AN: Hello there! I've had this story in my head for a while, so after a lot of thought, I'm posting it here. I would love criticism, comments and ideas! Let me know if you liked it or hated it!

Also, in all the vagueness of the 4th season, I tried to write this as canon as possible.

I cannot thank my beta enough: Iriya (AO3), I'm just getting to know you, but let me tell you, you're amazing!

Chapter 1: How to turn John into a Massage Therapist

"Well, you're obviously the man for the role," Sherlock said with a tone of finality over his tea, voice shushed not to wake Rosie, his other hand holding a bunch of photographs.

"Yeah. Doesn't mean I'm gonna do it," John threw back over his morning paper, his voice also quiet.

"My face is already recognisable. You, on the other hand…"

"Okay, go ahead. Tell me how plainly ordinary I am; I wanted to hear that. How long has it been? Three years?" John said with an eye-roll.

"I was going to say that you're like a chameleon when you want to be… you can grow that moustache again. If you rather."

"Ah. No. That's settled. Never again."

Sherlock snorted. "I'd prefer my masseur clean-shaven, anyway."

"Still." John laughed shortly. "It's not going to happen."

"One week -"

"No."

"- or less if we solve it soon. Only four hours a day; they're looking for part-time but they pay handsomely. Testing candidates for the week. You are able to give a decent massage, I've been informed," John's eyes widened at this and he forcefully placed the paper on his lap. Sherlock made a placable gesture with his hand, almost dropping the photos.

"Why, hell, did she tell you that?"

"She mentioned it once." Sherlock cleared his throat and intoned Mary's voice and tone of speech, "Aaahhh it's good to have a doctor for a husband; my feet were killing me yesterday, yah know… he…" Sherlock pointed at John at this, "…gives excellent massages."

"Don't start..." John warned, placing the paper back to eye-level.

"Look, you have to be there tomorrow, three o'clock sharp, CV in hand…" Sherlock stared at one of the photos, "…Slaney wants a man in his mid-thirties, responsible, well-mannered..."

"I'm going to be forty-two in a couple of months," John muttered now behind the papers.

"You can still be there. You don't look… forty," John's eyes snapped up, looking at nothing in particular. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"If you were a woman I would've thought you were flirting," John added after a moment.

"Only if I was a woman?"

When Mary died two years ago and John had accepted the offer of his old room at Baker Street with Rosie now a toddler and the nursery (thanks to godfather Sherlock), these moments were more and more frequent between them. John always brushed them off as if they were nothing important. Maybe they weren't. Important. But sometimes, like now, Sherlock's voice would go low, his demeanour carefree, as if he never imagined that these small comments could pass as flirting in other people's eyes.

Take last week for example, when John had almost fallen from a broken chair in Elsie Patrick's garden and Sherlock had caught him in front of their client, almost bridal style, and Sherlock had said in almost a whisper, "I thought you were more flexible than that…"

"You know… you have to stop doing that," John said after a moment.

"Doing what?" Sherlock placed the cup on the desk and looked at the photos at the same time.

"That thing with your…" John took a deep breath and hid his face behind the paper again, clearing his throat, "…voice."

"It's my voice," Sherlock shrugged.

John forced the paper on his lap again, his face pure incredulity. He pointed his index finger at Sherlock, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "Never mind."

"A second option would involve going to the States and find Miss Patrick's earlier associations…" Sherlock added after a moment, eyes fixed on the photos.

"Elsie?" John placed the paper on the armrest of his chair for good. "I thought Miss Hilton didn't want to know about that…"

"She doesn't. Her girlfriend Elsie, on the other side... she had told her before about her supposedly obscure past, and she wants to honour her wed-"

"Hang on… girlfriend?"

"Hm? Yes! Elsie Patrick!" Sherlock ruffled the photos, handing John two of the bunch, "She and Miss Hilton have been in a relationship for five years, they're even thinking about marriage. Probably kids," one of the photos had Miss Hilton's arm around Elsie's waist, another with the two of them engaged in a passionate kiss; there was even a bit of tongue showing up, the photo obviously taken by a third party.

"All right," John blinked several times as he watched Sherlock, who was now staring at the photo of the kiss.

"Even if Miss Hilton doesn't want to know, it... doesn't mean we can't investigate about it… it's clearly linked to Slaney's Spa, anyway," John narrowed his eyes at this. Sherlock returned the stare as if looking for something on his friend's face. "Oh, you haven't figured it out."

John threw him a look. Sherlock pressed his lips in a triumphant lopsided smile.

"Look at Slaney's Spa's logo." Sherlock handed John another photo of the logo in question; a vector image that somehow fitted Elsie Patrick's profile; her hair and sculpted nose, and in a red circle (Sherlock's handy work), there was the drawing of a stick man holding a little triangular flag with the initials SS for Slaney's Spa.

"Well, it does look like Elsie…" John frowned at the photos, and after a moment's thought, his eyes sparked up. "Oh," he said, "she has a stick man necklace, too…" he added, eyeing the picture of the kiss.

"Had. Exactly," Sherlock smirked and got up from his chair, his camel dressing gown making a flourish as he gestured in the air. "She took the necklace off two months ago. She informed Miss Hilton that she had lost it, but that's the thing, don't you see?" Sherlock waved the photo of the kiss and pointed at the necklace. "She had said that it was a family relic but she never showed any sign of missing it. Hence, Miss Hilton came to us."

There was a soft whine from the baby monitor on the desk. John and Sherlock's head turned quickly to it, noticing that they had raised their voices in the excitement of the case.

"I get it… but how did you link the photos with the Spa?" John stood to go feed his daughter, but now his voice had that intonation, the one of incredulity, of amazement, the one that Sherlock missed, the tone that said without words 'you are amazing!' John's voice carried as he turned his neck to watch Sherlock walking through the kitchen, something he didn't do often, now.

"Google!" Sherlock shouted, closing the door of his room with his foot.

**..**

The next day, three o'clock in the afternoon, found John Watson, CV in hand, a couple of false references, false previous jobs as massage therapist (all courtesy of Sherlock's network), and false client's database (Gregory Lestrade, William Scott, Molly Hooper, Martha Hudson and four friends, William Wiggins), in Slaney's Spa manager's office, looking for a job.

**..**

"Well. Surprisingly, I got the job," John announced as soon as he entered the flat. His now-client, William Scott, was dressed in the camel-coloured dressing gown, one arm around Rosie against his hip, looking at a series of photos of stick man necklaces. John got closer to look at the pictures and added, "Miss Eldridge had one of those, too."

"Hm? Who?" Sherlock turned to look at John, and gave him a quick once-over, something that lately he found he did way too much. John didn't seem to mind or notice, but to Sherlock, it was obvious yet irresistible. Each time he turned and really found John entering the flat – one of his favourites sights – he couldn't help the smile, his eyes dancing from John's shoes, knees, strong thighs, torso, neck, lips, nose, eyes, and the lovely – lovely? – shade of silver-gold of his hair. He was using the cheap shampoo again, the one that smelled like almonds. Sherlock had to fight the urge of clearing his throat.

"Yeah, Miss Eldridge, the receptionist? Well, hello there, darling," he took Rosie from Sherlock with an already practised move. "Oh, and the owner, Abby Slaney is American. She tried to fake the accent the whole interview, but I could tell that it was somewhat forced."

"American… interesting," Sherlock moved to the kitchen to heat up some porridge for Rosie as she mumbled incoherent things in the background.

"I start tomorrow, they uh… they'll give me a small induction in the morning and we open at three."

"I'll be there at five." He didn't have to look at John to see his expression. He took Rosie's bowl from the microwave as John grabbed a spoon for her.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to give you a massage."

"Hm. Massages. Not really my thing," Sherlock turned back to the photos. He tried to picture John massaging him for a moment and noticed that he certainly didn't want one. John had never seen the scars that playing hide and seek had left on his back, others at the back of his thighs and a longish one at the side of his right buttock. Not counting the bullet scar below his chest.

But John had touched Sherlock, before the wedding, dancing, and it surprised Sherlock how natural it was to be touched by John. He had - certainly - dreamed actively about it, when he was away, but it was one thing to imagine and a completely different one to be touched in reality. He had dreamed about returning to John and had imagined several scenarios about John's reaction; he'd had the time for it sometimes. Other times, that was the only thing keeping him alive, breathing and awake. He'd imagined being punched, kissed, hugged or yelled at. He'd imagined weeks of indifference. He'd imagined John living in 221B, waiting for him with Mrs Hudson. He'd imagined John living in another flat, meeting Mrs Hudson a couple of times a week for a cuppa. He'd also imagined Mycroft keeping in touch with John a couple of times a month, having grown closer by the grieving. That particular little fantasy always made him smile. He had imagined John searching for him under every possible pebble in London.

Sherlock also imagined once a reality in which he came back with John being married and having a one-year-old kid.

The first time he'd imagined that, his captors poured ice-cold water over his head. He'd never truly believed in God, but in that state of mind, he'd believed it to be a sign; a voice in the shape of cold water telling him to stop thinking stupidly, that it couldn't be possible. The second time his mind palace showed him that reality, he'd seen himself in his coat like a shadow, getting closer to a lovely little house, a big garden, John in the middle of it smiling to a small blonde child and hugging a faceless woman from behind, laughter and laughter until it turned into the laughter of his current captors.

But his favourite fantasy was this one: he entered the flat, John would be there in his chair, having a cup of tea and reading a book. Mrs Hudson downstairs wouldn't have noticed him yet. He'd walk calmly, his heart at ease, he would make sure to look smug, confident. John would lift his head and look at him, then slowly, he'd leave the cup and the book on the floor and get on his bare feet. Bare feet, always bare feet in this fantasy. Perhaps that was his subconscious telling him how comfortable John was in their home. He would walk towards Sherlock with a smile and a frown (how did John's face do that, even in a fantasy?) and then he'd put one hand on Sherlock's shoulder (sometimes on his face, or his jaw) and say "Welcome home, I knew it was fake" (sometimes it was "Welcome home, I was waiting for you") and then Sherlock would answer with a smile and slowly, tentatively, he would get his face closer to John's shoulder (sometimes he lowered his forehead to John's, sometimes he breathed against John's neck) and ask cautiously "Did you miss me?" (Sometimes, according to his current mood or urgency to keep himself alive, it would change to "Please, tell me you missed me" or "Say you missed me" or sometimes a fact "You missed me") and John would whisper "God, yes" (same answer, always).

It was a simple yet recurrent fantasy of his during that time, yet now it rested in a carefully labelled drawer. Under seven locks (seven, why seven? Always seven).

John had also hugged Sherlock twice. The first time at the wedding, after he – according to Lestrade, in a private conversation later – had declared to love and protect John Watson to a whole audience. The second one was after all the ordeal was over, and Sherlock had asked John to "Move back with Rosie, the bedroom upstairs is only gathering dust," but it was that second hug which Sherlock had committed to memory, since he was able – after a couple of seconds – to hold John back. He had hugged John for what seemed a small eternity, feeling the muscles of his back move under his hands, John's hair tickling his nose, the forced breathing, the hand moving in slow motion from Sherlock's elbow to his scapular; John's hand a constant pressure the whole way. Sherlock's hands had done the same from John's shoulders to the small of his back (he had scolded himself for this after, not safe territory for male friends, but he couldn't help it and John didn't seem to mind.)

The Knee Grope (Sherlock couldn't name it any other way if he wanted), that small touch that had sent pinpricks high up his thigh, and had Sherlock thanking a God he didn't know existed for booze and its ability to put down unwanted casual cock reactions (but sometimes he scolded himself for unwanted brain-to-mouth reactions that had him saying "anytime").

The Holding (Sherlock's name) always brought only sad memories (his ribs have been hurting, his eye had still been blurry, his hands were still shaking), so he never really counted that, since it was him holding – comforting - John in a not so particularly platonic way.

So, Sherlock's final conclusion was this: of course he shouldn't want to be touched by John, least of all receive a massage. It was too dangerous for them. For him. How would he react to John's oily hands slowly tracing his back, counting his scars, discovering the one at his right buttock and trying to find where it ended, purely out of curiosity and – dare he think – friendly concern? How would John react if he knew that this particular scar would lead him to find two more at the back of his thighs? How would Sherlock react to John asking how he had gotten them all? What if John wanted to learn how he had survived? What could Sherlock say? "I survived because I thought of you waiting for me"? "I survived because Moriarty had to be stopped, or else he would've killed you"? "I survived because I kept on dreaming I would be welcomed back into your life - our life"? Or worse, what if John didn't ask?

"Of course, they're not," John said picking one of the photos off the wall; this one showed an old man, on the corner of the photo there was Sherlock's spidery writing Ridling Thorpe, jewellery store. "Is this…?"

"Hm?" Sherlock had zoned out for a while (he hoped John hadn't noticed this: sometimes he would go into his mind, not his mind palace. He would just stand there, apparently daydreaming, thinking). "Yes. The jeweller. He custom-made the necklaces used at the spa…" John lifted his eyebrows at the new information. "It's odd, isn't it? Why is it odd?"

"It's not really that odd, considering it really is a posh spa…"

"We're missing something, John. We need to find Miss Patrick's association with Abby Slaney and the case should be solved in a blink."