"I don't believe I've ever seen you consume so much at one sitting," Sherlock says, awe coloring his voice. "It's ghastly."

"Yes, well, I'm not finished yet, so shut up." John looks up with glee as the waiter approaches with a flat, white bowl. "Now we're in business."

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes as the waiter sets John's crème brulee in front of him, and waves to have his own plate cleared. John lifts his spoon, pausing before he starts the assault.

Should he crack the sugar shell one bit at a time, taking each shard of gloriously toasted goodness straight off the top? Or, should he breakk the entire shell into tiny pieces, swirling it into the vanilla silk cream to enjoy together? John considers for just a moment, then gleefully pops the shell with the back of his spoon and scoops up a spoonful of broiled sugar and vanilla custard. He slips it into his mouth and releases an almost pornographic moan.

"Oooohhhhhhh yes. That's glorious. Perfection, utter perfection." John happily tucks in, and doesn't stop until he's almost finished. As he's licking the last of the cream from his spoon, he notices Sherlock's dumbfounded expression. "What?"

Sherlock shakes himself and focuses. "Unbelieveable. Are you quite finished? I think you've managed to put yourself on Crispin's good side with that bottle of wine, so I expect we'll be welcomed back in the future. No need to empty the kitchen."

John takes one last, sarcastic lick of his spoon, lifts his glass in a mock toast, swirls the remaining wine and downs it in one go.

…

A full stomach, a warm flat, and The Bourne Identity on the television. John settles in his chair with a sigh of utter contentment. A month out from The Betrayal in Bath (as John calls it in his head), they've been on two separate cases for the Met and one private commission Sherlock almost turned into an international incident, but for the timely intervention of Mycroft and the Venezuelan Embassy. John's been happy to move on, lending a hand or a fist when required, quietly proud to be the one Sherlock calls when he needs someone reliable. The fact that he didn't welsh on buying John dinner doesn't hurt him in John's estimation, either, and as he settles more deeply in his chair, he has one lingering thought.

DI Harper can suck it.

Sherlock had gone straight to the microscope in the kitchen when they got home, puttering about with a stack of plates growing who knows what kind of bacteria. John's admiring the competent, practiced flick of Sherlock's fingers on the knobs of the microscope, Bourne forgotten, when he hears Sherlock's mobile chirp from where it rests in his coat pocket, hanging on the hook behind the sitting room door. John's feeling generous tonight, and Sherlock did pay, after all, so he decides he'll go fetch it so Sherlock doesn't lose track of whatever he's looking at so intently. Just as he pulls the mobile from his coat, Sherlock shoots up from his chair and dives for the phone where it rests in John's hand. John pulls it up to his chest on pure instinct.

"That's mine," Sherlock demands with outstretched hand.

"Well, obviously. I was just trying to be helpful." John starts to hand the mobile over when he catches sight of the screen.

Good to see you again. Thanks for the help. Drinks on me? – WH

John stops mid motion, feeling like all of his gears have been thrown into reverse. What the hell? He holds the phone right in front of Sherlock's face so he can read the message. "Did you have another case in Bath you conveniently failed to tell me about?"

Sherlock is frozen, hand outstretched, mouth slightly open. He swallows. "Would it help if I said it's not what it looks like?"

"No, it really wouldn't! How long has this been going on?" John starts to open the text history when Sherlock darts for the phone. John turns quickly, hunching over, trying to keep the phone away from Sherlock's ridiculously long arms. He's persistent, though, and keeps digging at John's hands, pulling, trying to force his fingers apart. "Dammit, stop that!"

"Then give me my mobile!"

"No!"

They grapple, John keeping Sherlock behind him, knowing he'll use his height and lanky frame to his advantage any way he can. He gets a hand wrapped around John's wrist, so John jerks his hand up, breaking the weak part of the hold between Sherlock's thumb and fingers. As he does so, he loses grip on the smooth plastic. Two pairs of eyes watch Sherlock's mobile fly across the room, seeming to tumble in slow motion, and land with almost perfect accuracy in a bowl of old cereal milk Sherlock had left on the table in the sitting room that morning. They stare, stock-still and open-mouthed, Sherlock still holding John's wrist.

John cracks first, the corner of his lip twitching upward, breaking into a full on smile. Sherlock matches John's grin with a frown. "Shut up! It's really not that funny."

John's smile just gets wider. Sherlock, incensed, crosses the room and fishes his mobile from the bowl with the tips of his fingers. The sight of the mobile dripping milk on the table undoes John completely, and he collapses on the couch, ungainly guffaws and snorts coming from his mouth where it's hidden behind his hand.

"God, Sherlock, what the hell are we doing?" John asks between chuckles.

Sherlock, watching John laugh, gives in and sighs. "I think we were arguing over your misplaced and completely unnecessary jealousy of DI Harper." John raises an eloquent eyebrow. "And my tendency to hide things from you. Sometimes. Rarely."

John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "About DI Harper. Not that it truly matters, but when you said 'it's not what it looks like' what did that mean, exactly?"

"It meant that I saw him at Scotland Yard when I went to pick up Lestrade's forensics report-"

"Lifted it, more like."

"-and he was there. Some kind of cross-bureau training. I helpfully pointed out that two of his officers had been skimming drugs from the evidence locker, a fact which I had only hinted to him about when I saw him in Bath, but which was likely exacerbated by his trip to London and leaving the locker in charge of one of the two. Really, John, what's this about? Harper's just one of many people I work with, you know that." Sherlock pauses, walks over to the table in front of the couch, right in front of John's knees, and sits down, scattering papers and magazines to the floor. "All right, Doctor," he says lowly. "This obviously has been gnawing at you for a while. And while I understand your desire to share in the work, these fits of temper are starting to annoy me. So, out with it."

John sits back against the cushions. He's starting to feel a bit trapped, to be honest. He'd reacted out of hurt and without thinking, and now he's stuck here, with the world's most observant and intelligent man staring him down. He's quick, but he's not that good an actor, so he throws away any ideas of trying to bluff his way out of this before they even form and goes straight for honesty.

"I like going with you. On cases," he says, and winces at how pathetic he sounds. "I thought I'd earned a certain level of trust with you, perhaps a bit more than the average person, but I think it's fairly clear that I'm simply a convenient dogsbody close to hand. To be utterly blunt, I thought we were friends." John says this last with small voice, hating how he feels like a 12 year old kid who lost his only friend. Sherlock simply breathes at him for a minute, those all-seeing eyes narrowing as he formulates a response.

He folds his hands under his chin. "John," he starts slowly, "You live in my flat. You have ready access to weapons, poisons, my food and my clothes. I sleep here, utterly vulnerable, almost every night. I ask you to come with me to watch my back, to give me an unvarnished opinion, to keep Donovan in line, and share your peerless medical knowledge. I know you won't shuffle, sneeze, cough, or whisper in a stakeout. I know you'll risk your life for others. I know you'll shoot to kill if you need to. How, in God's name, is that not trusting you? Do you think I'd allow these opportunities to just anyone?" His voice climbs, disbelief and frustration coloring his words. "Jesus, John, you've stitched me up at least six times and given me who knows how many injections. What else could you possibly want?"

John sits silent, watching Sherlock work out his irritation in over-large gestures and dramatic declarations, chest heaving and color high. But it's not enough.

"It's nice to know that you trust me. I need to know that you want me."

Sherlock stares at him, shock marking his features, and John realizes about a second too late exactly how that might have sounded. He opens his mouth to lodge a quick amendment No, not like that, that's not quite what I meant- when Sherlock lunges toward him, planting his hands on John's thighs and kissing his surprised mouth.

It's…nice. It's very nice, actually, and if John ever thought about this a minute past their first day, he squashed it into his subconscious pretty thoroughly. John mentally shrugs – stranger things have happened in Sherlock's company – throws uncertainty to the wind and opens his mouth slightly, snaking his tongue out to lick Sherlock's bottom lip. It's wet, and soft, and John could swear it tasted like wine. He pulls back, resting his forehead against Sherlock's, panting.

"You snuck some of my wine at dinner, didn't you." It's not really a question.

"Yes, when you went to the loo. It was too tempting." Sherlock seems a bit breathless himself, and his eyes are closed, dark lashes fanning out against his pale skin.

"God, you're maddening."

"I am. As are you. Are you done fussing about Will?"

"Now that you've brought him up again? No." John grabs fistfuls of Sherlock's shirt, dragging him from sitting on the table to straddling his thighs on the couch. The best sort of breath seems to be from Sherlock's lungs, so he kisses him again, hands still twisted in his shirt, Sherlock bent low with hands braced against the back of the couch. He nips along Sherlock's jaw, parts his collar and attacks that gloriously elegant neck, relishing the whimpers and subtle thrust of hips on his. If they're doing this, he wants Sherlock to remember it, remember him, so he latches on and sucks one thin collarbone until the flesh swells, purpling blood rising to the skin in a spectacular mark that'll show for days.

"Happy now?" Sherlock huffs out, a sheen of sweat causing his skin to glisten in the lamplight. He's hard, John can feel it against his stomach. Better than he expected and more than he'd hoped.

John grins wolfishly. "Not yet. I think there's something else I'd like to have." He unclasps Sherlock's belt and buttons, pushing against the fabric until his erection is in John's hands. Sherlock lets out a sound between a curse and a groan and rocks into John's warm palm. It's a bit dry and a little frantic, but God, he feels glorious, hot and hard and heavy in John's hand, and something Sherlock said earlier drops into place in his mind. He trusts me, John thinks wonderingly. In everything. Even in this. God, how stupid could I possibly be? He continues stroking, kissing, reveling in the feel of Sherlock's arms winding around his shoulders and the breathless whispers in his ear "God yes, like that, how I need you, it's incredible how much" and suddenly it's over, Sherlock dropping over the edge with a cry and collapsing against him, John shifting to rub his back and soak in as much bliss as he can handle.

…..

The next day finds them both back at the Yard, John insisting Sherlock return Lestrade's forensics report. He doesn't exactly trust Sherlock will do it, so he comes with, just to be sure. Just as they're heading into the building, the door opens and a tall young man with a mop of brown hair strides out, agilely taking the steps down to the pavement. He looks up, and stops when he sees who it is.

"Sherlock! Didn't expect to see you again!" Oh Lord, John groans internally. This must be bleeding Will. "Did you get my text? Happy to buy you a drink for that tip you gave me about Groening and Blevins. Oh, hello." Harper seems to have just noticed John standing next to Sherlock, who has gone utterly tense.

"Hi," is about all John can trust himself to say, and moves closer to Sherlock's side. The guy is a model, for god's sake, floppy hair and green eyes and broad shoulders and all.

Sherlock apparently decides now's as good a time as any to pretend social graces, so introductions are made. "Yes, Will, this is my…partner. And friend. Doctor John Watson."

Harper smiles cautiously, picking up on John's somewhat possessive body language. "Nice to meet you. Must be a real treat, following this one around. Brilliant, isn't he?"

John rolls his eyes. "Yeah, he's God's gift, all right. Until he gets stuck in a sewer with an axe murderer."

Sherlock twists round to face him. "That was once, and I knew you were following us, so it doesn't count!"

"If you say so." Harper is watching the exchange carefully, so John casually reaches up to pick a piece of lint from Sherlock's collar, snagging it open in the process. Harper gets an eyeful of the dark purple lovebite on Sherlock's collarbone, and understanding dawns in his eyes.

"Well, Sherlock, I really ought to be getting myself home. If there's anything I can ever help you with down my way, just give me a shout. Doctor Watson, it's been a pleasure." He reaches out to shake Johns hand with a wink, so John does, feeling smug. As he watches the back of DI Will Harper disappear into a cab, Sherlock slips up behind him and places his hands on John's shoulders.

"You've made your point. Are you satisfied now?"

John turns, pulls Sherlock to him in the middle of the pavement on the Yard's front stoop, and snogs him senseless. Sherlock pulls away, breathless and a bit puzzled.

"Just so Lestrade doesn't get any ideas."

Fin