oh ff- next time you should wake me up, you know."

"It was a stone, wasn't it?"

"What?"

"That scar below your knee... it was a stone. A rock."

"Ah, that one... yeah, I was running with a bloke over my shoulders and a bomb exploded. I fell over that rock, it wasn't even that big but with the weight I got that scar."

"Hm..."

"Sherlock..."

"Hm?"

"Seriously... next time, wake me up, yeah?"

"You weren't exactly complaining last night."

"Oh, shut it."

Chapter 23: Unravelling Sherlock

'Sherlock... you actually waited for John to fall asleep?'

'I don't have much of an option, Mycroft'

'Diogenes. Coffee?'

'Yes.'

"Now now, excellent." James Moriarty took off his headphones, he unplugged them from the computer and connected them to a little wireless device as he dialled a number. "Phillip, you know what to do, Johnny boy is sleeping, Sherlock is out, you know where is he heading to?"

"Diogenes, he's going to see Mycroft... now why?"

"You just follow my orders so we can promise your only son is going to live. It's not that difficult, is it?" There was silence at the other side of the line and James smiled widely, "I suppose you have my four play boys?"

"I do." There was sound of papers, "Dyachenko , Sulejma-"

"Good enough! I trust you, Phil, you are a great ally."

"You leave my son in peace."

"He isn't very clever after all... nobody sent him to check on your sister's doing! Now, talk to Sebastian, let him know what we agreed and you're out."

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Once I'm out you're going to kill me."

There was a low chuckle, "you know? I love government people... they are all so clever. I mean, we're going to kill you either way and once we do, if Armand is lovely enough maybe I can keep him. But no, not yet, I need you."

"You don't need anybody..."

"Aw... you lovely little bald thing, I do need you. I don't like getting my hands dirty and since you're used to it, we can have our little share, I get Sherlock, you get Mycroft. It's fair, don't you think?" There was a pause, none of them talked until James cut the silence again. "Do you have everything ready? Remember you have to convince Rufus to let Sherlock to look after his boys."

"I've got the scarf, the coat and a curly wig..."

"Good!" James chuckled a bit, "remember to lower your voice, it's got to sound..." he gestured with his hands, as if Phillip was watching, "insanely sexy."

"Then perhaps you should do it, you make everything sound insane enough..."

"Aw, come on, Phil, flirting doesn't suit you... No... Now, send them off. I have a little flirting to do myself. Miss Riley is not that bad after all. I am trusting you with this one."

There was pause on the phone and then Phillip Smith sighed. "Okay then; locate them, talk to Sebastian, the show begins then, Jim. I have the four flats ready for them in Baker Street..."

"Excellent! Don't forget to keep Sherlock alive, no matter the cost, but! At first contact Sebastian will put a bullet into their bodies. And you know he never fails."

"I'll... make sure to remind them."

"Good. Now I have a little DVD to record. Do you like fairy tales, Mr. Smith?"

Another pause. "I don't."

"Ah well, I can promise you're gonna looove this one. I am watching my prologue now, so if you excuse me..."

"Consider it done."

"Thank you! Don't forget to warn them: do not touch the surfaces. Dust is fluent, leave the dust intact."

James Moriarty hung up and placed his headphones back. Sherlock's voice echoed in them, low, dark, whispered, purred voice.

'I need to prepare a little something...'

'What?'

'Your alibi.' There was a thud sound, some panting and James lifted his brows in surprise, his jaw moving as he chewed on his gum. 'And stop following me!'

"Good!" he exclaimed nodding approvingly. A smile crossed James' features as he watched one of the once blank monitors in front now showing the inside of 221b, there was the door, an arm chair with the Union Jack cushion and a piece of a leather chair in front. "I like that leather chair..." he purred with a sigh. He knew his plan was running smoothly. A blonde woman grinned to the camera, waved and mouthed the word 'Hello'. James waved back comically, even if he knew nobody could see him. "Well hello there, Ludmila!"

He placed a camera in front of him and turned on the light of his desk. He eyed around Bart's IT department. It was dark except for that new light and the lights from the security monitors. He saw Molly Hooper coming out from the mortuary, ending her shift later than usual. He touched the screen with a faked pout.

"Molly, Molly... if you hadn't dump me we could be having so much fun right now..." he smiled. "You look so bored after all, so ordinary... oh well! I have a DVD to record..."

He took a book from his drawer, took off his headphones and paced to a spot behind his seat. A red curtain fell and he sat in front, turning on the camera with a remote control.

"Hello..." he said looking at the camera with a smile, "are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-A-Lot..."

He read the script, it wasn't much more than seven minutes. Once he was done he hurriedly went to take his headphones again.

'You never change.'

'I don't have to.'

'You will...'

'Low tar, again?'

'No this time, no.'

James wore a frown now. "What the hell are they talking about!" he screamed and punched the table in front of him. "No. This has to be a joke."

'So this must be an especial occasion.'

'It is.'

'So be it.'

"What! What, what, WHAT!" James took off his headphones again and threw them across the room. Soon he was chuckling and rubbing his temples. "Very clever Mr. Holmes... very clever indeed."

Reluctantly, he walked to take the headphones again, plugging them back to the little wireless modem device.

He heard a door closing at the distance and a thud of someone sitting on a chair. A sigh, Mycroft's sigh. He head a rustling in the microphone and then a mutter.

'What is this card... blank, no face, no address...'

There was a loud deafening noise and James had to take his headphones off in one swift, fluid movement. "Ouch! That wasn't nice!"

**..**

After Sherlock left his office Mycroft sat on his chair and sighed. He rubbed his temples, surprised at his brother's request of the mind-reader game. He took a hold of the card on his desk.

"What is this card..." he moved it around his fingers, "blank, no face, no address..." he took a little envelope's opener and ripped it. Inside he found circuits and a chip. It was a mobile phone's chip. He sighed at the realisation. They were being monitored, so that's what had Sherlock suspicious. He let out a chuckle, gulped the remaining of his cold coffee, opened a drawer and took a little golden bulge.

"Make it four, dear brother... make it four."

**..**

New Scotland Yard, 11 am.

Lestrade sat at his desk, Donovan was leaning against the door of the DI's office, Sherlock talked and gestured dramatically as he paced around and John was leaning against a wall, arms crossed over his chest. It was a typical scene at Lestrade's office after a case was solved.

"This is big, Sherlock." Lestrade's voice was tired, a little brassy, "are you sure the painting is in the facility?"

"Hidden at plain sight. I remembered everything last night."

John frowned but he didn't say a word. 'Last night?'

"It's impossible you can remember the painting if you were there only once..." Donovan's voice made John turn his head at her immediately, his hand became a fist between his chest and his arm, "unless you were there more than once..."

Sherlock was looking intently to Lestrade, who just stared back. He believed Sherlock of course, and he was aware they were there only once, but Donovan couldn't know Greg had been there with them at the time.

"Perhaps that's the way your little brain works." Sherlock turned to her and John couldn't help his lips twitching up a bit. "Since you can't even understand yours I can't ask you to understand mine, so please, save your useless inputs."

John had to turn to the opposite way to avoid a laugh. Donovan's eyes were huge, she looked over at Lestrade who remained silent.

"Look, Sherlock... if you say the painting is there, how could we miss that?" Lestrade didn't comment on Sherlock's face at his question, he quickly added, "and by we I mean the force. We've been monitoring the facility for weeks in case they come back."

"You told us the dimensions of the painting, I observed a bulge near the window we escaped from with similar dimensions. It's in a box, well preserved, same proportions. We all know the painting disappeared at least three weeks ago. It all fits, the dates," Sherlock gestured with his hands, "the boats, Phillip Smith's sister and her disappearance, everything! Why can't you people just think!"

Lestrade rubbed his temples, he had to play fool in front of Donovan. He took his phone and dialled a number. "Are you sure?" he asked to Sherlock as he waited to be attended. Sherlock just smirked with a light lift of his shoulders; a clear expression of 'please'.

John waited as Lestrade talked to someone in the facility, on the phone it could be heard how they searched room after room. Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table impatiently, then he started to pace, he observed as Lestrade waited with the phone over his ear, the DI could hear all the rustle and in the meanwhile he frowned at Sherlock. "Take a seat will you? You're making me nervous pacing around. This might take a while."

Sherlock lifted his brows. "No, I'm fine." He said stopping, his face completely deadpan. John did his best not to show any emotions on his face or to burst into laughter right there.

"John?" Lestrade asked.

"I was about to go for a coffee..." John answered, his face the clear resemblance of blank. "Sherlock?"

"Yes! Coffee sounds perfect." Sherlock cleared his throat and looked annoyingly at Lestrade, "this is tedious! How is it possible for you to take that long to find a bloody little painting?" he turned to John, clearly pissed, "I'll go with you." Sherlock's coat swirled behind him as he turned. "Text me." He added clearly to Lestrade as both men disappeared from sight. Donovan and the DI looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

"How could we miss the dates?" Donovan asked softly, gesturing with her hand. Lestrade just sighed and shrugged.

Once outside and out of ear range, John started to chuckle, soon he and Sherlock were laughing so hard that John had to support himself on a wall. "Oh God..." he gasped.

"That's exactly what you said last night."

Laughs again. "Seriously, you can't sit down?" John asked still with a smile, still convulsing with laughter. Sherlock just glared humorously at him.

"The cab ride was bad enough." He said snorting, his shoulders shaking, his face with a huge grin. John burst into a new tight fit of laughter.

A text came into Sherlock's phone and his grin changed into a wide smirk.

"Did they find it?" John asked, his laughter subsiding slowly.

"Yes!" Sherlock tossed John his phone with the text so he could read it, turning around, heading for Lestrade's office again. As soon as John caught it he frowned when he realised there were only two contacts; his and Mycroft's number. It was new, the last time he saw Sherlock's phone there were over hundred contacts. When he lifted his gaze Sherlock was already turning to Lestrade's office, he jogged to catch up.

"Where's the coffee?" Lestrade asked as he saw both men entering his office, hands empty.

"Who cares about coffee! Where was it?" Demanded Sherlock, his palms over Lestrade's desk.

Greg blinked slowly and sighed. "Under a window in a room at the second floor." He smirked and shook his head, obviously amused.

Sherlock's lips curved into a proud smirk again. "Excellent. Case is solved then." He turned to John, "coffee now?"

Donovan glared to them when they made their way out, Sherlock walked fast, John noticed how he was abnormally alert as they approached the Yard's main door.

"It's everything okay?" John asked as he walked rapidly, trying to match Sherlock's pace.

"Of course!" was the throaty answer, a bit high pitched. John had a comical look.

"You seem..."

"What." Sherlock turned and stopped, his face back to normal, John battled internally with himself. What could he say? Distracted? No, definitely not distracted. Alert? Sherlock was always alert. What?

"... a bit cockier than usual." He said tossing the phone back to Sherlock, who just caught it and saved it in his jacket's pocket.

"Oh." The detective straightened his neck up, almost defiant. "Am I."

"Don't do that. That's exactly what I meant. Yeah."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes briefly and just turned, he was about to hail a cab when a raspy voice called from the Yard's entry.

"Hey, Sherlock! John!" Lestrade trotted to them, Sherlock observed the troubled man, under the sunlight his eye bags were evident. John also turned.

"Another case?" Sherlock asked lifting his brows.

"No... look, Sherlock, this is a big one. I've been called by the director of the museum, they are going to give the news about the Turner's tomorrow. They want you guys there." Lestrade placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. He knew Sherlock was going to say no, hence his troubled face.

"We're not going." Sherlock answered immediately. "You can go, why the hell would they want us there?"

"Sherlock, please..."

"No, out of the table. I've never needed a public image and I certainly don't want to start now." Sherlock snorted then, "don't you remember the stupid hat's incident?"

The DI looked down to the floor, his head nearly hanging from his shoulders. "John, help me out here, would yah?"

"Why is it necessary for us to go?" John asked, he saw by the corner of his eyes Sherlock clenching his jaw, sighing soundlessly and swallowing impatiently.

"Look, they know the Yard called Sherlock Holmes, they need proofs we don't have. It's a tedious work to try to explain them how we knew the painting was there, it would mean that even the Yard could be involved since we were the only ones there and you know it's not quite true. And besides, the case about the facility can't be exposed to the Yard. Sherlock is the only proof we've got."

"Right." John frowned and pursed his lips pensively. He glanced over at Sherlock quickly and then back to Lestrade. "We'll be there, Greg." He said firmly and quickly as he noted Sherlock was about to say something else. On one hand he was sincerely satisfied that they knew Sherlock was the one solving the case this time; it's not as he was usually recognised publicly for his skills besides his own blog. It was always the Yard doing the work after a solved case, usually taking all the credit. A little bit for Sherlock wasn't bad once in a while.

"John." Sherlock frowned but John smiled up at him. It was an innocent smile, a secure smile, the doctor's eyebrows were up. It was a smile that would not take a 'no' for an answer.

"On one condition." John placed his hands on his hips, turning completely to Lestrade, still this smile plastered on his face. "First interesting case after this one is ours. No Donovan. No Anderson."

Greg opened his mouth; incredulity was obvious on his face. He couldn't help an open-mouth smile at John's unusual condition. Sherlock smirked proudly, his neck straightening once more as he observed the DI's reaction. Lestrade's eyes fought between the taller man, then to the shorter man. He finally gave in, groaning in frustration. "You know what? Fine!" he pointed with his index finger to the ground, "I want you both tomorrow, in a suit, eight a.m. at the museum, do I make myself clear."

"Of course, Greg." John said, his smile widening.

Lestrade stood there for several seconds, obviously thinking about something else as his eyes darted between Sherlock and John; they remained silent, their expressions unchangeable.

With a last sigh and a small "good, I'll see you tomorrow." Lestrade walked back to the Yard, Donovan was waiting at the front door. Both men outside could see how she asked something and Lestrade just waved a hand dismissively at her.

"I could kiss you right now." Sherlock said leaning over John's ear.

John didn't answer. He just chuckled along with Sherlock.

**..**

Lestrade fulfilled his promise, a couple of weeks after the museum there was the kidnapping of the banker, no Donovan and no Anderson. Somehow along that case they also solved the one about Ricoletti. There was certain help directly from Italy about the data of the underground mafia and their locations in London where they found the banker. Sherlock did acknowledge about it, and soon he and John had taken a hold that it was Armand Smith's doing things there to help them from afar. Not in vain all of the envelopes they received were signed by '0212020011901'. A code that only the three of them would know about.

And Sherlock was delighted how, being both cases involved, he and John got to solve them without Donovan and Anderson behind them. Of course after that, the Sergeant and the criminalist had retaliated with the deerstalker hat and they had even go that far to convince a few friends from the press to push Sherlock to put it on for a picture.

Needless to say, Greg Lestrade enjoyed that little game infinitely.

And about Sherlock, John had to admit he was infinitely amused on how Sherlock seemed to follow his every request now. Even Lestrade had been teasing them, Sherlock specially. 'Say thank you.' 'Thank you.' 'Put it on.' And Sherlock did. 'Stop pacing.' And he would stop.

And today, a day after all of that, they could finally sit in silence, at last a complete day of silence and quiet after those two last cases. John giggled when he saw Sherlock playing with the tie pin the banker's family gave him as a reward, a book in his other hand. The tie pin gave laps in the air as Sherlock continued his reading and John continued his scrutiny around newspapers. Sherlock had a satisfied expression as he read the book, but there was also something else, John couldn't decipher it.

"You okay?" the doctor questioned from the sofa after half an hour of imperturbable silence. He observed Sherlock, who just played with the item sitting on his usual chair.

"Of course."

John cleared his throat and kept his eyes on Sherlock's form. The new relationship they had developed was not shown during cases or in the flat for that matter, except for a few comments from Sherlock and a few teasing from John. The last kiss they shared was that morning in John's bedroom, but the teasing and comments were almost a constant flirting between them, constants stares, smiles and a few touches. Even Lestrade had rolled his eyes a few times at their tension's display, even if he was really used to it by now, only with no such intensity. Surprisingly enough, he didn't say a thing. He had been a witness of their relationship a few times, especially when Sherlock was drugged.

John was prepared for that kind of relationship, yes, from long ago, but he wanted to demand, he wanted to ask Sherlock about his feelings, he wanted to hear Sherlock say those three words he craved to hear from him. Maybe he knew it, but to actually hear them was a complete different story. Hell, he had told Sherlock that he loved him, he had opened his heart to him the same way Sherlock had opened his mind – and body – to him that night, the morning after that night as well. But Sherlock never opened his heart and that bothered him. A little. Yet he wanted to ask, badly, just a question, a lame question, he knew. 'Do you love me?'

John stood up and walked to the detective who just lifted his glance to look at him. John was smiling. His smile didn't fade when he leaned towards Sherlock's face. The detective didn't change his expression, his lips parted slowly, welcoming the kiss. It was a soft kiss, John let his tongue dart into Sherlock's mouth, the doctor felt a strong grip behind his neck as Sherlock deepened the kiss, tilting his head, closing his eyes, moving his tongue along John's. It was the first kiss after all of that, and John couldn't help the desire to wash over him, like a cold fire growing inside his chest. He felt Sherlock moving his hand to his waist, a silent question to which John answered placing his hand above Sherlock's, sliding it up until it was pressing against his racing heart, his other hand moved behind Sherlock's neck, it crawled under the collar of his shirt.

Mrs. Hudson's steps up the stairs were like a knife cutting the silence and the kiss, despite being slow and silent. Sherlock withdrew his hands quickly from John and John did the same.

It was new, this. To be almost caught in an intimate position. John and Sherlock shared a look, both of them breathing a bit heavily through their noses, both had a weird expression between seriousness and a smile, surprised at their action.

"Yoo hoo!" She called and stopped when she saw John standing awkwardly next to Sherlock who was still sitting on his chair, they moved their eyes away from each other's faces. "Sherlock, dear..." she said, her composure back to normal in seconds, John frowned, sure Mrs. Hudson knew already. It's not like the walls were soundproofs after all... at his own thoughts he took a hand to his temples, rubbing them. "There is a man with a dummy downstairs, he says-"

"Excellent." Sherlock jumped from his chair and practically ran to the front door. John and the landlady shared a look and then a soft chuckle.

"A dummy." John shook his head.

"I thought they were journalists again. What is he up to now?" Mrs. Hudson asked surprised, pointing a thumb over her shoulder in Sherlock's direction.

"I wish I knew." John answered with a shrug. He was grateful she didn't ask about anything. Hell, he was sure she heard something – perhaps everything. Or probably she was used to it, even he had heard Mrs. Turner's married ones a couple of times.

Sherlock returned with the dummy, sitting it carefully on a chair. Mrs. Hudson grinned to it. "I'm glad you're experimenting on a dummy now," she waved her hand to the fridge. John laughed.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed as he went to take a rope. As soon as she saw the knot Sherlock was making she waved exasperatedly and left.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked, he observed the well dressed dummy. "Most importantly, where did you get it from?"

"Oh, it's not important. I need to talk to him." Sherlock finished the knot, it was one of those knots people usually use to hang themselves. John was so used to weird things that he surprised himself when he didn't even asked about Sherlock's doings.

"Talk to it?"

"Yes. John? Meet Mr. Henry Fishguard." Sherlock said with a comical smile, his open hand pointing the dummy.

"Nice to meet you," John snorted, "I'll leave you both to talk, then." John walked to the bathroom in Sherlock's room, not even bothered to take a change of clothes. As he was about to enter the bathroom he saw Sherlock now sitting in front of his microscope. John just frowned. "New case?"

"Yes, Mr. Fishguard is going to tell me if he killed himself."

"Why didn't you tell me about it?"

"Why would I?"

"Oh. Right." John walked to the bathroom.

"John."

"Hm?"

"There is still a question pendant between us."

"Ah... yes." John cleared his throat. "Right."

Sherlock lifted his gaze, he knew John was still a bit upset about something, but he couldn't really tell what it was, "You're upset, care to explain? Is this about the press?"

"Confiiirmed bachelor John Watson." John said with a snort and an amused smile.

"Isn't that true?" Sherlock turned his torso a bit, placing his hand on the table.

"Sherlock..."

"Does it bother you?"

"In a way... a little. Yeah."

"What does?"

"Speculation. Lack of privacy, I don't like the press speculating about our-" he gestured with his hand in the air, between them, "-relationship, Sherlock... I think it's low and dangerous in this line of work at some point, okay? It's not important. Just... do what I said, stay out of the news, yes?" John motioned to the dummy and the microscope, his brows up in his forehead.

"Mm-hmm..." Sherlock was absorbed by the microscope in front again. John sighed and walked past Sherlock, to the bathroom.

The phone on the armrest of Sherlock's chair started to sound but Sherlock didn't pay attention to it. If John wanted him to be out of the news this should do. A forgotten case, from an old book, a few samples he had from a neck tissue of a man who had hanged himself would do to prove his theory.

After a while, he had the dummy hanging from the ceiling and he was back at the microscope. He knew the next case, and he also had an idea of what was going on with John. They needed to get used to this new relationship and, for that, John needed a bit of assurance. It wasn't just about the physical pleasure, about the chemistry between them, it was deeper. And John needed to know something Sherlock couldn't confess, not yet.

He loved John. He loved John with all his mind. John was his weakness and he could not conceive a life without him. That much was clear.

But that didn't mean it would do them any good if John just knew the deepness of the bond Sherlock had for him. Not for what was coming ahead. It was better if John just didn't know. Moriarty wanted him destroyed and if John knew it should do him no good at all. Sherlock had made up his mind. If he succeeded, things would be different. But you never know with Moriarty.

Sherlock knew that once Moriarty appeared it would be so he would fulfil his promise. That's why John's words 'he's back' had left him mortified. Just as mortified as John was when reading Moriarty's text. Sherlock quickly saw John's breathing, his reaction, but he knew it was because John was actually concerned about him. And he hated himself for that.

As they reached the Tower in which Moriarty had written "Get Sherlock", said detective was pensive inside the cab. He observed John's behaviour and again, he felt trapped. John was letting his guard down, his eyes darted to Sherlock and the detective could read John wanted to ask but he wasn't able to answer. A single conversation crossed his mind, a couple of days ago, in a crime scene regarding the kidnapped banker.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hissed as he felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket. John just frowned a bit.

'Well, his wife and kid love him, you can't blame them for that.'

'Still, she is being annoying, interrupting the Yard, texting us "Did you find him?"' Sherlock high pitched his voice at that phrase, waving his hands dramatically, 'every hour won't make us to find her husband quicker...'

'Yeah, but you can't blame her. Every relationship based in... Sherlock, how would you feel if I was the one kidnapped.'

John could see the look of uneasiness in Sherlock's eyes, it was there, for only a second accompanied with a fast jaw clenching. Sherlock was sure that little detail didn't escape John attentive stare and he snapped quickly. 'Talking about hypothetical cases won't help us solve this one.'

But Sherlock knew what John meant, he knew it clearly, he could see it written all over John's face, posture, his eyes, the way he looked at him impatiently, the way his eyes seemed like two magnets attracted to Sherlock each opportunity they had. Sherlock knew, but even if it hurts, all he could do was to keep himself in track, his mind clear to deal with Moriarty's problem when the time comes.

And now, now it was the time.

**..**

Perhaps that has been the last opportunity they had, John thought as he sat at the lab, Sherlock had been playing with a little ball all the time, the bouncing had him a bit exasperated, his mind was spinning around the facts, the scream of the girl as soon as she saw Sherlock didn't leave him alone. He was haunted by it, he'd had a nightmare about it and Sherlock was so frigging impassive about the whole matter that John started to build rage and resentment towards Sherlock. It was inevitable and Sherlock knew it too. John seemed a bomb about to explode and that also had Sherlock a bit infuriated because, aside that time in the pool, this time Sherlock knew that John doubting him was a real possibility.

John supported his head on his arms folded over the lab's table. He closed his eyes, thinking about the conversation with Mycroft before. He felt useless, now he knew it was Mycroft's information leaking now but the facts were still floating around his head, not really connecting all of the points. Even though it was clear now, as Sherlock had stated as soon as he got to the lab, that they had to find the code Moriarty had left in their flat.

The doctor started to doze off, Sherlock continued to play with that bloody little sphere.

Earlier this evening, John couldn't hold it that much and all of this started there, he recalled the events, he recalled Sherlock dropping the gun, surprised perhaps at his attempt at humour when saying sarcastically, after Sherlock told him to take his handcuffed hand, that people now will definitely talk as they ran escaping from the police. He recalled the security in Sherlock's eyes when they were at Miss Riley's house, waiting for her to appear to demand answers. He also recalled the fear, the terror in Sherlock's eyes when Moriarty said he was just an actor called Richard Brook hired by Sherlock to play the role of his arch enemy.

And most importantly, he recalled the desperation as he ran to talk to Mycroft, he recalled his own voice, his racing heart, far too evident in front of Sherlock's brother as he scolded him, his hands clenching rapidly as he fought the need to just take the shit out of the man right there, his composure almost completely gone as he talked to the man who claimed to have a minor job in the British government.

John was hurt, his heart was contracted, there was a burning in his chest and he woke up with a start, checking his watch; it was four in the morning and Sherlock continued there, impassive as always, his neck stretched in a pensive state but at the same time, John saw a bit of fear, insecurity, but surprisingly there was also a haughty touch in his posture, the little ball moved in his hand, his legs carefully placed over the table in front.

Sherlock turned to look at John and he managed a weak smile, remembering immediately Molly's words. 'You look sad when you think he can't see you.' Molly was right, it was a bit hard to change his expression as John scrutinized him, still a bit asleep. He didn't say a word.

"You okay?" John asked rubbing his eyes, huffing tiredly.

"You should go home." Was the immediate answer. "Your back is going to be a torture later."

"You think I care?"

Sherlock's expression was neutral, his closed lips moved upwards lightly, it was a silent 'thank you.'

"Sherlock..."

"You want to hear me say it, don't you?"

"What?"

"What I'm... feeling, you want me to tell you."

"No... no, Sherlock. I can't ask-"

"You've got questions. Doubts."

John stayed quiet for longs minutes, just staring into Sherlock's eyes, returning Sherlock's hard gaze.

"Perhaps questions. No doubts."

Sherlock swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. John was not leaving him alone and suddenly the feelings of the doctor, the security of those eyes was overwhelming, just as he had experienced earlier this evening. A moment he was desperate, the mere thought of John doubting him had made him lose control, to shout, to hit the desk with one, desperate yell 'Can't you see what's going on!?'. And John had him again at a loss of words after his secure words. 'No, I know you for real.' 'One hundred percent?' 'No one could pretend to be such a dick whole the time.'

John found himself looking at the floor for a long time, pursing his lips to a side. Words that failed to cross the passage of his mouth, forming a knot in his throat. He lifted his eyes to look at Sherlock, his eyes felt heavy and his neck was hurting, his back was a hell and a whole different problem, but he didn't care.

"Sherlock." John cleared his throat, "if I... asked you to do something, would you?"

Sherlock felt his heart race in his chest, the tone, the intimate tone John was using held so much that Sherlock felt himself overwhelmed again. He didn't say a thing, he just waited, his lips parted to talk, but the only thing he could do was to wet his lower lip. John noticed that Sherlock was breathing through his mouth and that his face let his harsh facade fall for a second.

"Kiss me." John demanded, the words finally finding their way out of his lips. Even if the tone implied almost an 'I dare you' behind.

Sherlock smiled, it was a tiny smile but John saw it clearly. He also saw Sherlock standing up, slowly moving his feet from the table to the floor, he walked to John, two, three steps until he was standing next to him. John didn't let his eyes move away from Sherlock's face for a while and then he deliberately moved his gaze along Sherlock's body, his eyes stopped at Sherlock's hand, now moving to cup John's face and sliding behind his neck.

John was quiet, he didn't move, he suppressed his desire to grab Sherlock's jacket and pull him closer. He just stayed quietly, watching Sherlock bending over, moving his face to his own. He held his breath as Sherlock's face got closer, so close that it made the whole lab disappear from John's sight. It felt almost like a first kiss. Sherlock's lips lingered above his for a couple of seconds; John could feel, taste Sherlock's hot breath fall over his lips and surely Sherlock could feel his too. Their eyes met and this time, Sherlock closed his eyes first, he moved his face up and down slowly, parting John's lips with his own.

John's breath got trapped in his lungs as Sherlock parted a bit more his lips above his own, closing them again, repeating the process until he darted his tongue out, barely touching John's lips. John answered the kiss properly, slowly, languidly, moving his tongue to touch Sherlock's tongue, Sherlock's lips, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

Neither of them knew how many minutes it lasted, neither of them noticed when John moved his hands to cup Sherlock's face, and neither noticed the moment in which Sherlock let his little ball inside his jacket's pocket to hold John's face and neck with both of his hands.

Sherlock parted from the kiss and supported his forehead against the doctor's, both of them were panting lightly, the touch of their noses felt oddly intimate despite all the things they had already done. Sherlock met John's lips again, this time into a demanding kiss, eliciting a surprised groan from John's throat.

Moving his mouth to the side of John's neck, he stopped, this time supporting his forehead to John's shoulder. Sherlock whispered something that John's couldn't quite catch, but it sounded suspiciously like a 'forgive me.'

John frowned, opening his eyes, not knowing what Sherlock meant. Again, he didn't want to ask. And again, Sherlock's simple statement 'What I'm feeling. You want me to tell you.' And an answer he had built for hours, for days, perhaps 'I do want to know!' made his way into his mind and he hated himself to be so coward. Truth is, he didn't dare to say the need he had to know he owned Sherlock's heart, he didn't dare to ask. He felt it like a selfish sentiment.

Sherlock took a deep breath, his nose brushing John's jaw as he caressed John's neck, slowly withdrawing from the doctor. John's hands fell to his lap, feeling suddenly empty and cold. The rage he had built made its way into John's mind again. It was disappointment perhaps as he saw Sherlock return to his composure in a matter of seconds; the detective stretched, rearranged his shirt's collar and sat again, lifting his feet and supporting them on the table.

John smirked and nodded silently, eyes fixed in the detective who looked for a couple of seconds like a little, lost child. The expression in Sherlock's eyes – not the rest of his face – was pretty similar to the one he had that time in the pool. John's stomach had a knot inside as he remembered and looked around the lab trying to distract himself. When his gaze landed on Sherlock's face again the detective was completely composed, his face and eyes back to the normal emptiness that it had held before and John, the good doctor, felt this inexplicable rage inside him again.

With a groan he supported his head between his folded arms in the front and in a matter of minutes he started to doze off again.

Sherlock was observing, as always; he could see all of the changes on his friend's face as the rest of the night passed. John's sleep was not relaxed before but after the kiss, John seemed a bit more settled for a couple of seconds. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what was going on, even if he had a little faint idea.

Of course, sentiments were not his area at all, even if he knew the basic chemistry of them. He was aware but was he supposed to change because of them? John knew he needed to think, he had told that earlier and John respected that.

He took his phone and texted Jack, a bartender that owed him many, many favours. He was glad he still remembered his phone number. For a moment there he almost wished he hadn't erased all of his phone's contacts.

'I need a favour. - SH' Sent at 4:47

'Another one.' Sent at 4:47

The answer took its time to arrive and in the meanwhile, Sherlock took his little rubber ball from his pocket and started to silently play with it again.

'Fake ambulance ready to take you. We'll be waiting the signal. What do you need?' Received at 4:55

'Who's checking on Moriarty? He'll be arriving to Bart's any moment now. Change the signal.' Sent at 4:57

'My son is down the street with Louis' gang. New signal?' 4:59

'I need to take John away from here, so when you see Moriarty arriving, call John as soon the spider's out of sight. Tell him exactly these words: "Martha Hudson has been shot. We found this number in her phone." You will be from ER, need to lure him back to 221B.' Sent 5:04

'Ok. John's number?' Received at 5:05

'Attached. Is Louis with you?' [Attached contact: John Watson] Sent at 5:06

'Yes. He knows his part of the plan.' Received at 5:07

'What about Angelo?' Sent at 5:08

'Driver of the ambulance. John knows us. The three of us can't be seen, so I'm asking the rest. 11 people so far. Plus us 3.' Received at 5:10

'Not in vain you used to be a bank assailant.' Sent at 5:10

'Is that a compliment?' Received at 5:12

'Now? Yes, it is.' Sent at 5:12

'Is this really necessary? What if the plan goes wrong?' Received at 5:15

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked over at John; the doctor was sleeping into a position Sherlock knew it was going to be hell for his back and neck later.

'If the plan goes wrong, you need to tell John everything. Don't imply Molly if you do.' Sent at 5:18

'It can't go wrong!' Received at 5:19

'I assume everything's ready, then.' Sent at 5:20

'Yes. Trash truck ready. Ambulance ready. My son's gonna be the one who knocks John for whatever is going to happen. Perhaps a bicycle or a scooter.' Received at 5:23

'Excellent. I'll leave you to it, then. You're the head of this, Jack. Nothing can fail.' Sent at 5:24

'I believe in you, Sherlock. We all do.' Received at 5:25

Sherlock smiled at this text, a bitter, sad, but satisfied smile somehow. His face contorted for a minute as a child who is about to cry. He swallowed then and his frown returned to his face immediately.

'Delete this conversation.' Sent at 5:25

'Roger.' Received at 5:26

Sherlock deleted the conversation as well and saved the phone in his jacket. He took a deep breath; his mind was working again like a rocket about to explode and, perhaps for the first time, his mind showed him a world with no John Watson around.

Moriarty had been clear that time in 221b, he owed Sherlock a fall. He wanted him destroyed and it was clear that the press found the news they wanted through Miss Riley's reports and this Richard Brook's story. Sherlock snorted at the ironic name and again, in his mind, he couldn't explain how nobody noticed the Richard Brook's name irony. Reichen Bach. German.

Like the fairy tales.

As he looked at John sleeping he felt alone. It was better this way, he knew. Alone would be protecting him from now on. There were endless possibilities from now on, once he encountered James Moriarty. And sadly, alone is what would protect John Watson as well.

It was too soon when John received a call about Mrs. Hudson being shot. Sherlock felt how all of John's rage somehow surfaced at that very moment, calling him a 'machine'. He saw John leave, in his mind he was screaming. He remembered one time, at Dartmoor, when John walked away and that time he had been able to grab his arm, to turn him around and tell him everything, that time he had told John he had felt doubt, he had told John he was his only friend. Stopping him, running behind him.

And Sherlock now wanted to repeat that, he wanted to stand, grab John by his arm, turn him around, perhaps kiss him, with this new relationship they had. He wanted to tell him that he was right; that friends protect people and that was exactly was he was trying to do for his sake, for him, for them.

But he knew better that this time he was right as well, alone, solitude this time was going to protect them both, solitude was going to protect his life. John's life.

And he wanted John to live.

**..**

Sherlock never thought to be back into Bart's mortuary so soon and this time, not as a consultant detective but as a "corpse".

The stretcher was cold below him and the lights were off, the place was incredibly chilly and he found himself shivering. He didn't want to stand.

And in his head, John's image was glued as well as John's voice.

He recalled John's words as he made his way to Sherlock's body, he recalled the sensation of John's hand taking his pulse, even if his arm was almost completely numb thanks to the little rubber ball under his armpit.

His mind slowly entered his mind palace until he felt warm hands on his forehead.

"You've got a really nasty wound after all. Even if all of the blood was taken before." Molly said softly, moving his curls to a side, checking the minor injury he managed to get with the fake jump.

Sherlock opened his eyes and shivered again. He sat up slowly, feeling his body incredibly heavy.

"John?" he asked as he looked around. "Where is John?"

"Outside, so keep it down. He wants to see you, I can't convince him otherwise. The guards had to take him down... Sherlock, you've got to tell him."

"I can't. You know Moriarty is alive. There was no splash of blood, Molly, it's impossible a shot on the head would not leave a pattern behind."

"Yes, there is a whole rumour about it, we found the blood pool on the roof top but the body... He was not... The criminalists tested the DNA and-"

"And?"

"It... belongs to Richard Brook."

"Oh... Of course." Sherlock closed his eyes slowly, he wanted to shout, he wanted to drop something, break something at the realisation. His distressed face was something Molly had seen before. Sherlock had a firm grip on his own scarf, Molly even noticed how the back of his neck, now covered in fake blood, was red from the friction. "I need to see the body."

Molly swallowed and walked to a curtain, she opened it and there was the body of a man who had a real shot in the head. Sherlock moved the jaw and opened his eyes with his thumb.

"Alike, but not Moriarty." Sherlock held his breathe for a couple of seconds, exhaling slowly, still a firm grip on his scarf.

"Sherlock, you need to calm down. You've lost some blood besides half litre I took from you last night. Here-" She walked to a desk nearby and handed Sherlock a cup, it had a clear liquid inside.

"What is it?"

"Vitamins' supplement." At the face Sherlock made, Molly lifted one hand, silently stopping any protests Sherlock was about to do and, surprisingly even to herself, she was not nervous to just tell Sherlock what he had to do. "No. Drink this. You'll listen to me. You told me I counted and I am going to make it worth it."

Sherlock walked to her, took the cup, closed his eyes and drank it all in one gulp. Molly looked somewhat satisfied, despite the pain her eyes held. Once Sherlock was done, he placed the cup back into Molly's hand. He exhaled as one of John's shouts could be heard from outside the morgue, as he tried to get in. 'I need to see him! He is my friend!'

"Don't let John in. You have to convince him. He can't see me. He can't see my corpse."

"What do I tell him?"

"Up to you. I need to go, now. Moriarty is out there and he can't know I am alive. I need to leave. I need to hide."

"There is a back door. You'll have to..."

"I know exactly what to do. I know where to go."

"Louis is waiting outside."

"I know."

Sherlock turned to leave and Molly couldn't help her tears. She inhaled shakily as Sherlock took off scarf, coat, jacket, shirt and trousers. Underneath he had an uniform, similar to Molly's. Some movements later, all of his clothes were inside a big black bag. He left it on the floor and turned to Molly.

"What are you doing?"

"Hiding at plain sight, I have to leave without being suspicious, so I am going through the front door. Louis is driving the fake ambulance now and..." Sherlock stopped talking, swallowing a lump in his throat as he heard John talking outside. 'Why the fuck not!' Sherlock noticed how John tried to keep his voice calm and under control, but the desperation was obvious in it as well.

"Sherlock, you need to be treated."

"I will. You don't need to worry."

Sherlock took a wet cloth and wiped his face fast, he took a bandage that Molly and him had prepared the night before – just in case – and he wrapped it around his head to prevent blood and his hair to be seen. He put on a light blue cap then and a mask. Molly looked at him and frowned. Sherlock's expression was completely non-Sherlock. With such small elements, he was part of the hospital's staff. She couldn't help an amused smile and a headshake.

Sherlock walked to her and placed a firm hand on her shoulder, only his eyes could be seen and she saw Sherlock again in them. They held security and a petulant stare, but as they looked at her she saw that look subsiding and those eyes smiled, wrinkling at the sides.

"Thank you." Sherlock's words were accompanied by a light squeeze on her shoulder and she thinned her lips into a nervous smile, lifting her brows.

"Anything you need. I am still here. You can call me."

The little wrinkles at Sherlock's sides deepened and, with a quick movement, he took the big bag with clothes and placed it against his chest, opening the door with a big fuss. John was there, his eyes didn't turn to look at him but they fixed inside the place he had just vacated. Sherlock recognised one of the men from Louis' gang holding John, dressed up as a guard. As soon as he saw Sherlock pass next to them he let John go, who just stood at the door of Molly's mortuary asking for Sherlock's body.

Sherlock's chest compressed but he couldn't do anything. He just kept walking.

Alone would protect John this time. John's life.

And he was alright with that, as long as John was safe and sound and as long as he was there to make a better world for them. Without Moriarty, without a brilliant consulting criminal.

Sherlock entered the fake ambulance and Louis drove away to Angelo's place. Sherlock took off his mask and eyed around. Moriarty could be anywhere now.

"You need to tell John." Was the first phrase from Louis. He kept driving, he was also dressed like the staff from St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

"He's a strong man. I uh..." Sherlock looked through the window, "I believe in him."

"Are you okay?"

There was a pause. Sherlock sighed, his eyes fixed outside, his voice almost a whisper. "Nnno."

Louis sighed too, his eyes darted to Sherlock for a second, the detective's profile was hidden. He was reminded once again about that time in the alley. Despite everything, Sherlock was quiet, calmed to plain view, his facade impeccable, except for his throaty voice. "Where are you going now?"

"I know exactly where I have to go, Louis, but if I tell you, you'll be involved." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

"I see... I'll drop you at Angelo's and then, what else do I have to do?"

"Talk to Jack. He'll return everything back to normal, the plan is settled."

"Would I ever see you again?"

"Probably, when this is over."

"And that would be?"

Sherlock snorted, a bitter, sad smile crossed his lips for a second. His voice was throaty, "I wish I knew."

Once they were at Angelo's place Sherlock was careful as he got out from the vehicle. Angelo greeted him with a sad smile, he took all of Sherlock's clothes and washed them, washing the blood away. Sherlock took a shower and in that time, he recalled the events from earlier this morning.

At first on the roof top, he started to cry as usual; it was a fake cry, fake tears. It was easy actually, to make his voice tremble, to contort his face in pain, it was all incredibly easy, rehearsed.

But as he talked to John on the phone, he lost it. He lost it at the overwhelming feelings of the doctor and this time, he couldn't help it. A single phrase that almost made him change his plans, that almost made him tell John all about the fake suicide, about the fake fall.

'In fact tell anyone who would listen to you... that I created Moriarty, for my own purposes.'

'Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister. Right?'

'Nobody could be that clever.'

'You could.'

And at that moment, oddly enough, he laughed shortly when in fact that was the moment when the genuine tears appeared. He wanted to tell John that there was Louis, Jack, Angelo, and many homeless John had never met. He wanted to tell John the plan he had with Molly, that the blood he was about to witness was indeed his own – to pass through any kind of standard procedure about DNA – but taken previously by Molly from his arm, not rushing out of his head. He wanted to tell him to wait for him. That he'll be back shortly, hopefully.

Sherlock lifted his eyes, he was naked in Angelo's bathroom. He looked at himself on the fogy mirror; a bit of blood was still on his temple but it was so faint that he didn't pay any attention to it. He recalled the nightmare after the first time in his bed with John. He recalled the things he said to Moriarty on the roof top, the same things that were said in a dream invented by his own mind, by his own fears.

Then he recalled John's words, in a shower, right after that nightmare. So different from his own mind, John's fears were different than his own. He closed his eyes, recalling John's soft breathing against his back, recalling those words. The words that would give him strength, the words that made sure John's feeling were real, deep and solemn. The words that proved John's personality, and the deep bond connecting both of them even after all of the events from this fatidic day.

**..**

Days passed, the funeral passed and each time Sherlock observed John from afar his heart, the heart he thought he didn't have, hurt a bit more. He believed in John. He believed in what they had built together and he knew that the game in which Moriarty had made a check mate was a fake one. The white king had fallen, yes, but the same king was there again to restore the pieces back into the board to start a new game, white against black and this time he knew, he was certain, black pieces were going to be hunted down by an invisible white king and queen, by invisible bishops and rooks, a net he had managed to build. His own chess board.

And as a reward, a world safe from the black king. And as his personal reward: John Watson's life.

Sherlock returned to Angelo's home on his last day in London. He had been following John for the lasts days, looking for something, anything, that proved John believing in him even after all of the press' articles. He needed anything. Anything would do.

And today, he had followed John to his grave. John had gone with Mrs. Hudson and there was the moment, the moment in which he had heard John say things to his grave, things about believing in him. The last words from John's lips were strong, a strong belief between the two of them and Sherlock felt his strengths restored.

It was a little confirmation about John's suspicions, it was the anything Sherlock needed.

John asked for a miracle. A miracle that he, deep inside, just proved how much faith John had in him, he asked for the only thing he knew Sherlock could do. He didn't pray to God, even if John had done that before, he didn't do that, he asked for a favour, a personal favour, for him alone. From Sherlock to John.

He just asked Sherlock to stop this.

To stop his death. For his sake.

And it was all Sherlock needed. He watched the scene from afar, his face with his normal frown. If John wanted him to stop his death that was exactly what he was going to do.

He returned to Angelo's house and took his plane tickets, he opened the fridge and ingested an abnormal amount of calories. All he hadn't eaten for almost three days.

"What? What is it?" Angelo asked in his Italian accent as he observed Sherlock swallowing a huge piece of apple pie, he was almost as his usual flawless self, a wind whirl full of energy around the kitchen, sipping the last bit of coffee from his mug.

"The game, Angelo! The game has just begun!" Sherlock exclaimed taking Angelo by his arms and giving this loyal man one soundly kiss on each cheek and he was off, entering a black car that was waiting for him outside.

The car started and Angelo kept his stare outside until the vehicle disappeared.

"Dio sia con voi, amico mio." He muttered as he took his jacket and started to pace to his restaurant. The first thing he did was to take off the little sign praying "Closed for Mourning".

**..**

It had been the last day of therapy with Ella. Also the first, but as soon as he was in he decided it was also going to be the last one.

After the first complicated words had left his lips, he couldn't stop. He swallowed his tears and told Ella that he had been a fool, that Sherlock was right all along believing he was stupid, because he really, really was.

"And you know the worst part?" John asked, his voice breathy to such extent, that Ella thought that John would either collapse or have a panic attack any moment. She just shook his head at the question. "The worst part is that I was- I am a coward, I wanted- I still want to know, what he told me, and I didn't tell him that I really, really wanted to know. Why didn't I? Oh, because I'm stupid, a coward."

"John..."

"What!"

Ella remained silent after John's scream. She smiled sympathetically to him. Several minutes passed with John regaining his breathing back to normal. Surprisingly, there were no tears.

"Can I...?" John motioned to the bathroom behind her, his voice broken. She nodded slowly, her sympathetic smile widening. John entered the little bathroom and washed his face. He stood there some extra minutes, trying to regain his composure back. He looked at himself in the mirror, his attire completely black. John squared his shoulders and exhaled heavily through his nose, returning completely back to normal to the chair in front of Ella.

After some minutes passed, she started carefully. "You want to continue?"

"Yes." Was John's firm answer.

"The stuff that you wanted to say... but didn't say it."

"Yeah." His voice broke a little again.

"Say it now."

"No." It was only a question, of course he couldn't, nobody could answer that question. Perhaps not even Sherlock himself, now that he thought about it. What would have been Sherlock's answer? "Sorry, I can't."

After several minutes of silence, John stood up, decided. He extended his hand to Ella and the therapist understood that was perhaps the last time she was going to see him.

With a smile coming just out of morality, John walked outside and stretched his back, put his jacket back on and walked to 221B. Once there he didn't go upstairs. He waited outside for Mrs. Hudson. The last time he had been there had been that same day, the same day of "The Fall" as he called it in his head and after that day, he knew he couldn't come back.

Not yet, at least. He was angry, angry with Sherlock and angry with himself. The feeling was so strong that he would probably just go in there and punch and break all of Sherlock's possessions, screaming.

After the cemetery he took a cab to his old, cold flat. Harry called him again, Sarah called him again, even Jeanette called him once. He returned the call to his sister as he threw himself on the bed, kicking his shoes off. She insisted he should go to her place but no. Now he needed to be alone.

Oddly enough, alone was protecting him now. Alone allowed him to think.

"Silence is not the same without you, you know..." John said to the air, not turning the lights on.

He sighed, he knew Ella was right, there was a time when he should say it aloud, just one time, just once.

"Did you love me, Sherlock? Did you feel the same for me?"

He turned on the bed and allowed a tear to fall, it wasn't invisible as the others, it was a real, wet one. He noticed that after those words left his lips he indeed felt with a weight off from his shoulders. Images of the detective, of the moments they shared started to float free around his head, Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's touch, Sherlock's warmth.

For the first time, John Watson took a pillow and punched it against the bed, he strangled it and fought with it until he was panting, throwing it to the floor, picking it up again, he straddled it and strangled it again. Sherlock's grin was plastered over it and he finally hugged it, hiding his face in it, he allowed himself to scream and to cry aloud, his own sounds had him incredibly ashamed but he could care no less about it now. He buried his face in the pillow and fell on his bed again, flat on his stomach, pillow beneath him.

"One last time." He told himself as the rage was slowly subsiding, the feeling passing by self compassion, then to realisation, finally to resignation. He cried himself to sleep.

The next morning John Watson woke up and stood up immediately. He took a shower, dressed up with a white shirt for the first time in weeks and obliged himself to smile at the mirror. He tried several times until the grin wouldn't make a little kid to go away screaming and having nightmares and tilted up his chin. His expression on the mirror suddenly reminded him to Sherlock and it just deepened. Yes. He had spent way so much time with that madman and he certainly hoped that it was more than the mere grin that had rubbed off on him.

His right leg suddenly hurt but he was so convinced of what he had to do that he just stepped firmly his foot on the floor, kicking the pain away. A little scene made its way into his brain, the first day he had spent with Sherlock.

'So, what were we doing there?'

'Oh, just passing the time... and proving a point.'

'What point?'

'You.'

And that day, Sherlock proved one of many points of John Watson. His limp was indeed psychosomatic and he was not going to spoil what Sherlock had ever proved or fixed in him. The pain was there, present, bothering, but he stepped hard on the floor again. Keeping the pain away was a way to keep Sherlock with him, at some point, so he choose to ignore it. He looked at himself on the mirror again. He was a bit thinner and he smiled as the word 'transport' passed his mind.

Last night had been the only night he hadn't dreamt about the fall, but he dreamed of Sherlock anyway. He dreamed about the deductions and the things the detective's eyes observed. In the dream, Sherlock was drugged, laughing at him from above and Greg Lestrade was filming them. Sherlock had hugged him, screamed to Greg, and then he had whispered in his ear 'As always you see, but you do not observe.' And then Sherlock was on the roof again, throwing his phone and then there was a man knocking him off against the hard, cold floor. And then Sherlock was there again, twiddling an ashtray in front of him, a huge grin on the detective's face.

'You see, but you don't observe.'

He knew exactly what he had to do. His eyes were fixed on the mirror.

'You've never been the most luminous of people but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable.'

"Yes? I just hope it works for me as well, don't we?"

John cleared his throat and took a deep breath, he smirked to the mirror again. Yes. That rehearsed smile should do it, all right. He nodded to himself and walked outside, going to a nearby cafe. He recalled the last time he went to one, it was with Mycroft.

So now he had to observe. It was his plan. He had asked a favour to Sherlock in the cemetery and he had realised Sherlock had asked for one as well, that day on the roof. John was just now paying enough attention to it.

'Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, would you do this for me?'

'Do what?'

'This phone call it's uhm... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?'

John had to suppress a shiver as he remembered Sherlock's voice and words but there, in the cafe, with the sun light, it was a bit clearer. Sherlock was asking to keep his eyes fixed on him, to observe him, to observe that. Then he asked a favour, to take the phone call as a note. For his own sake, just the same way John had asked a favour in front of Sherlock's grave. 'For me.' That only meant Sherlock trusted him enough and had the same faith John had in him, right?

Right?

Scenes from the first case together, when Sherlock was nearly dancing when the woman in pink left a note on the floor. Yes! Sherlock was dancing because the note always meant something. Always.

A waitress gave him a funny look when he clapped a single time in realisation. His eyes were wide open and the "oh!" that had been heard around the place was his, surprisingly. He only realised because the three customers besides him in the cafe were looking at him with a frown. He nearly laughed out loud. It was the same way Sherlock was always looked at when doing something out of place in a public place... or in the Yard, oh hell, or in the flat. How many times didn't he, John Watson, looked at Sherlock like that? He couldn't help a grin.

He needed sugar. He asked for an apple pie along with his coffee.

John, being almost a fan of lists, thought carefully about his plans for today. First he needed to talk to Greg. He didn't know anything about him, he had only heard he was on a temporary leave as the cases in which Sherlock had been involved were being re opened and the evidence re investigated. He shrugged. It was the Yard's problem and it was going to be useful to clear Sherlock's name in the end. When all of them were proved right.

Second, talk to Mrs. Hudson. He was going to ask for the skull today, he needed someone to talk to, and since it was Sherlock's... friend, it could be his as well, right? He was also asking for Sherlock's laptop, even if he knew the password was going to be hell to decipher.

Oh, and the violin.

And perhaps the lasts psychology books Sherlock had been reading. It could lead to... something, anything.

And for now, anything was good for John.

Third, he was going to talk to Mycroft. Today or tomorrow. But it was third. He needed to know more and Mycroft was going to tell him, he was going to give him answers, he was going to be clear but before that, he needed to re read articles from Kitty Riley, from before and after Sherlock's death.

He couldn't go to Mycroft with his hands empty, now could he?

John opened his eyes, realising he was acting much like Sherlock now. His mind was in overdrive and again he wondered if Sherlock always felt this way, the data was flowing from his every pore and he needed something, anything.

He smiled to himself when he thought about nicotine patches. He looked at the little note pad and moved to pages from previous cases.

Perhaps that little notepad was his nicotine patch after all. His own paper-palace.

His thoughts wondered to Mycroft again, he thought about the woman, about Armand, about the cases he couldn't write in his blog.

Mycroft's words flowed into his mind, like sticky honey, and suddenly, he understood the first warning that was the stab in Sherlock's arm. According to Mycroft and calculating a bit, it was the time he had been a bit absent from their lives for almost a month before The Netherlands' case. It was the time, John concluded, in which Moriarty had been interrogated by Mycroft and he had sent the gang to warn him, to warn them, about the dangers to come if they continued.

He also understood that time when Mycroft "advised" him to leave Baker Street, to stay away from Sherlock.

Yes, Mycroft knew something else.

"Sorry, do you have any tape?" he asked the waitress that brought his apple pie. He ate it to such speed that when she came back with it the plate was almost empty.

"Thanks."

John joined several blank papers from his notepad together, creating one big, long piece of paper and he wrote in the side of it: "SH's Time Line"

He exited the cafe with a satisfied smirk, looking up to the sky, smiling at the sun, taking his phone from his pocket and sighed, it was the first time talking to the DI after all, they didn't talk at Sherlock's funeral either.

"Greg, are you up for a cuppa?" the voice that greeted him was a worried voice, raspy, dull. John could almost read in it that the DI was just waking up.

"John? God, are you o-"

"Save it, Greg. Meet me in one hour. 221B, Baker Street." John hung up, still this smirk on his face.

Yes. It was not the time to give up, it was just the time to resolve the mystery, to fulfil his friend's favour and for that, he just had to keep on unravelling Sherlock.

Notes:

Guys. This has been long months of writing. I can't even start to thank you all for the support, for the favourites, for the followings and specially for the reviews. You can't even imagine my huge grin every time I have one.

You've been terrific and I really appreciate you are reading this A/N. It means the story was good enough to keep on reading, I believe. So thank you, thank you for reading, thank you for putting up with this, thank you for your appreciations and criticisms.

I must add, we all know some scripts and some memories are not mine, those belong to the geniuses - BBC Sherlock's writers - and the genius behind, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Again, thank you, guys.

Yours, Kr-Nl