~~/~~

John looked up from his paper the next morning to see Sherlock coming out of the kitchen, yesterday's paper stuffed in his hand.

"Boffin, Boffin Sherlock Holmes," the man scoffed out, throwing the newspaper onto the coffee table and striding for the the deerstalker left on the mantlepiece. He snatched it up, only to glare at the thing. John waited until the man had met his eyes in the mirror.

"-Everyone -get -one," he stated.

"One what?" Sherlock turned in his pacing to face him.

"-Newspaper -N-I-C-K -name," John replied, shrugging. "-Don't worry, -soon -I-get-probably -I."

"Page five column six, first sentence," Sherlock replied. God, it was easy to forget just how much information Sherlock had in his head all at once.

John checked the papers, not bothering to ask.

The deaf detective was assisted by interpreter and confirmed bachelor John Watson.

"Why is it always the hat photograph?" Sherlock ranted, punching the thing. John glanced up.

Confirmed Bachelor John Watson? They would have a field day with their relationship when it came out.

"What kind of hat is it anyway? Is it a cap? Why does it have two fronts?"

"-Name -D-E-E-R-S-T-A-L-K-E-R,"

"You stalk a deer with a hat?" Sherlock asked, sounding baffled.

"-Hey," John waved.

"What are you going to do, throw it? A kind of death-Frisbee?"

"-Hey!" John repeated.

"What? And it's got flaps? It's an ear-hat John!"

"-We -need -decide. -Our -relationship; -we -allow -newspaper -know -or -hide it?" John asked, deciding not to bother to wait until Sherlock faced him, trusting that the man would be able to read his signs in the mirror.

"How would we avoid it? And why? What would there be to gain?" Sherlock asked, staring at him.

"-First; -my career. -Second; -gay -people? -Some -people -hate; -Third, -now -that -not -D-E-E-R-S-T-A-L-K-E-R. -Now -that -hat -S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K -H-O-L-M-E-S. -You -not -private -detective. -You -almost -famous. -More -newspaper -interest -don't -need," he warned.

Sherlock shrugged, apparently dismissing his career, homophobes and bad press all together. He tossed the hat onto the coffee table and slumped into his chair.

"Oh it'll pass," Sherlock dismissed.

"-Better -yes. -Newspaper -agent -will -change -mind -and -hate -you. -Always -happen -with -time," John replied.

Sherlock put his foot up on the coffee table, crushing the hat.

"This really bothers you," he said and John blinked.

Well, yes.

"What people say about me, I don't understand. Why would it upset you?"

Ow.

John glanced down, clenching his jaw for a moment to gather his thoughts.

"-We -together. -My -job -protect -you," he said finally.

"Is this the damn .. press conference thing all over again? If they think badly of me it reflects badly on you?" Sherlock growled, pulling his bathrobe up around himself again.

"-If -I -look -bad, -don't -care. -I -care -you -happy -you," John answered before rubbing his forehead. Sherlock looked genuinely confused now. "-This -week, -you -just -find -little -case, -yes?"

"Not if you won't tell me why," Sherlock grumbled. John went back to his paper, suspecting Sherlock would listen to him.

~~/~~

Sherlock flipped next to him on the couch that evening, his hip barely brushing John's. John kept tying up his blog, glad for what had turned into an almost day long break from ASL as Sherlock typed up the results of his latest Thames experiment.

Without a word Sherlock spun around on the couch, planting his head firmly into John's lap and circling his legs up into a platform for his laptop.

Okay... John thought, glancing down. Sherlock was staring at a wall firmly, like he'd made some strong statement. John shrugged quietly and nodded, dropping a hand down to fiddle with the man's hair. Sherlock's body slowly relaxed into the couch and John went back to his blog, deciding not to mention the whole sleeping together 'partners' thing to the world at large. They'd find out soon enough and no doubt it would be miserable when it came.

He woke up with a crick in his neck and a very awake Sherlock pacing around the room with his violin in his hand, looking bored.

"-I -go -sleep," John informed him, crawling up from the couch.

"My room's clean," Sherlock said, though it sounded like an order.

Good, John thought, shuffling toward the bedroom. He was far too tired for pleasantries anyway.

~~/~~

"-Don't," John ordered, dropping his newspaper onto his lap when he saw Sherlock walking past with a bottle of firestarter and the deerstalker hat in his hands.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, looking aghast at the thing.

"-Smell. -Go outside," John replied. Sherlock nodded swiftly and turned toward the stairs.

"Right," he agreed and trotted down the steps. John nodded to himself and picked up his newspaper. Finally, life was getting back to normal.

~~/~~

"There's not enough data," Sherlock growled, staring at the useless case file.

It was, at least, a little case. A man whose wife had run off with the kids. A man in Switzerland, fortunately – not worth going to visit, at least not at the current interest level and with a rather piss-poor photographer for a client. There was nothing more they could do tonight.

John approached Sherlock cautiously. The man had stopped pacing to stare out the window, frustrated and tense. Not a good mood to bother him, usually, but John wondered...

He ran his hands down Sherlock's back, the silk shirt chill and smooth beneath his fingers. Sherlock stiffened, his shoulder blades sticking sharply out beneath his palms. John ran his hands over the man's back and down his ribs to grip at his sides. Sherlock started to turn and John let him, feeling the muscles twist beneath his fingertips. Sherlock stared down at him, his eyes darting over his face, his expression caught somewhere between restlessness and intrigue.

Want more intrigue, John thought, pulling the man's head down for a kiss.

Fuck, but it was Sherlock Holmes, a man with a mind like an engine beneath his hands. John kissed the man's mouth softly and Sherlock followed suit, leaning down to copy him. John didn't want to mess anything up, wished for a moment he had spent his life sleeping with more men, cataloging exactly how to do this. John moved to the man's neck, biting against his collar.

"-Come -bed. -Work -have -nothing -more -do -tonight," John signed, pulling away. Sherlock looked uncertain and John moved in to kiss him again. Sherlock pressed his face into his neck, smelling at his hair.

"John-" he started, and it sounded too uncertain.

"-Sleep, -don't need," John promised. Sherlock's face lit up, a smile twitching at his mouth. He leaned down and John grinned, kissing him again, stepping back toward the kitchen. Sherlock moved forward, pressing him back again.

"We need to put lube in this room," Sherlock complained and John laughed, agreeing. Sherlock pressed him back again, moving his hands over John's chest and John happily backed up toward the bedroom.

~~/~~

"-Wait -that -mean -he -already -kill -that -man -how?" John asked, holding up the photograph of the second crime scene floor. It was just another alleyway to him.

"Footprints," Sherlock mumbled, not looking up from the tube schedule from five years before. The was apparently an ongoing collection of them in their bookcase. John had had no idea.

John scanned the photograph again but he still didn't see any footprints. He picked up the still-shots of their quarry the police had gathered and started going over them again. Thomas Hoyleden walking into a bank; walking into a casino; a composition of video feeds from inside the casino. John shoved the tape in and let it play, pretending he was doing something useful before Sherlock exploded. The man was barely able to stay sitting down. The case had dragged on for far too long due to foreign police incompetence.

John blinked. The camera wasn't zoomed up, but he thought – John took out his own wallet, glancing at his card. Blue. Okay. He watched the video again. A green card – yes, that's what he'd thought. John pulled himself out of his chair and shifted to where he'd put Hoyleden's items. The wife had sent them everything she'd had. Which – yes, he'd remembered right – included his wallet. And his green credit card. John rewound the tape.

Why was Hoyleden at a bank that wasn't his?

"Sherlock," he called, before he turned. Sherlock was snarling at the papers in front of him. Right; he was an idiot. John waved his hand quickly and Sherlock turned to him. John held up the card and the picture of Hoyleden entering the bank, knowing that would be enough. Sherlock's eyes widened.

"He's with Cheryl Ager," he said, a grin breaking across his face as he vaulted out of his chair.

Who? John wondered but Sherlock looked ecstatic and he didn't bother asking, grabbing for his coat instead. It was midway through April but the nights were still cold and he had a feeling they'd be out for awhile.

~~/~~

Yes. Sherlock felt the thrill of the chase settle over him. This was not a series of dead ends anymore. John had handed him the answer and he could focus now, his mind as clear as day again. John and all his discomfort had faded into the background as it should.

Cheryl Ager, the only female employee at the bank. Sherlock had thought the man had been dressed too nicely. The police tapes caught nothing but an aborted attempt to threaten a bank teller into allowing a withdrawal over limit.

"Ha!" Sherlock laughed aloud. Now to find Ms. Ager – likely the new Mrs. Hoyleden now. Sherlock had crowed with joy when John had called the bank and confirmed that Ager had simply transferred to a different bank. He ran out of the cab. Now they just had to confirm Hoyleden's presence before they alerted the Inspector.

~~/~~

John watched Sherlock stand serenely in front of the London flat block as the children were escorted back into the arms of their hysterical mother. Lestrade and Donovan were standing with them, looking fairly overwhelmed. Sherlock's maniacal grin had yet to fade. The thrill of the chase still upon him, then.

"-Smile -less -maybe? -Scared -mother -and -all?" John stated. Sherlock turned to face him and his eyes caught John's gaze before slowly raking over his body. John raised his eyebrows, surprised as hell.

Sherlock grabbed John's shoulder and pulled him slightly, turning him toward the cab behind them. John let him.

"Come on, John! There's an owl in our bedroom I want to get back to," he demanded, striding for the cab.

John practically felt Lestrade's eyebrows rise.

Well. That secret won't last long, he thought, nodding slightly to himself. He didn't look at either of the Inspectors; they could stare all they wanted. He strode after Sherlock, glad to see the man waiting; something Sherlock only did for him.

~~/~~

A black limo pulled up in front of the clinic the next day, just as John was walking out.

Of course.

John stepped inside, knowing he'd rather submit than get caught in a ridiculous power play with the elder Holmes.

Anthea – or whatever her name – didn't look up from her phone and John pulled himself in beside her, suddenly wishing he'd looked up the definition of psychopath between learning a new language and getting involved with his flatmate. She said nothing and John followed suit, happily uninterested in pursuing her.

She led him to a grand marble home by 10 Downing. John followed her inside, guessing he knew where he was. It was easy to imagine Sherlock here. The home was an old Tudor style monstrosity and the front door was pulled open for them, revealing an entry way of heavy furniture and deep-colored rugs. Anthea led him through the home and up a grand staircase to bring him to a set of double doors at the end of the upstairs hallway. She tapped on the heavy oak door and John took the time to glance around the wide hallway, trying to imagine a child growing up there. It wasn't easy.

"Enter," Mycroft's voice called lightly and Anthea pushed the door open for him. Mycroft was seated at a large, bare desk but he stood up as John entered.

"John!" he welcomed, as if surprised, "please, sit down."

John nodded his thanks but stayed standing. He heard the door close behind him and Mycroft smirked slightly, returning to his seat.

"So, I understand you have engaged in a sexual relationship with my brother," he stated.

Right. Of course Mycroft would just state that. John nodded to himself, pressing his lips together.

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business," John replied steadily. Mycroft smiled slightly, evidently catching the parallel.

"It could be," he answered, his lips pinched in his creepy version of a joking smile.

"It really couldn't," John replied. Mycroft nodded quickly and got up from his desk to walk over to the small table of drinks he had set by the window. He glanced at John and John shook his head, refusing.

"You know, Sherlock never had any interest in sex before you came along. Ever wonder why that is?" Mycroft drawled as he poured himself a scotch.

John felt his eyebrows furrow, remembering Sherlock standing at the door frame, uncertain how to start anything - only to be so eager to touch him anywhere he could.

"Somehow I find that difficult to believe," John replied. Mycroft turned back and leaned on the edge of his desk.

"Because it's false. Still, I wondered if that was the appeal of it. The first lover to Boffin Sherlock Holmes. Flattering, I imagine, and I understand there's a great deal of publicity involved in it lately,' Mycroft replied easily before taking a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning over John's face.

John had a feeling he was halfway through some elaborate test.

"Right, are we done?" John demanded, turning to go.

"Why did you learn sign language for him?" Mycroft asked as John walked for the door.

Because I love him.

John froze. Mycroft was definitely not being the first to hear him say that one. John pulled the door open.

"Have you told him?" Mycroft asked.

John walked out, grateful as hell he remembered the way out on his own.

~~/~~

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope when John tapped him again. He said he was busy; he'd just started this experiment after the sex last night and he'd only had half of his brain on it at the time. It was only because this was the work that he didn't have to redo the first ten slides.

John was frowning at him. Angry with him, worried, or uncertain. Sherlock thought back; he hadn't done anything that day that had not yet been tested post-relationship and in those trials nothing had changed. Angry with someone else, then? Only Harry could get the man frowning so deeply. Impossible to know if she'd contacted him. Worried, perhaps? Why? Or another emotion entirely?

"-He -come -back," John signed. Pronouns didn't have gender in their sign language. It was intolerable. She? He? It? Lestrade, Mycroft, Anderson, Molly, Angelo – he wasn't due back from vacation for two days – Peter Ricolleti – had escaped or something similar? Lestrade would have called – Moriarty? Lestrade would not have texted over something Anderson or Molly said; Angelo did not have their number; John wasn't bothered by Mycroft anymore. Oh, hell. Harry or Moriarty, then.

John showed him the text, confirming it. His hands were sweaty but dry at the fingertips; he'd been reading something on paper.

Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x

He was back. Sherlock glanced at John's face, wondering if the man knew yet that this was going to ruin everything. Probably not.

~~/~~

End of Part I

A/N: Look for the alternate endings "At a Loss" or "Actions Speak Louder". The ending "At A Loss" is currently being reworked into a stand alone story titled "To Kill a Mockingbird". Subscribe to my author page to receives updates for To Kill a Mockingbird and Actions Speak Louder, or visit my author page at GwendolynnFiction at Archive of our Own. You can post the following link after the Archive of Our Own URL. Happy Reading!

/users/GwendolynnFiction/works

Gwendolynn