This is a story that came about as my local satellite television broadcasted its first episode of Sherlock. I watched the premiere and three other reruns, much to my family's chagrin. They understood, but not quite.

This story may be read after my first story in this fandom, "Labels', though I feel that I can stand on its own. I am human, so the grammar mistakes are mine. My apologies. Once again, I hope I got the characters right; that is foremost in all the stories I write.

Reviews make my day, so feel free.

Sherlock is too brilliant to belong to me. I would settle for Mycroft's black brolly.

The flat was silent when John awoke with a start, triggering the cacophony of pain that shot through various limbs and body parts and made the whole ordeal of even lying down a hellish experience. He took a deep breath, calming himself down, telling himself that he was in his room, in his flat, safe. The pain felt two – folds, his recent injuries from the bomb Sherlock shot at and his old battle scars. His shoulder felt all right, but the pain following his various injuries from the bomb had been a trigger that unleashed memories from his days at the Afghanistan medical camp. Needless to say, John's recent injuries had unleashed nightmares John had long thought to be dormant. The pain was psychosomatic; it was two weeks since the bomb and his injuries were healing, but there was still pain. He had so far refused pain medications; he knew he could fight this off. It was just a matter of time before his pain went away.

Besides, his particular brand of drug is not an over – counter prescription. None of it, he knew, would be as effective as his personal drug…his flatmate.

The thought of Sherlock slowly drove the pain to the back of his mind and John could not help the smile that preceded the thought. Ever since John threw himself on Sherlock, saving him from the explosion, Sherlock had latched on to John in ways the doctor never thought would be possible. The staff at the hospital had been quite amazed at Sherlock's ability to find his way to John's ward, even when he had been given a strong dose of painkillers. After three such attempts by Sherlock, they finally moved the two of them to a private ward, but they could not stop the younger man from getting off his bed and sitting on a chair by John's bed. Since Sherlock's injuries were not so severe; scratches and a concussion, he had been allowed to leave the hospital after two days. Not that he did. Mycroft pulled some strings and Sherlock continued to stay with John in the private ward. On the third day, when John finally drifted back to consciousness, the first thing he saw was dark hair near the vicinity of his hand. Sherlock was asleep, one hand on John's knee and the other on his hand. And involuntary spasm brought on by pain caused John to twitch and the next thing he knew, John was staring into Sherlock's eyes; the searching blue eyes seemed both frightened and relieved at the same time.

The next few days in the hospital had been a harrowing experience for the entire staff of the ward. Sherlock had decided that he was the best nurse for John and made sure the rest of him knew of his displeasure over their 'lackadaisical treatment of a patient'. On the fifth day, one the nurses, who did not appreciate Sherlock hovering over her shoulder as she took John's vitals, remarked that she was happily married and would not steal Sherlock's boyfriend.

John had been horrified when he heard it, but Sherlock had been indifferent.

"Could you vouch for the rest of your staff?" Sherlock had asked, eyes narrowed.

The nurse had laughed. She gathered her things and looked at them both. "That," she said, as she left the room. "I cannot guarantee. The both of you are making me wish I was single again. Good luck to the both of you." She added the last statement with a wink and left them alone in the ward.

"What was that about?" John had asked once they were alone in the ward again.

"Too…grabby…" had been Sherlock's reply, as he picked up a newspaper. "I think I did you a favour." And no more was spoken of the matter.

And since John was trying to recover from his injuries, he decided to let the matter drop, though the thought of perhaps Sherlock was just a little too possessive, a little too jealous made all the difference in his recovery. Another couple of days in the hospital and doctors deemed that John could carry on his recovery at home. Actually, John had not been sure of his recovery rate, but he reckoned that they were getting rid of him so that they would be rid of Sherlock's incessant bugging and constant questioning of their opinions.

If the hospital stay was bad enough, staying at home was an absolute nightmare. The criminal class seemed, at that time, to have taken a leave of their usual nefarious activities, thus causing Sherlock to devote all his energies, which is quite a substantial amount, to say the least, towards making John comfortable. John had not minded the cups of tea by his bedside, or the wonderful rendition of 'Pachelbel's Canon' on the violin, but he did mind the hovering. By both Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, who seemed to have learnt the art of hovering from the lady who happens not to be their housekeeper. It was unnerving for John to suddenly wake up and see Sherlock watching him sleep, with a concentrated dedication that made John wish that someone would steal the Crown Jewels just so Sherlock would be occupied with something else other than keeping a vigil beside him.

"It's not your fault, you know," John had told him the previous evening, as Sherlock handed his medications to him.

"I know it's not," Sherlock had replied, as he watched John.

"Then why are you doing this?" John had asked. He wondered to himself if he would be able to accept Sherlock's reply to the question.

Sherlock had not answered him immediately, but gestured him to swallow his medication. John did what he was told, just so that Sherlock would have one less thing to fuss over him. He drank from the glass Sherlock handed him and then looked at the younger man, waiting for his answer.

"It is the only thing that I can do," Sherlock had finally replied, his eyes locked unto John's.

It was as if the medication had kicked in the moment John heard Sherlock say that. Everything seemed a little clearer, a little sharper and, maybe it was the medication, because everything had sort of blurry tinge to it; the whole thing felt surreal, almost as if he was in a movie or something like that. John had drifted to sleep with Sherlock seated, as per the usual since they return from the hospital, on an armchair beside his bed. The last thing he remembers was Sherlock smoothing out his blanket, his hand lingering on the bandage on John's arm. After that, sleep had claimed him and the next thing John knew. He was waking with the accompaniment of his usual orchestra of pain.

As he predicted the sharp pain ebbed away until it became a dull throb that was easy to forget. Fully awake now, John decided to get up from bed and start his morning toilet, when he realized something.

It was the first time in perhaps ten days John had woken up alone in his room. No Sherlock, no hovering and John managed to surprise himself by admitting that he actually missed all the fuss.

Must be going soft, John thought; amused and rueful at the same time. The last time he received any medical attention had been in a makeshift tent in the middle of hell on Earth, sand rubbing into his wound. This time, the circumstances were a bit different; with his favourite bathrobe and comfy slippers, Afghanistan seemed like a million miles away from where he was. And all these creature comforts were making John…complacent. But, he felt he earned it. He just walked away from a bomb blast.

And since he was in the matter of creature comforts, he wondered where Sherlock was. He got up from his bed, taking his time; he had six stitches on his right side (nothing serious, just a gash where debris had struck him). When he was finally comfortable in a sitting position at the edge of his bed, he looked around for any signs of the consultant detective in his room. Sherlock's violin was on the floor, propped up against John's nightstand. An afghan was draped carelessly on the Sherlock's armchair, concealing books and journals he had no doubt been reading to while away the hours.

John smiled when he saw the books. It was a miracle in itself that the walls were intact after ten days of Sherlock staying at home; the younger man's attention span was worse than a child's, much worse, and books have not known to keep him occupied for too long. Of course, Sherlock had been John's self – appointed nanny and nurse, but John had spent most of his time asleep or in bed. A small thought flitted through John's mind…Sherlock occupied with John…and his smile, involuntarily, grew wider. It felt…nice…to be the focus of Sherlock's preoccupation. Mrs Hudson would surely appreciate the walls in her flat undisturbed by bullets or Sherlock's version of graffiti.

Further inspection yielded a note on the night stand. Sherlock had scrawled something about Lestrade seeking his help and Sherlock going to 'save the day and the public at large' and that he would pick up some Yorkshire pudding for dinner. There was also a postscript reminding John to take his medication and keep his mobile phone close to him, as he might need the doctor's opinion at any time.

John folded the note and put it into the pocket of the bathrobe he had put on. His mobile followed suit and John got up from his bed to begin his day. The thought of coffee spurred him to the kitchen, where the usual sight of Sherlock's experiment greeted him. There was room for little else in the kitchen and their entire edible foodstuff was stored in a single cabinet at the corner of the kitchen. John made his way to the coffee machine and said a silent thank you to Sherlock for starting the coffee. He filled a mug and turned around, leaning against the counter, to survey the state of the flat.

Experiments on the kitchen table, an eyeball in the microwave…the usual suspects were in their designated places. John was almost afraid of looking into the refrigerator and finally decided that he was not going to bother to open the fridge because his…constitution…would not be able to handle it.

A quick glance into the living room gave similar results. Another set of experiment going on near the bookshelf and the television. John walked into the living room, coffee mug in hand. The windows had been replaced and the living room had been cleaned from the debris of the explosion from across the road. Someone, Sherlock probably, had pushed their working table to the window and John had to admit, it made a nice change to the living room. Now, whenever they worked, they could both be seated at the table, each with a view of the street below.

That was a nice…domestic touch, John thought to himself, taking another drink from his mug. He went to his armchair and sank down slowly into, appreciating the comforts of a chair after being confined to the bed for so long. As he did so, his eyes fell on another of Sherlock's experiment, this one near the door.

And that was when the bubble burst. The sight of the petri dishes and a retort stand with a pendulum was the unlikeliest wakeup call John had ever had.

The moment the thought crossed his mind, John felt a sharp stab to his heart.

Stupid.

He had been so stupid.

He could blame the medication, but it was only antibiotics and that could not contribute to any of the emotions he had been feeling.

It was hardly a puzzle but at that moment everything just fell into place. The longer he thought of it, he more stupid John seemed to himself.

He should have known and yet he allowed himself to be…lulled.

And what an embarrassing situation, to say the least, to be in.

He could never look Sherlock in the eye again.

The thought of Sherlock brought forth a surprising burst of emotion.

Anger.

How dare he?

Pain burst forth as John turned quite sharply to return to his room. He doubled over, steadying himself using the doorjamb. The pain ebbed away soon enough, but the anger stayed. Along with it, the minute hurt that was threatening to engulf his entire being.

By the time he got to his room, his anger had ebbed away. All he felt now was shame, which was even worse than anger. And in the corner of his heart, the unexpected feeling of disappointment.

He remained in his room for the rest of the day. Mrs Hudson came up in the afternoon with a tray filled with sandwiches, fruits and tea. John thanked her and gave monosyllabic answers to her inquiries. She hovered for a bit and then left, patting John on his shoulder gently. John did not look at her, too much on his mind.

Sherlock returned home just as the evening gave way to night. He called out for John the moment he stepped into the flat, making as much noise as he could in the process. He sounded happy; probably had cracked the case and managed to get one up on Anderson and Donovan. Or the entire Scotland Yard. Because he is Sherlock Holmes and he does whatever pleases him. Sherlock gets the results he wants, so damn everything else. Damn the people around him, whatever they are thinking or feeling.

As Sherlock clattered up to his room, John could feel the anger building up in him again. And the shame. He could not look at Sherlock, not after this.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" Sherlock stood at the doorway to John's room. His voice was guarded now, as was his body language. He took a step into the room, one hand extending to the light switch. He flicked on the light, John turned away, in an effort to both shield his eyes from the glare of the fluorescent light and also to avoid looking at him.

"I must have dozed off after taking my lunch," John said, still not looking at him. He was sitting up at his bed, keeping his eyes on the footboard.

"Lunch is untouched," Sherlock observed casually, as he came to stand at the foot of the bed. John gave him a quick glance, noting the exuberance and exhilaration of another triumph at solving a case still evident in Sherlock's eyes. There was concern too, but John wondered if it was a defence against the ruse that John had discovered. After John's sort-of epiphany this morning, John found it hard to believe that the concern could be for him. "You never were a good liar, John."

"Well, not every one of us can be as good as liar as Sherlock Holmes is, can we?" John said, feeling something snap within him as he spoke.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his head turned just slightly as he regarded John. "Something is wrong," he said, the statement both a question and an observation.

"Very astute, Mr Holmes," John said, anger build up enough within him to finally be able to look at Sherlock.

"John…"

"Don't, Sherlock," John cut him off. "Just don't."

"So, I am to deduce as to what had upset you," Sherlock remarked, a minute smile breaking the corner of his eyes.

"There would be no need for that," John snapped back, his voice cold and with all the cheer of a cracking whip. "I would not want to burden you any further."

"What are you…"

"I am beginning to think that I am nothing more than one of your absurd experiments." The words tumbled out of John's mouth.

"There is nothing absurd about my experiments," Sherlock said in an almost condescending, methodical manner that made John wish Sherlock's head was in the vicinity within the reach of his walking stick.

"So I am an experiment," John has decided to go all the way with this, never mind how foolish everything sounded out in the open. The arguments had seemed very precise and logical when he ran through them in his head; now he just sounded petulant.

"Of course not."

"It certainly feels that way," John remarked, trying to hold a steady gaze on Sherlock. "I should have known better," he added, much of the venom in his voice directed to himself. He turned away, unable now to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock was silent momentarily as he processed John's words. And then, John was not sure if he had figured it out or if it was just another defence mechanism, a marble mask of indifference slid unto Sherlock's expression, shielding all other emotions from him.

"I thought you knew better." Sherlock's quiet words rang clear in the uncomfortable, leaden silence that had fallen between the two men; something that has never happened before. Before John would react to his words, Sherlock had moved towards the door and with one last look at John, he left the room; gone was the exuberance that had propelled him up the stairs moments earlier. Instead, John saw something else in Sherlock's eyes, something that he had privy to and had hoped that it would not be him causing it. The protective walls that had always rendered Sherlock seemingly indifferent to others were gone, the mask was off. All that John saw was hurt, and worse still, disappointment.

John watched as Sherlock descended down the stairs, shoulders hunched, hands in his pocket. At that moment, the anger John had dissipated, replaced with surprise and then finally, realization.

And for the second time in one day, John felt stupid all over again. He fell back on his against the headboard, groaning.

What had compelled him to be such an idiot?

He could not possibly blame it on the medication, because it was only antibiotics.

And had he not decided long ago, that with Sherlock, nothing is as it seems, especially when it concerns the two of them.

And had he not decided long ago, that with Sherlock, there should be no labels for their relationship.

Was all this for John to seek some sort of assurance of their relationship?

That was both the question and the answer John did not know he was seeking. The last few days, with Sherlock hovering and everything, John had assumed that something had changed in their relationship, when actually, nothing had changed.

Intensified, maybe.

But it was still the same, the rock solid bond that requires no official names.

Except that, this time, John feels there should be.

How long is John supposed to just sit back and allow Sherlock to do all that he does, say all that he says, and continue to assume that there is no subtext there?

How long is John supposed to think that everything is as normal, whatever the definition of normal was outside of 221B, between the two men?

Both were grown men and John, with his training as a doctor and a soldier, did not need Sherlock looking after him. Sherlock, on the other hand, did not need to look after John, simply because it was not expected of him. But since it has happened, it certainly needed an explanation. When John saw the petri dishes in their living room, all that he could think was that Sherlock had been experimenting on him.

Or them.

Or whatever.

Bottom line is, he felt like an experiment, as if he was being used to gauge something. That is why he snapped.

And now, he realized, he should not have. John looked at the ceiling, wishing that he could rewind the last fifteen minutes so that he could erase the moments of spectacular idiocy that had unfolded. Not a man prone for self – pitying, John got out of bed, apprehensive of the silence that had settled in the flat. He knew he had to make things right, apologize. This was their first argument, about themselves and John did not know how he was going to mend that fence. But, as he got his stick and limped out of the room, he was determined to try. Even if meant tracking Sherlock across London.

There was no need for cross – city tracking. Sherlock was in the living room, in his armchair, looking at the blank telly. The moment John saw him, he heard the words Sherlock spoke just before he left the room.

"I thought you knew better."

There it was. The closest to a definition John could ask for from Sherlock. Standing by the doorway to the living room, looking at Sherlock's back, it struck to John how lonely Sherlock seemed, and how human and fragile the brilliant consultant detective actually was.

And that was when John realized another thing.

John was not an experiment for Sherlock. If he was anything at all, John was Sherlock's cure, both for his loneliness and inherent vulnerability.

Once again, labels had not been necessary.

John walked into the living room, taking a deep breath. If Sherlock heard him, he made no move to indicate his acknowledgement. John stood behind his designated armchair and swallowed, not knowing how he would begin. And with Sherlock's expression bland to the point of making John wonder if he should just leave the younger man alone, there was no telling how it was going to play out.

More silence?

More disagreements?

None of the options endeared to John. But to allow it to continue, to pretend that nothing happened, would drive a permanent wedge between the two of them, and that is even more unbearable for John.

He took his seat on the armchair, wincing as the movement hurt his side. A sharp intake of breath caused Sherlock to give the merest of a glance in John's direction, before returning to his contemplation of the blank television screen. Sherlock had taken off his coat and had rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing a nicotine patch that he was rubbing with his other hand. It was the only signs of life from the younger man.

John took another deep breath as he regarded Sherlock. He was about to open his mouth, to ask Sherlock for the TV remote; his way of breaking the silence, when Sherlock spoke, his voice quiet and steady.

"If you were an experiment, John, you would be dismembered and kept in a clear jar filled with ether."

Anyone who did not know Sherlock would have been horrified when they heard the words from the consultant detective's mouth before running screaming out of the flat. After all that John has gone through with Sherlock, he realized the more graphic the younger man was, the more sincere he was being. It was just Sherlock being himself.

A smile crept its way to his lips, as relief washed over him. The statement was almost an apology from Sherlock, though John knew the younger man had nothing to apologize for. This made him all the more endearing; a revelation that surprised John for its absurdity; Sherlock would have balked if he knew John thought his manners were endearing. It was also surprising, because never would he have thought Sherlock would be the one to offer an explanation first… to apologize first.

Therein he knew the sway he had over the younger man; a prospect that was as exhilarating as it was daunting, because one wrong step and Sherlock would be lost to him. John saw that Sherlock was about to say something but decided that the younger man had explained enough. It was his turn to put things right.

"That's very reassuring, thank you," John replied.

Sherlock finally turned to look at John. "I think you have been over – medicated," Sherlock spoke, an exquisite twinkle in his eyes belying the neutral expression on his face.

"I have my flatmate and landlady to blame for that," John said, falling easily into the banter between them. And then, he feigned realization. "I knew it. I am being experimented on."

A smile broke the severity of Sherlock's gaze on him. "Believe whatever you want, Dr John Watson," he said, as he turned to the other side of his armchair. He picked up the glass of water and a clear capsule containing John's antibiotics on the small table beside him. "You have never been an experiment to me." There was an unwavering certainty when siad this.

John reached over and took the medicine and the glass of water from Sherlock. "Of course," he said, looking at Sherlock, wanting the younger man to know that he understood. Their hands briefly brush against each other's as John takes the glass from Sherlock. They look up and share a smile. The definition of what John was to Sherlock was clear in his brilliant blue eyes; something that John remembers seeing at the swimming pool, moments before Sherlock shot the bomb.

"I should have known better," John added, keeping his tone light, despite the deep meaning behind his words.

Silence fell between them again. This time, it was not uncomfortable.

This time, it was a small moment that belonged to them.

-THE END-