One more time. Just…Once more. He was certain that was all it would take. Just a brush of their hands. A light touch of skin on skin. A millisecond of contact.

When John was five, a light touch against his neck was what had set the whole thing off. It was clearly meant in a loving way but the effect was quite the opposite. Sean Watson had always been a kind, loving but very quiet person. He had meant the world to John and looking back John knew that it wasn't a one-sided devotion. But with that minimal touch, his father's innermost feelings were revealed to John in a way that had just been too intense for a five year old to bear.

The sun was shining from a bright blue sky, its reflection blinding in the brownish pond. In the distance, John could hear Bill and Charlie Denton laughing while they were obviously playing tag. He was positively buzzing from the effort it took not to run over the street and join them. He was bored out of his mind with his sister gone on a school trip. No, he'd have to ask his parents first. His father was sitting on a lawn chair, sipping from a can of beer that must have been fresh out of the fridge. It was wet from condensation and looked ridiculously refreshing. It was one of those days where his Mum would lie in bed all day claiming to feel ill but was in truth just hung over and moody. Even though he hated those 'moods', he welcomed them because it often meant that he would have a quiet day with his father. But not today. Today he wanted to run and scream with the Denton-Twins (And probably enjoy the sun out of the coolness of their swimming pool.).

John let his gaze wander over their backyard, watching a bee buzz through the small flowers that were growing all around the edge of the pitiful tiny pond his father had burrowed two years ago. They had tried to house various animals in there but never managed to keep them alive for more than a week. At least they had bees now.

John came to stand right beside his father who, too, seemed to be watching their newest lodger. The memory of Sean Watson, slowly reaching out to cradle his son's neck would later be so vivid in John's mind that it's going to make him shiver in anticipation for the rest of his life.

There was this second where they were both sharing a content smile and then the fingertips reached john's neck. Suddenly, there where fingernails tearing at his arm. All he could see was a deep red pulsating light that shone out of eyes similar to those of his mother but all that was drowned out by his father's screams of fear, pain and shame. His ears were ringing from the intense agony wrenching at his guts before everything abruptly stopped.

The next thing John remembered was his father's worried face and his hand under his head. In panic John scrambled backwards. He was drenched in sweat, tears were stinging in his eyes and his head was aching where it had hit the ground. And all he could do was to stare at the scratch-marks on his father's upper arm.

Years later, John finally understood what all this had meant but by then it was too late to fix the bond that was shattered that day. Too late to be there for his father and tell him to leave his abusive relationship behind. Though, not too late to despise his mother for the rest of his life.

When John joined the army he had already trained himself to avoid physical contact if possible. His colleagues at Barth's had made fun of him for his being 'too cautious' by always wearing gloves, even when they were just simulating doctor/patient scenarios, but it offered the perfect excuse for his odd behavior. The fact that, in a warzone the next injured could arrive at all times gave him the opportunity to carry gloves with him wherever he went.

Hot wind was blowing sand grains into his tanned face. A sensation he had gotten used to after the first month but one he could none the less live without. The sound of the helicopter got louder and more insistent as it drew nearer and John shielded his eyes against the burning sun to find the perfect moment to start a sprint towards the landing site.

As soon as the vehicle touched the ground, John ran to the injured closest to him, crouched down and loosened the straps around hip and feet. He had long stopped thinking about every single step that would be required to get his patient from the airfield onto his operating table. It was only a matter of seconds and the patient was on a stretcher and inside the operating room.

Inwardly, John took notes of the many injuries he recognized at a quick glance while his body went through the process of preparing the soldier in front of him for the operation. There was a small wound at the man's temple and some at his legs but they were clearly just scratches. Above all, the soldier's chest looked as if someone had tried to kill him with a blunt fork. John could barely make out a few patches of tanned skin between the massacre that was this man's torso. In the back of his mind John knew that there was nothing he could do but he was not the kind of doctor that gave up on a patient.

He had only tended to a third of the actual injury when the heart alarm went off. As horrible as it was, nobody panicked or did even raise his voice. Two other heart alarms were resounding in the operating room. It was not a rare occurrence. John tried to reanimate his patient but only managed to keep him alive for as long as he worked his heart. Life-sustaining measures were nothing for the front lines of Afghanistan. Exhausted, he stopped his arms in their repeating motion and pulled of the gloves. His heaving breaths weren't loud enough in the cacophony of noises and screams and so wasn't the hesitating beep of the heart monitor. John looked at the clock that was hanging on the opposite wall while he made to take the soldiers supposedly non-existing pulse. He didn't look at the heart monitor or into the patient's half lidded eyes. When his hand brushed the skin on the soldier's neck it was too late. John felt his heart clench in his chest. His skin was burning, burning as if it might vaporise and dissolve into thin air. Leaving only bare flesh behind. Painful and unguarded. But all that paled in comparison to the raw, undamped fear that surged through his veins and bleed from the corners of his eyes. It's force made John's body tremble, the blue spots in his vision press against his eyelids, forming images of people he had never seen and … Just so, it was over.

Quite literally so. The soldier was dead and John felt that he too had lost something.

When the bullet struck through his shoulder John didn't immediately understand what happened. He looked at his hands to make sure that he'd had no skin on skin contact to the Afghani lying on the muddy ground in front of him. Uncomprehending, he stared at the man's unharmed shoulder before he clutched his own with the right hand. The jolt of pain that flashed down to his fingertips was what finally made him understand. It was him. He was injured.

He hated his intermittent tremor. Not because it made him look weak. No, because every day one of the doctors would take his hand and look for the faintest tremble or a sudden twitch. And there would always be something to see. His attempts to pull away were seen as a reaction to pain. The trembling caused by the intense emotions that kept on paralysing his whole body was judged as neural damage. All John could do was to try and suppress his reaction.

After two weeks of constant poking John achieved more than he had dared to hope for. He envisioned a waterfall which he had seen a painting of in the hospital corridor. He concentrated on the sounds of splashing water and the peace he wanted to feel. It took him too many tries for his taste but in the end he had control. For the first time in his life, he actually felt in control over himself. Well, apart of the faint tremor that overcame his left hand every now and then.

Fair enough, he mused.

"Well you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who's the first?"

Sherlock kept on asking John why he always chose boring woman. The only answer John gave him was a scandalized look.

"They are not boring Sherlock! They are just nice and easy to get along."

He could hardly tell him that he chose women with a simple emotional functionality out of pure pragmatism. As Sherlock kept on pointing out, John wasn't one to miss out on a chance for sex. Especially, now that he was able to control himself. He hadn't made a lot of experiences before. Well, certainly not as many as he had liked. Sure, he'd had sex but he had more than once made the mistake to touch emotionally broken and damaged girls when he was young. It wouldn't do to lose control in a passionate moment and end up miserable again. The nice and simple women he chose guaranteed that all he would 'receive' was a faint warm glow and the sensation of contentment.

Still, he didn't take any risk when it came to physical contact. He was so used to avoiding casual touches that it had become his second nature. And he didn't have to concentrate the whole day on the, by then, various images that served as a wall between him and his…gift.

With Sherlock's ridiculously huge intellect John came to know a strange new sensation. Sometimes, when John's defense mechanisms were down and he was totally at ease with himself and his surroundings, he could actually see Sherlock's mind work. Not that he saw the neurons fire or synapses connecting. It was nothing logical. Just a colorful dance of strings and ribbons which were faintly glowing and moving in and out of the top of Sherlock's head. It remembered John of the Aurora Borealis . He knew he should probably question his sanity or doubt his own perception but it seemed to be just another extraordinary feature of Sherlock. And frankly, John enjoyed watching Sherlock's mind at work.

To most people, Friday nights were a welcome opportunity to visit the pub, meet friends or catch up on the latest crap telly. To John, Friday nights were to be spend at home. He had long ago developed the habit of falling asleep with a warm tea on his bedside table and a book resting on his chest.

Sometimes he already fell asleep on the couch while watching old episodes of Doctor Who but he always woke up when the credits rolled. Sherlock apparently didn't mind or even notice it at all. More than once, John had woken up to Sherlock staring intensely at him but not batting an eyelash when John actually stared back at him or simply got up and went to bed.

It would have been just another Friday night if Sherlock hadn't had other plans, entirely. John had dozed off about an hour ago. The previous week had worn him out. With two cases solved and four shifts at the A+E it had been a chaotic and exhausting up and down between stand by and work. John had been constantly hungry those past days and had felt the need to catch up on his nutrition in just one evening. He passed out right after.

John immediately recognized the shape in front of him. The colour, movement and sound were familiar and calming. With every beat the surrounding firework of colours was broken by small waves. Rhythmically and perfectly in sync, the shockwaves pushed the colours forward and exposed even more variety in luminescence and shading. In the center of it all beat an anatomically perfect heart. If he wanted he could perfectly name Vena Cava, Aorta and the different parts of the actual heart but he just marveled at the beauty that was presented to him. Before it slowly blurred and disappeared.

"John."

The first thing he noticed upon opening his eyes was not the unusual closeness of Sherlock's face or the hands on his thighs. It was the slight smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth and the all-consuming calmness inside of him. He watched Sherlock slowly leaning back, biting his lip out of a nervous habit that John found endearing but none the less suspicious in this very moment.

"You woke me?"

"Yes." Sherlock tried to appear nonchalant but failed miserably.

"Why?" Strange, how he had meant to ask something else and ended up asking that.

"Your..back. It would hurt tomorrow if I hadn't." Sherlock grew more confident throughout the sentence. By the end he got up and straightened his back as if the conversation about John's bad back had caused him pain as well.

"Well, that's nice. Thank you, Sherlock."

"No Problem." He answered, making a dismissive gesture with his hand while he walked into the kitchen.

"So…I am off then. Good night!" John's head was spinning from all the things he didn't dare ask. His back was already sore and he stretched languidly before he got up from the couch.

"Hmmm."

Even before John reached the door to the stairwell he heard Sherlock's door fall shut. He fell asleep immediately the moment his head touched the cushion. It was the best sleep John had had in years. Or possibly decades.

After exactly 8 hours and 17 minutes he woke up well rested and awfully confused. Sherlock must have touched him. It must have been Sherlock's heart that he had seen. But maybe it had just been a dream. Or it was just wishful thinking that…

He couldn't be sure.

One more time. Just…Once more. He was certain that was all it would take. Just a brush of their hands. A light touch of skin on skin. A millisecond of contact.

Sherlock fancied he could sense the moment when John opened his eyes. A small shift in the atmosphere of their flat that told him that another mind was at work inside these familiar walls.

The sound of bare feet on the wooden floor above him and a tiny yawn were the final proof that John had decided to join the living once again. Sherlock counted the seconds it took until John had overcome his hesitation and opened the door to the staircase. A clear indicator that John was uncertain about the events of last night. He might even want to talk. Sherlock sighed from the depth of his being.

If John asked why he had used his lips to wake him what would he say? I've been watching you for months now. You never touch anybody. Well except for those mind-numbingly boring women you call your girlfriends. If somebody makes you shake their hand you look so concentrated. So very controlled. I hate that. I hate that you never touch me. Not even accidentally. Never. I've been trying so hard. I invaded your personal space. I was close enough to smell the awful cologne you use. Even close enough to notice how well it fits your natural scent.

Sherlock groaned in frustration and rolled on his side, turning his back at the door to the kitchen.

I know that you watch me sometimes. Not really me. The air around me, around my head. You look so amazed and surprised. I don't know what you are watching in those moments but I know that I want you to look at me like that every day.

Pathetic, really.

Sherlock had spend a lot of time speculating about what John might see when he was watching him like that. He had no doubt that John's avoidance of touch and the astonished observing were somehow connected. There just wasn't a way that those two behaviors were shown by the same person, coincidentally.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was a mere whisper on the other side of his door. "Sherlock, are you awake?"

"Yes, John." Sherlock drawled.

"Um…Would you like some tea?" How very British of you John.

"Give me a minute in the bathroom and we can have the conversation you, so desperately, want to initiate." He kept his voice even and added a hint of boredom hoping that John would get annoyed and just let the topic drop. After a few seconds he heard John prepare two cups of tea and some toast.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock forced himself to leave the safety of his bed.

When he entered the Kitchen, John had already set out two plates with toast and was trying to appear relaxed. He failed. Sherlock sat down opposite him, picking up his cuppa and waiting for the interrogation to begin.

"So..um. Did you sleep well?"John fidgeted awkwardly on his chair, staring into his tea as if it held the answer to life, the universe and everything.

"Why don't you ask the question you really want to ask?"

"I..ok." John sat up and willed himself to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Did you…kiss me last night?" A faint blush appeared on his face before his pupils dilated slightly. Interesting.

"If you will."

"What the hell does that mean?" John had raised his voice a bit but not enough to be heard outside of their flat. His hands fell on the table, each side of his plate.

"Did you wake me up by pressing your lips on mine?" He forced the words out between his teeth in an obvious attempt to keep calm.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to fidget though he fancied that he did it with more dignity.

"Yes." His eyes moved unsteadily from one point to the other of their own accord. He pushed a whole slice of toast into his mouth to bypass the stunned silence that suddenly filled the room.

"Ok. Why?" Something seemed to have settled inside John. His voice was perfectly calm and, if anything, the question sounded genuinely curious. Only his eyes betrayed John's inner conflict.

"I wanted to know what would happen." Sherlock stated in his best 'I am a scientist'-voice.

"Aside of me waking up confused and irritated?" A clear accusation.

"Aside of that, yes. Why do you never touch me? Or anybody else, for the matter?"

"I touch people every day, Sherlock. I touched Denise and Sarah, as you know." John's face was a mask of irritation but Sherlock didn't miss the body language of a man being caught.

"You did. You shake hands sometimes and you touch your so-called girlfriends but you never touch people accidentally."

"Well maybe you are not as observant as you think!" John stood angrily, throwing his untouched plate into the sink before he leant against the worktop, his face hidden from Sherlock's view.

"We both know that, if I wasn't we wouldn't be having this conversation. So tell me, John. What did you see?" Sherlock considered it best to just go for it.

John turned around as if someone forced him at gunpoint to do so. His slow deliberate movements spoke of determination and…rage.

"What?" He stared Sherlock dead in the eye.

"I want to know what you saw. I know you saw something. I am certain that, if a touch catches you off-guard, you always see something. Some sort of synesthesia, I suppose." He narrowed his eyes at John trying to assess if he was on the right track.

"Maybe you even sense something. Whatever it is, it must be quite…irritating. Why else would you avoid it at all times? Well, apart from the times when you fully know what to expect and are therefore somehow able to control your natural reaction."

"Stop it, Sherlock. You sound ridiculous. That's just insane." A threat was hidden in that sentence. A threat that Sherlock had no problem to understand.

"I won't tell anybody, if that's what you're worried about."

"There is nothing to tell." They stared into each other's eyes both standing their ground until John broke the contact and turned away. "I am not hungry anymore." He finally stated, his voice sounding tired and hurt. Angrily, he stomped out of the kitchen and up into his room before he threw his door shut, making the cups on the kitchen shelves clink.

Sherlock took his cup from the table and walked into the parlour where he immediately forgot about it the moment it was set down. Annoyed, he wrapped his dressing gown around himself before he fell backwards on the couch. Stupid, stubborn John.

That was not how Sherlock had imagined the conversation to end but it wasn't the worst that could have happened either. The worst would have been John refusing to ever touch him again.

John was standing in the middle of his room. After his dramatic exit that was followed by an even more dramatic bang when he 'closed' the door, he had just stopped raging. Right there and then, he stood still and stared into nowhere.

John knew he was fooling no one. Especially not Sherlock. It had just been too much to ask. He couldn't just tell someone all of a sudden. He had never told anybody. All his life he had feared to be declared insane. He didn't even know how to describe what he saw and felt when he touched someone. Not that he hadn't thought about it. It wasn't something to be easily grasped, though. Not even for him so how should he be able to describe it to Sherlock of all people? This…gift of his had nothing to do with logic. Unlike Sherlock, he couldn't just turn it on and off. Well, maybe they were quite similar in that. John knew that Sherlock had no choice either when it came to stop seeing more than others.

He didn't even have the impression that Sherlock doubted his ability so why had he reacted like a moody adolescent?

Come on, John. You know why.

Yes, he did. He wasn't afraid that Sherlock would doubt his sanity. He was afraid that he would believe him. That he would believe him, and that John wouldn't have the chance to see him again. That Sherlock would avoid being exposed and laid bare by the simplest touch.

That he wouldn't want to kiss him again.

John took a hesitant step backwards before he turned around and stared at his door. He wanted to move. He wanted to go down and tell Sherlock everything there was to know about his strange skill. But maybe, just maybe, there was a lot more to gain than sympathy.

Sherlock was lying on the couch, purple blue and yellow ribbons were twisting and turning above his forehead. Colliding and mixing up every now and then, they were moving in a graceful dance around each other. Although, John held his breath when he entered their living room, he could pinpoint the exact moment Sherlock sensed his presence when the colourful play vanished abruptly.

For a full minute, no one said a word. Eventually, John lost his patience and made to sit on the coffee table, clearing his throat to announce that he was about to break the silence.

"You really want to know?" Sherlock opened his eyes and looked expectantly at him, nodding for John to go on.

"It's not very easy. I never actually had to describe it, so be patient with me." Sherlock slowly sat up, leaving his thinking pose behind to show John that he was willing to listen.

"I see colours. Mostly. It's very rare that I actually see something figurative. The colors differ from person to person and seem independent of the emotions I receive through the touch." At that Sherlock looked surprised but kept silent.

"Almost always I can feel what the person feels. Not only on an emotional level but on a physical one, as well. Pain, Exhaustion…Pleasure. It is as if I was the one feeling them."

"Does it work without touch, too? If you want it to, I mean. What about intentional touch?" Sherlock's eyes shone with curiosity, faint colours were filling the air around him.

"No. Granted, I never tried. But I never touched someone only to see what I'd receive from them or felt anyone's emotion by just looking. Though, I have to admit that I never saw someone else's mind working before, either." John smiled uncertainly at Sherlock, giving a little shrug to express his own lack of knowledge about the topic.

"So you…See my mind?" Sherlock asked, arching a brow.

"In a way, yes. I see the activity, it's agility and …yeah. All colours of the rainbow." He tried to be funny by making an all-encompassing gesture with his hands but John was sure that Sherlock knew he was meaning it.

"And what did you see when I …touched you?" Now it was Sherlock's turn to blush. John couldn't stop himself from giving him a cheeky grin. He had hoped that Sherlock would ask him again and not get lost in the analysis of John's gift, halfway through.

"I am not sure. Maybe I dreamt, maybe I really saw something."

A faint smile graced the corner of Sherlock's mouth. The air around him seemed a bit too purple all of a sudden. "How unfortunate. I suppose a control experiment could give you some certainty?"

John nodded as if he was considering but he had a hard time keeping a straight face. The whole situation was so strange and unfamiliar that he didn't really know how to proceed.

"Probably. Would that be alright?" He searched Sherlock's face for the tiniest hint of uncertainty but found none.

"Naturally. For science." Sherlock stated comically, sitting upright and holding his chin a bit higher than necessary. They shared an amused smile but sobered very quickly in the face of their new reality. Until then, John hadn't noticed how close they were sitting but now he felt that their knees were touching. Sherlock's warmth seemed to creep through the fabric of his jeans, an almost touch that made him crave more.

Cautiously, John leant forward. He was just about to close his eyes when Sherlock pressed his index finger against his shoulder to stop the motion.

"It wouldn't be very scientific if we changed the conditions, would it?" John was way too perplexed to react when Sherlock got up and walked out of the room but he didn't miss the worried look crossing his face.

The last thing he heard before Sherlock's door closed was the Consulting Detective's deep commanding voice.

"You have to be asleep. And don't think that I am done interrogating you."

It had been the right decision to delay their experiment. Sherlock was sure about that. Not just for the sake of science. (He laughed a bit at that.) In the quiet of his room he could be honest with himself and admit that it was a gut feeling that had made him leave the situation. He was still amazed that John actually wanted to be kissed again. By him of all people. And, above all, there was the nagging fear that John might not like what he saw the next time they kissed. What if John saw what Sherlock always saw when he looked into the mirror? What if he saw something even worse?

At 3 o'clock Sherlock stood in front of John's door. The last fifteen hours had been quite challenging. Although, Sherlock had no problem staying in his room all day, he found himself listening for John's movements every now and then. The one time he had left his room, John had watched him like a hawk. It was evening by then and Sherlock's own anxiety had increased continuously. Both of them had as much to lose as they had to gain. Even though Sherlock was aware of that, he didn't manage more than a reassuring smile before he fled into the relative safety of his room. There and then, he vowed that, if John wouldn't smile into the kiss this time, he'd never touch him again or ask him what he'd seen. Hopefully, he was gone from John's room before he even knew that anything had happened.

He silently opened John's door and stepped over the threshold. In an obvious attempt at romance, John had lit a candle on his bedside table. It was almost burned down but still strong enough to shed light on the sleeping form in the middle of the bed. Sherlock stepped closer, hesitating only briefly before he carefully knelt beside John's relaxed body. He leant downward, supporting his weight with his left hand against the headboard, all the while watching the features of his flatmate's face for a hint of awareness. Finally, certain that John was asleep, he closed the gap between them. Without haste, he touched his lips against John's.

Just for the first few seconds. He closed his eyes.

It was raining in soft drops that immediately formed a small puddle between John's collarbones, before they ran further down over his chest. It was calming to watch the yellow and purple beads on their way down, even though John had to squint to be able to follow them through the blue-grey mist surrounding him. The immense shockwaves that drove the drops rhythmically closer before pulling them back were making it even harder to observe the peaceful play. John tried to concentrate on the feeling of the colorful rivulets engulfing his body when he felt a pang of worry and the spectacle began to fade out.

Somehow, Sherlock had lost himself in the sensation of soft lips and warm skin. Shocked, he noticed his mistake and made to pull back, his eyes opened wide and a wave of anxiety overcame him at the thought that he might find John being shocked, or worse, disgusted. His eyes hadn't adjusted to the proximity of their faces, yet, when he felt John's left hand at the back of his head pushing him down and against his lips. He nearly fell over by the sudden movement, barely managing to catch his weight with his right hand on the mattress. But when the initial shock abated there was nothing else filling his mind than John's lips moving against his own and the fingers tangling in his hair.

When John woke up all he could see were coulours and dark curls and… that he was snogging Sherlock Holmes as if there was no tomorrow. Even though he instantly decided to enjoy this unexpected present, his small moment of hesitation caused Sherlock to pull away.

Silence stretched out between them while they both searched each other's faces, trying to assess the situation. Then John grinned. He couldn't not grin at the sheer absurdity of the situation. And then he grinned even more when he saw Sherlock's relieved expression.

"John?" Sherlock sat back on his heels and smiled uncertainly. "Good?"

"Very good." John nodded a bit too much from excitement.

"So? What did you see?"

"Come here." Sherlock's irritation, when John padded the mattress beside him and indicated for him to lie down, didn't last long. Side by side, they leant against the headboard and stared off into the distance.

When John began to talk, the tension in Sherlock's body was almost palpable but John's description of the first experiences with his strange gift soon piqued his curiosity. John told him about his father and how he'd had avoided touching anybody from his early childhood tried to make him understand how vulnerable he had felt most of his life until he had learnt to control his reaction due to his injury. Superficially, he described his first sexual experiences and how much had gone wrong at them due to his gift. Now and then Sherlock asked for details, his scientific nature getting the better of him. When John's account reached the evening of their first kiss and he mentioned the anatomically perfect details of the heart he had seen, Sherlock seemed to be even more intrigued. John couldn't remember ever having seen his flatmate with such a childlike expression of wonder on his face. He ended his narration with the pang of worry he'd felt before waking up, suspecting that it was Sherlock's emotion he had felt.

"What do you think it means?" Sherlock asked, looking as if he was seeking confirmation for his own theory.

"You tell me. I told you everything I know about it." John replied with a shrug. He didn't want to put words in Sherlock's mouth or frighten him off with his assumption.

"Even though, I'd rather hear your theories? Well, the heart with all it's details and steady beat is a very logical image. The colours on the other hand…" He peered at John from the corner of his eye.

"Yes?" John inquired amused. The candle slowly died down, leaving the room dark and making their situation somewhat more intimate.

"Not very logical. Maybe a projection of your subconscious mind."

"You really think?" John had a hard time feigning thoughtfulness. "No other possible explanations?"

"A very, very unlikely one. " Sherlock tried to sound highly professional.

"Oh?"

"Were we talking about an average mind, what we are not, I'd suspect that the colours are a sign for a profound emotional attachment to…you."

"Quite a long shot." Although Sherlock couldn't possibly see him in the pitch black room, John nodded while he raised his brows and pursed his lips as if the thought hadn't occurred to him.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"You are a terrible liar."

When John finally gave in to laughter, the mattress beneath them shook and Sherlock let out an annoyed huff of breath.

They spent a few minutes in the comfortable silence they both often shared. John was already dozing off but Sherlock's hushed voice startled him awake again.

"Do you mind?"

"Mind what?" John mumbled, rolling on his side to face Sherlock. He didn't have the strength to open his eyes again but lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to signal that he was listening.

"The colours." Sherlock stated awkwardly.

"Not at all." John said, smiling to himself. "Go to sleep, Sherlock." To emphasize what he meant, John put his arm around Sherlock's middle and contently snuggled up against his Shoulder. After a second he felt Sherlock's lips on his temple, sending a haze of purple behind his eyelids.

"Good night, John." Sherlock whispered, making himself more comfortable and moving just a tiny bit closer to John.

Sherlock had left the bed when he woke up. John entertained the possibility of having the lie in he had almost every Sunday but the prospect of kissing Sherlock Holmes again made him way too excited to remain in bed. First things first, though. Brushing his teeth was very much in order before the experiment could go on.

But John hadn't expected to find an entirely different experiment when he came down into the living room. Sherlock was sitting on a blanket in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but boxers and his blue dressing gown. His eyes were shining with excitement when he saw John entering the room.

"Sherlock?" John was so occupied by letting his gaze wander over Sherlock's pale skin that he needed a few seconds to meet his eyes.

"It's an experiment." Sherlock stated cautiously.

"I thought as much." John said with narrowed eyes. "I suppose it has something to do with my..Synesthesia?" His good mood was decreasing with every word and Sherlock did obviously notice it. Hastily he scrambled to his feet and took the few steps towards John.

"It does, but I think it will be satisfying for the both of us." Mischief was written all over his face so clearly that John tilted his head to the side and smiled sheepishly at him.

Sherlock brought his lips dangerously close to John's ear. "We already know what happens when our lips touch. Do you think the result is different depending from where I touch you and which part of my body I use?" Whispering seductively, Sherlock let his breath tickle John's earlobe before he stepped back and looked expectantly at him.

A shudder ran over John's back and made heat pool low in his belly. "I…I don't know." He stammered, seeing his flatmate's pupils dilate in the face of his sudden arousal. Sherlock took a few steps back, coming to stand right beside the blanket. With a gesture of his hand, he invited John to take part in the experiment.

Sherlock hadn't been sleeping for long the night before. That in itself wasn't very surprising. He never slept more than a few hours. That he woke up and immediately wanted to go back to an experiment was a known occurrence to him, as well. But waking up wanting to snog his even-more-interesting-than-before flatmate? Well, that was a first. Problematic though, because he didn't know how to initiate honest physical contact while he wasn't playing a role. It had never been necessary before but he supposed John wouldn't appreciate if he would act as anybody than himself. His relief that John didn't instantly dismiss him after he had seen him last night was still tangible and it made him feel elated to say the least. It was 7 am when he slipped out of bed and made his way into the parlour, but not without kissing John's temple once more and watching a small smile appear. Time to plan his next steps.

John sat down on the blanket but before he could get comfortable Sherlock told him to remove his shirt and pajama pants. Slightly embarrassed, John got stuck in the hem of his shirt when he hastily tried to pull it over his head. When he eventually lay down on the rough duvet he felt stark naked under Sherlock's scrutiny and his pair of grey boxers didn't help one bit to calm his nerves.

"What about breakfast?" John tried lamely.

"No."

"Um…But…" Sherlock silenced him with a hushing noise and knelt down beside John's waist.

"Close your eyes and describe what you see and feel." Sherlock demanded dryly. John held his breath, anxiously waiting for the first touch of Sherlock's skin.

He should have expected that Sherlock would slightly change the test conditions to see how much the results would differ. That is to say, the first touch came from Sherlock's lips on his hipbone. With a barely open mouth Sherlock kissed along John's waist, breathing damp air onto his exposed skin.

"What do you see?" He asked huskily.

"I see big droplets of purple bursting in mid air. A yellow mist surrounds every little burst. I feel …hopefully what you feel." John was breathing heavy now. Sherlock's lips had just reached his neck and John felt a hint of teeth against his skin before a soft kiss was pressed below his ear.

"And what do I feel?" The words were a deep rumble that made goose bumps bloom all over John's body.

"Heat. And …."

"Yes…?" Sherlock slowly kissed a trace down to John's sternum, still not touching him with more than his lips.

"Arous-al?" John's voice had turned into an embarrassingly high squeal when Sherlock nipped hard at his right nipple.

"Good. Very good, John. What about the colours?" He asked innocently as he took both of the doctor's hands and pushed them onto the floor above his head.

"Purple!" John groaned out. "It's always purple in some way. They are other co-ah-colours too but it's always purple." Sherlock had positioned himself atop of John, his knees on each side of his hips and his lean torso stretched out above him. Gently, he bit into John's right shoulder taking care that their chests didn't touch. His hand seemed to burn into John's wrist, sending sparks of red into his fingertips. John wasn't sure if the impressions were too much or not enough but he was willing to let Sherlock have his way for a bit longer.

"Keep your hands where they are." Slowly he loosened his grip before he cautiously sat back, pressing his lush arse down on John's lap.

"Christ!" Sherlock smiled self-satisfied at the desperate groan.

For a short moment John had moved his arms but eventually managed to hold back before he got a hand on Sherlock's hips. Suddenly, the world around him turned bright scarlet. He felt two hands on his rips making their way down to his belly in a languid caress.

"Scarlet!" He exclaimed for a lack of something else he could do.

"I hope you are talking of a colour because that's not my name." Sherlock said with a smile in his voice which too had turned husky by now. John lay beneath him, panting and covered in goose bumps.

"ye-ah…" Sherlock lightly rocked his hips, feeling John's arousal press against him. Trying to provoke another moan he leant down and licked a delicate stripe down from the left nipple to the prominent hipbone. Although, he had been ignoring his own body's reaction, he was sure that John felt that he was close to his breaking point.

Deliberately, he stopped touching any part of John and slowly stood up. Standing above his almost naked flatmate did nothing to temper Sherlock's need as he hastily discarded his boxer briefs, before he forcefully got rid of John's, who seemed to have fallen in some kind of religious frenzy, whispering non-stop Oh, God. Oh, God...

Sherlock pushed his legs apart to make space to kneel in between them. Again, he let his hands travel up and down over John's torso, this time not stopping at the hipbone but caressing even lower. He rested his hands on John's thighs, moving his thumbs in circular motions.

"Colour?" He whispered.

"All of them." John breathed out. Around him, the universe fell apart. Shooting stars were exploding into millions of bright colours, tinting his world differently every passing second. All he could feel was Sherlock's touch on his skin and inside his mind. He needed to open his eyes. Now.

"Sherlock." John looked straight into his eyes, stretching an arm out towards him. As soon as Sherlock took his hand, John pulled him down, encircling him in his arms. Tentatively, they began to move against each other.

"Ribbons and strings. Yellow, purple, green and blue. They are moving around you. Around us." John moaned in between words. The delicate friction they created with their cocks aligned stole the breath from his lungs but he wanted to share this, all of this, with Sherlock.

"The colours are so clear right now. Some are glowing but some are faint and barely there. But they all belong to you." Sherlock had his eyes closed, imagining all the things he was told while his body's demand for more arose.

"John!" His voice had a pleading edge to it but he was too far gone to care.

"I know Sherlock. I can see it. So beautiful. So perfect." John grabbed his hips to hold them in place, fighting to keep his eyes open to watch Sherlock's mind envelope him. He moved against Sherlock in steadily expanding waves. Pushing up harder and faster. Following his body's lead and the signs he saw in Sherlock's dancing colours.

Sherlock was panting into his ear, the intensity of warm breath falling onto his skin increasing gradually. The ribbons began to quiver and tighten around their bodies and the only word John could think of was luminous.

And then Sherlock came. The ribbons exploded from him, floating above them torn apart into a million pieces. All John could do was to watch until his world turned black with the force of his own orgasm.

"I forgot to take notes"

"Pity.

Monday was torture to John. After spending all of Sunday on the floor of their living room, barely talking but languidly basking in the afterglow, his motivation to work had reach a new low. The constant need to touch and the lingering arousal that accompanied him through the day were slowly driving him mad. One uninteresting patient followed the other while John tried to drag his thoughts out of the gutter. He wasn't sure if it was just him but on the list of long boring days this one was definitely in the top five. Additionally, he kept on wondering what Sherlock was up to. Was he, too, having a hard day? John was so distracted that he drifted off in the middle of a back exam. The woman was bent over when he just stopped his examination having his hands on her hips. His embarrassment when the patient awkwardly cleared her voice made him blush up to his ears and step back in a hurry, searching frantically for something else to do.

When his day at the A+E was finally over, the way home felt eternally. He couldn't wait to be with Sherlock. To touch and be touched without having to hold back. The perspective alone was making his heart race in a way that told him enough about his own emotions.

Upon entering 221B, he instantly noticed that something wasn't right. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to lie on the couch all day 'thinking' but that would mean that John would see all kinds of colours floating through the air above Sherlock what he definitely did not. Although the room seemed to be greyer than usual.

Silently, John watched the emptiness surrounding Sherlock's unmoving body. Uncertainly, he hovered in the doorway before hanging his coat over the hook and shutting the door.

"What is it?" He asked while he crossed the living room.

"Hm?" The nonchalance didn't fool John for a second.

"Oh, come on. Can we not do that?"

"Do what?" Sherlock's voice was too cold for John's taste. All day, he'd been craving his touch and now he felt as if something was taken away from him.

"Grey, Sherlock! The whole damn flat is… grey." He had no control over his voice as it cracked in the end.

"Stop that. It's annoying. I am already bored with it." Sherlock said with a dismissive gesture before he turned his back at John.

A pang of dread shot through the doctor's chest and brought with it blinding rage and desperation.

"No…!" John began to yell, grabbing Sherlock's wrist to make him turn around and face him…The rest got stuck in his throat when flashes of blue, black and scarlet filled his vision and sadness tugged at his heart with fierce unrelenting claws.

As if he'd burned his hand, John pulled away. Eyes open wide and shaking his head, he took a step backwards only to be stopped by the coffee table. He came to sit hard on it in his attempt to take another step.

"What did I do?" He asked in disbelief. "Sherlock, what…?"

"You did nothing, John. Nothing at all." Sherlock answered cooly, sitting up to face him.

He wrapped himself into his dressing gown….And then, suddenly, it struck John.

"Green." He stated confidently.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, clearly not in the mood to ask any questions.

"Apple green." John emphasized.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"If you had my gift and you'd touch me, you wouldn't see something logical like a heart. There would definitely be apple green, scarlet and royal blue. Probably some orange, as well. I quite like orange. But nothing logical, at all." With caution, he took Sherlock's hand in his. He could still feel the sadness even without the flashes of colour that were slowly fading into the general chaos of Sherlock's mind.

"I knew you would feel exposed and I didn't mean to lay you bare without giving anything back. I was just…happy, you know. I forgot that, while your colours told me everything I needed to know, I could have been more vocal about my own." Sherlock laid his head back and gave him a challenging look.

"I know you are not going to ask but I will tell you anyway." John smiled at him, squeezing Sherlock's hand for a moment.

"Because I think, considering my average mind, the colours may be a sign for my profound emotional attachment to you."

"Obviously"

Sherlock's hand twitched in his before John felt it relax into his touch. He wasn't sure if the feeling of fondness was his or Sherlock's but he mused it didn't matter. Relieved, he leant closer and gave Sherlock a long lingering kiss. And it was all Sherlock could do to close his eyes and drown in a sea of scarlet, orange and apple green.