A/N: An idea I wanted to use ever since I wrote the gist of it in my fic, "In The Catacombs Of My Mind."

John sits in his armchair, hardback novel in his hands. He reaches over and takes a sip of tea, enjoying the crackling fire and the light snow falling outside the windows like tiny bits of white glitter from the night sky.

Sherlock, in turn, is in his own chair, facing John, studying him.

John is quite used to it by now; there will be periods at a time where Sherlock is without a case (usually having just finished one), during which he is in his pre-restless state and is utterly silenced. He watches John during those times, observing him and most likely taking mental notes, or simply staring off into space, thinking, with his eyes roughly in the same area as John's face.

It's one of these nights, however, that something changes: Sherlock speaks.

"John," he says, waiting for the army doctor to glance up. When their eyes meet, Sherlock looks pensive, guarded. He licks his lips unsurely. He stares in a way he sometimes does that makes John's insides squirm pleasantly.

"Yes?" John asks, lifting an eyebrow. He bookmarks his novel and sets it aside. He can tell he won't be returning to it for a while. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock looks as indifferent as ever, but his eyes flicker. "It popped into my head, but now I can't seem to say it."

"Say what?" John inquires with a slight pucker in his brow.

Sherlock blinks and swiftly gets to his feet. "Come with me." And with a flare of his robe about him, he turns and heads for his bedroom.

John isn't sure how to react, but doesn't feel uncomfortable, so he shrugs to himself and stands, following suit. In Sherlock's room, the blinds are drawn and a single lamp is on, and Sherlock is sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands resting on his thighs, his posture erect.

John stands before him and folds his arms over his chest, leaning most of his weight on his left leg and raising his brows as a silent question of, 'Well? Why are we in here?'

With a soft rustle of fabric, Sherlock raises his arms, palms open and outstretched toward John.

John sighs, dropping his arms. He steps forward, still lost, but doesn't resist. Sherlock touches his forearms, then his waist. He peers up at John and his lips part. "We are not normal friends."

"No," John chuckles in agreement, "We definitely aren't. Plenty of mates become flatmates as well, but only after knowing each other a while first. We did that sort of backward. And then, of course, I don't think friends, on a daily basis, risk their lives for one another, do they?" It's rhetorical, but Sherlock nods anyhow. John smiles and musses Sherlock's hair. "But hey, what we have works."

"Would you say you love me, to some extent?" Sherlock asks, his eyes downcast again, his hands sliding around John's waist to grip the fabric over his spine, making John lean further into him. Sherlock's nose was a breath away from John's belly. He could almost feel Sherlock's exhales through his jumper.

John's gaze softens as he looks down at dark hair. He brings his hands to rest on Sherlock's shoulders. "Okay, maybe I do. –Yeah, I guess I do. I've known for some stretch of time now that I do. I've never met anyone like you, and I never will. You're truly one of a kind, Sherlock Holmes." And he smiles fondly at that statement, his thumbs rubbing small ovals over Sherlock's shirt, following the bone of where clavicle meets shoulder.

"That's good," Sherlock says quietly, his tone grave. "Because that's what came to me as I was sitting out there. It's what I couldn't say."

"That you know I love you, or that you love me, too?" John asks gently, for clarification. He needs to know for sure that he isn't making up the implication in that.

"The latter. Both," Sherlock states, and then corrects. He sighs as he turns his cheek and presses his face against John's warmth. He loses his eyes. He can hear the soft gargles in John's stomach, and faintly, his lungs. "I wanted to ask, then, if you would lie with me tonight. It's been in and out of my mind for ages now. And considering everything, I hoped it would finally be alright to ask."

"Lie with you?" John poses, hands pulling slowly away from Sherlock's shoulders. He lifts Sherlock's face and looks down at him with a questioning expression. "How do you mean?"

Sherlock looks embarrassed. It's the only way to describe his face; he isn't blushing, his gaze is only just wavering, and his brows are a little pinched, but there is something about it that screams embarrassment to John, like how Sherlock looks when he gets something wrong.

"I don't know how else to say what I want," Sherlock answers, fully frowning now. He releases John and becomes frustrated. "I don't mean sex. And I most likely won't sleep much, so I don't mean that, either. And I don't mean plainly holding one another, either. I want…" He falters. He looks nervous. He only gets this way around John, and only when he is struggling to reformat his personality to somewhat fit within societal standards, for John's sake. He sighs and presses his fingers into his eyes, the bridge of his nose. Sherlock flips them out then, fed up. "I want you bare. I want to feel you, study you, have you do the same to me until we fall asleep, or at least until you do."

So it's affection and trust he wants. And possibly it's something to heal his loneliness, because having genius is one of the loneliest things to experience, John thinks. All those years Sherlock must have been alienated because of his skills, his smarts; all those years no one wanted to get close because he was too rude and too strange and too different. Even now, Sherlock bears that lonely, empty, sorrowful expression when he thinks John isn't looking. And it tears at John's heart, because it's in those moments that Sherlock seems to forget how there is nothing John wouldn't do for him. He seems to forget how desperately John is willing to take Sherlock's pains away, however major or minor they might be, because he cares so much.

John smiles meekly and kneels down between Sherlock's legs. He places his hands on the detective's knees. "I think I understand. And I'll do it."

"You're sure?" Sherlock says. He takes on a bit of a defensive, heated tone as he often does when others are acting like morons and he feels like mocking them. "You're not afraid of 'feeling gay?' You complain about it often when others insinuate it. 'We're not together.' 'I'm not gay,'" he parrots with his fingers scratching the air to exaggerate the quotes.

"Not anymore. I think I've come to terms with it."

"With what?" Sherlock frowns. Sexuality confuses him. Sex doesn't alarm him, it's all medical to him, and even the 'kinky' things can be logically rationalized, but sexuality is complex, because it varies so often. All he knows is that, for himself, Sherlock doesn't desire sex. Never really has. But he likes the idea of romance, of loving someone. It used to bore him before, but then, that was before he met John, and came to care about and respect the shorter man so much.

"I'm heterosexual, but a bit homoromantic," John smiles. "Because I fell in love with a man, but I don't really want to fuck him."

Sherlock quirks a bright smile then (no teeth showing, though), because that makes sense. He could work with that. It's a good thing. Perfect, in fact.

He gestures to his bed. "Lie with me, then?"

"I already said I would," John reminds, laughing a bit with a giddy, odd feeling he can't say he's ever felt in the past. He watches as Sherlock gets a contented look on his face and starts stripping off his clothes, tossing them messily and carelessly onto the ground.

It feels surreal.

John feels a glow inside him he can't explain away. He slowly removes his own clothing, and it should be weird, being naked with another person without arousal. To him, however, it's just about as normal as anything else concerning Sherlock.

He climbs into bed with Sherlock and lies down atop the covers, lying on his side, facing Sherlock, mirroring his pose.

At first, Sherlock doesn't do a thing. He merely looks John's body up and down, taking in the shape of his body exactly as it is for what it is, nothing lingering in any area longer than the next.

John, however, is only human, he does, briefly, linger a few seconds too long to be polite on Sherlock's flaccid penis as he gives Sherlock's lithe form a once-over as well, and it's because he's a little jealous of its length and proper proportion to his testicles. John has always felt like his own penis is lacking, but then, most men are insecure in that respect, like many women are about the size of their breasts.

When their eyes meet again, Sherlock reaches out and touches John's face. He scores the length of John's face, from hairline on his forehead, to his temple, to his cheekbone, to his jaw. He then follows the rim of John's jaw with the fingertips of his middle and index fingers. John lifts his chin to give him full access, and subsequently, Sherlock trails all of his fingers down the length of John's throat, feeling slowly as he finds and takes John's slightly-above-calm pulse.

John, meanwhile, moves to thumb Sherlock's unique lips, mapping out the shape of them as his other fingers play under Sherlock's jaw. He runs his fingers up over the tip of Sherlock's nose and Sherlock briefly closes his eyes, hand stilling at the hollow of John's throat as John brushes his fingers over Sherlock's brows and traces lightly around his beauty mark and the wrinkles in his forehead under his fringe.

When Sherlock opens his eyes again, he nudges his head closer and reaches to run his hand through John's hair. Their other hands are pinned, bent at the elbow, under their heads atop the pillows, but John wishes he could use both, because part of his bicep is aching as it tugs on scar tissue. Sherlock laid down on his left, leaving John to lie on his right, and it frees up their dominant hands, true, but it's not how John wants to be. He frowns, and Sherlock blinks in puzzlement.

John exhales curtly as he props himself up on his elbow. He shifts to place one knee between Sherlock's parted legs. He leans down and uses both hands to smooth out over Sherlock's chest, the brush of skin under his palms more satisfying. He sighs with relief, his face relaxing, and once it does, Sherlock seems to go lax and pliant under John's hands.

It's nearly like a massage the way John runs his hands down the length of Sherlock's abdomen, feeling it shudder – ticklish – as he reaches the bottom. Sherlock lurches but remains quiet, his muscles losing their tension when John moves his hands to finger each rib he can, the bumps and expansion of them as Sherlock breathes.

Sherlock's hipbones jut out more than John's. The hair on his legs is a bit coarser than John's fine blond hairs. His feet are smoother, not having suffered combat boots and uneven terrain and the like. He has bony ankles. But most of Sherlock's thighs are surprisingly smooth, like much of his torso, save for the patch of hair between his pectorals.

"Roll over?"

Sherlock nods. He likes watching John's face, likes the feel of John's practiced hands on him. He trusts him so completely, and he wonders if it shows on his face.

(It does.)

John feels out every part of Sherlock he can. He doesn't touch the sexual places; he hardly even runs his hands over the smooth curve of Sherlock's rear; even that he ghosts over, scantly touching, focusing more on the backs of Sherlock's legs, the dip of his knees, and the wide planes of his back.

Sherlock has a beautiful back. Many men with his physique do; all taut skin and firm muscles. But Sherlock's skin is lovely, too; no acne scarring from his teenage years, nothing. It's flawless. Even the collected points of pigment – his beauty marks – aren't flaws. They only add a sort of quirk to Sherlock's skin, because they are few and far between, but when John sees one, he traces around it – no matter how small it might be, and if it's very small, he gently uses his fingernail – and presses his lips to it, not quite a kiss.

In fact, John runs his lax lips across much of the expanse of Sherlock's shoulders and down his spine, because it feels nice having warm, smooth skin stretch endlessly along the sensitive skin of his lips, particularly his upper one. His hands work in tandem along Sherlock's sides and down his arms as John does so, and more than once, he catches Sherlock hitching his breath or holding it, not daring to break the trance.

John has his knees together, kneeling between Sherlock's legs, and he bends over Sherlock's back and holds his biceps, placing his ear at the center of Sherlock's spine. He can hear his heartbeat so clearly that it's startling. John's own heart skips a beat.

Sherlock is oddly still. For once, all his impatience is gone. But he does murmur, "May I have my turn soon?" and the buzz of his voice from the depths of his chest rumbles against John's ear and cheek, and he sighs happily.

"You can have it now, actually," John answers faintly, his voice whisper-like. He pushes himself off of Sherlock and sits back on his heels while Sherlock rolls back over and props himself up on his hands, his knees drawing up midway. "How do you want me?"

"On your stomach first, then your back; reverse of me," Sherlock responds. His tone is flat, direct. But his eyes are incredibly revealing. There is love there. John can feel it, can nearly breathe it in. He nods quietly and for a brief second is in push-up position before relaxing and spreading out his legs and resting his arms about his head.

The bullet went straight through John's shoulder. It struck a place above bone and between muscle, going in and then out again at top speed. His scar is a starburst on both sides, and on the back, where his skin fluctuates between taunt and lax because of how it must stretch over his moving shoulder blade, the ribbed skin of the stitches is more visible. Sherlock touches there first. He traces it over with his fingers and then his lips. He kneads John's upper back like dough, working down his spine. A real massage, unlike John's own touches. Sherlock isn't afraid to dig a little deeper, feel a little more thoroughly.

John sighs and fully closes his eyes. Sherlock's hands are firm but gentle, and are much larger and silkier than John's own. He gently, but quickly, rakes his nails down John's back, scratching it for him, and damn, that feels good. Then Sherlock flattens his palms and levels out the lined paths his nails left on John's skin.

His hands glides down along John's spine to his rear, cupping lightly for a moment, thumb digging for John's sciatic nerve. John jumps when Sherlock finds it. It's the source of a lot of pain for people with back problems, and it's like a medical check Sherlock's performing, like a doctor striking a child's kneecap for the kick it's meant to trigger.

He moves on, both hands gliding down and feeling out the muscles of one leg, then the other. He massages his thumbs into the arch of John's foot, then the other, and rubs circles around his anklebones. Then he's manually rolling John onto his back, hands landing on the mattress on either side of John as Sherlock stares at him for a lasting moment, soaking in the relaxed, trusting expression on John's face.

He smiles then, head ducking to nose John's cheek, then in the hollow behind his left ear. John giggles – it tickles – and brings his hands up to caress the Sherlock's nape, his hair itching John's fingers. He threads them through the wilder curls at the base of the detective's head and closes his eyes again, nose turning in to the hollow of Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock's lips are gliding over his throat, then, memorizing the skin over his clavicles and down his sternum, feeling the flutter of his heart and the rise and fall of his lungs. Sherlock's lips are like velvet, like rose petals, and like polished marble, all at once.

John's breathing hitches and he's so glad he agreed to this, really he is. To date, John has wanted this sort of intimacy with Sherlock for months, but never knew how to go about it. And this works better than anything he could have dreamed.

It's a little strange, on occasion, when the soft flesh of Sherlock's member brushes John's thigh or hip, but it doesn't disgust him, nor does any of this arouse him, even given the physical stimuli. He just can't see it that way, can't feel it like that. And Sherlock is the same.

But he can appreciate Sherlock's alien sort of splendor. His genes are just the right mix to be either hideous or gorgeous, and it just so happened that his chromosomes aligned on the right side of the fence. He wonders vaguely if Sherlock sees any appeal in John, any sort of fancy for his genes.

(He does. There is something about John that is fierce but adorable, like a puppy or kitten with a sweet face but a bad bite if riled up. And his body isn't perfect, isn't as built as it used to be, but still pleasant and comfortable and his skin is such a nice color, Sherlock thinks, and something about looking at John makes Sherlock want to kiss his nose, put his face on his chest, wrap himself around him.)

Sherlock does much the same thing to John's torso as John has with Sherlock's back; he runs the skin of his lips over the expanse of it, breathing heated moisture in short puffs as he goes along. The skin of the lips is so gives there so much more to feel, down to the last minute detail. It tickles a little more, too, but it must be why toddlers put so many things up to their mouths; they want to become more familiar with the texture of the object, and the best way to do that is to feel it with their lips, their tongues.

Sherlock's hands are cooler than John's skin, and feel the way an ice cube feels on a hot day: like a reprieve. John's own palms are a bit sweaty, too warm, as he grips Shoulder's shoulders and slides his hands downward to stroke Sherlock's biceps with his thumbs. Sherlock, all the while, takes his time feeling John's skin. There is so much to feel, so much to commit to memory.…

After a while, when Sherlock's lips feel numb the way static sounds, he lifts his head and notices how the underside of his hands feel the same from too much petting, too much touching. But he likes it that way.

He peers up to find John half asleep, eyes shut, face impossibly youthful, lips parted as he takes in deep, even breaths. The only way to tell that he isn't completely asleep is the way his hands are still idly playing with Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock slinks up to rest on his side beside his blogger, John's hand falling from his head. Sherlock gazes down at him warmly. He hears John take in a stiff inhale. His eyes flutter open, and he smiles dazedly and shifts to lie on his side as well, their position opposite as when this began. He touches Sherlock's face again, and leans in to peck a small kiss on Sherlock's cheek, off-center from the corner of his mouth. In turn, Sherlock presses a kiss to John's nose, finding that the curve of it perfectly fits within his lips. He draws back, smiling.

"Give me your hand," Sherlock commands, but not harshly. His tone is affectionate, mirroring his gaze, and it's such an otherworldly thing to experience, this softer side of Sherlock Holmes. If he didn't know him, John wouldn't have thought it possible; certainly none of Sherlock's other acquaintances would believe John if he told them how sweet Sherlock can be. But John knows all too well that Sherlock is not devoid of emotion, isn't incapable of sentiment; it just takes a lot to earn the rights to affect him so, and witness such things.

John gives over his right hand, the free one not currently being pinned against his ribs. Sherlock takes it, twisting back a bit, and studies it. He feels out the tendons in John's hand and strokes his calluses and turns it hand over and over in his grasp. He closes his eyes and presses John's knuckles to his mouth, his chin. John watches in awe.

"I could read half of your life story by your hands. It's not a gypsy trick; those who know how can deduce it, can." He opens his eyes and traces lines on John's palm. "Hands, like the fingerprints they bear, are as individual as snowflakes. By the way they are tanned, one can spot a wedding ring line and determine how long the ring as been removed. By the way they are calloused, one can establish which is the dominant hand because of the pencil-holding callous usually located on the index or middle finger. It also tells how a person holds a writing utensil or their eating utensils. By the cuticles or nails, one can read any dirty or casual habits, like changing their own car oil, or painting, or things like cuticle-nibbling or nail-biting or cigarette-smoking. And by the lines on their palm, or any scars on their hands, one can determine how old they are, what type of work they might have done, and whether or not they had eczema or pets."

"What does mine say about me?" John wants to know.

"Early stages of carpel-tunnel," Sherlock comments quietly. "Prone to arthritis, judging by the swell and shape of your knuckles; don't worry, I'm the same. See?" and he flashes the back of his hand. Returning it to John's wrist, he burrows the fingertips of his other hand into the vertical bones in the back of John's hand, his thumb imprinting the tender center of John's palm. "You had a dog as a child that nipped you. You are still unaccustomed to typing, and prefer to write, and even though this is your right hand, I can tell by the flatness of the pads of your thumb, index, and middle fingers from where you have held down paper to a tabletop repeatedly. You have the nervous habit of biting down on your nails, but not tearing at them or devouring your cuticles; it's shown by the white deposits near the tops."

"What else?" John asks when Sherlock pauses, turning John's hand into various shapes and poses for a lasting while.

"Nothing much without delving into the knowledge I have gathered from living with you. What I said were all things anyone could pick up, if they knew how to look at first glance," Sherlock replies. He drops John's hand, then, and quickly offers his own. "What can you tell about mine?"

The doctor frowns. "You know I'm rubbish at deductions, Sherlock."

The other smiles. "Humor me."

John rolls his eyes. He complies nonetheless. He takes up Sherlock's hand and feels all over it, studying it best he can, taking in every little detail. He begins with the easiest thing: "You have a faint, pale scar here. It's small, clean; did you nick yourself with a knife? Maybe while cooking?"

"Good guess," Sherlock applauds. "But I wasn't cooking. I was dissecting a frog with scalpel and poked myself, cutting through my thin rubber glove. My teacher threw a fit. It was quite funny." He smirks and twitches his fingers. "Keep going."

"This is your left hand, but I can see what you mean about other telling things. Your thumb and forefinger have this roughness near the top… Maybe you turn pages with your left hand?"

"Good, very good," Sherlock cheerleads softly. "That's right. Go on."

"You haven't smoked in a while – I've made sure of it – but there is still faint orange on your fingertips from holding the cigarette with your left while lighting it with your right, taking the first drag before switching hands."

"You're very clear tonight, John. I think I have had a great influence on you."

John yawns. He looks over Sherlock's hand a bit more before shaking his head. "I can't tell anything else, really. Your hands are very clean, and well taken care of. You protect your hands, because you need them, so I can't tell anything else."

"That's a deduction in itself," Sherlock says with a sparkle of amusement in his eyes.

"Oh," John says with a chuckle, "So it is." He sighs and closes his eyes. "I'm tired, Sherlock."

"Then sleep," Sherlock says, and the bed jiggles, and there's movement. In no time, the blankets are lifted up from under him, being tugged over his naked body. Sherlock snuggles into the sheets as well, turning his back to john and pressing himself close to John's front.

John takes the hint and wraps his arms around Sherlock's, tucking himself again Sherlock until they are slotting together perfectly like two spoons in a drawer.

Sherlock fiddles with John's hand again as John drifts off into sleep, Sherlock's scent in his nostrils and comfortable warmth all around him.

XXX

In the morning, John stirs awake to find Sherlock studying him with his eyes, watching him rest, watching him wake.

"Good morning," Sherlock greets lowly. His eyes are cheerful, even if the rest of his face and his tone are not nearly as much so.

John's lips curl at one end into a half-smile. He swallows a frog in his throat and rasps, "'Morning."

"I want you to lie with me at least one night a week," Sherlock declares.

"I can make due with that," John shrugs. "It helped me sleep better than I have in ages." He stifles a yawn. "And in between those times, would you care if I showed affection a little more often? Held your hand, gave you a hug, rubbed your scalp for you; stuff like that."

"Not in the least," Sherlock replies easily. "As long as I'm not hot on a case or in the middle of an experiment, I would very much welcome your affection. And I will try my best to give mine, although it will be when it suits me, and I can't promise those times will be when it suits you as well."

"That's fine," John murmurs, closing his eyes again for a second, the morning light a little bright, even through the blinds. "But if I don't want it, I'll try to let you down easy."

"I know you will," Sherlock answers gently. He touches John's hair above his ear. "Are you getting up, or do you wish to sleep longer?"

"Depends; what time is it?"

Sherlock peers over at his clock. "Just after seven forty."

John groans and buries his head in the pillow under him. "Dammit. I should probably sleep for at least another hour, but I don't think I can. I'll get up." He grunts as he props himself up on his elbows. He slides to the edge of the bed and locates his pajama bottoms and undergarments. He puts both on, forgoing his shirt. "I'll make coffee."

"Wonderful," the detective remarks as he stands and slips on some of his own clothing, but choosing to don all of it. He paces out of the room, tagging along behind John, and trying his best not to reach out and wrap his arms around the shorter man, knowing now that he can, and it's perfectly acceptable to do so.

They share a cuppa by the fireplace and observe the frosted windows in peace. John picks up his novel, resuming it, and Sherlock logs into his e-mail account on his laptop.

And everything is just as it's always been, but when they glance up from their tasks and attract the other's gaze, they hold it, smile, and swap a hidden secret before returning to said tasks. And that's about the only difference, but oh, is it a major one.

Fin.