NOTE: This chapter is pretty G-rated, but the next few will work their way up toward an "M," I promise!

John hates when Sherlock is bored. The first three days weren't so bad - Sherlock slowly came down from the high of the last case, sleeping for fourteen hours straight and then clattering around in the kitchen with some foul-smelling experiment John was afraid to touch. But the fourth day brought back the spontaneous 3 AM violin concerts, which were mostly dissonant scraping noises, and the sixth day involved Sherlock taking apart the microwave into dozens of tiny metal bits and then soaking the entire pile (and much of the kitchen table) in homemade acid. John took one look, turned around, and went out for a walk. Sherlock was gone when he came back. John texted Mycroft the next morning, just a precaution, and tried not to worry.

Sherlock stayed gone for two days. John came home from the surgery on the eighth day post-case, closed the door behind him, and took less than five seconds to realize something was very, very wrong.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was sitting, frozen, hunched over on the sofa. Staring at a small amount of white powder piled carefully on the coffee table. John's heart stopped.

"Are you - did you -"

"I want it, John." Sherlock didn't look up. "I bought it and it's right there and I need to get out of my goddamned skull and I've just been trying to hold off until you got back but I don't know if I can any longer." His voice sounded hollow, a frail shell of its normal melodic self. "I need it."

John took a deep breath and fought to suppress the adrenaline suddenly rushing through him. Sherlock had bought cocaine. Sherlock had bought cocaine, but hadn't used it. Yet. Sherlock had bought cocaine but hadn't used it yet because he was waiting for John. Hoping John could save him from himself.

Right then. John shrugged off his coat, hung it up, then silently went to sit cross-legged on the oriental carpet in front of the fire. He felt Sherlock's gaze on his face, but he didn't turn.

"Come here," he said quietly, infusing as much steel in his tone as he dared. "Sit facing me, Indian-style, knees touching mine."

Sherlock made a small sound. "You're not going to . . . yell? Throw away the cocaine?"

"No. I will help, but it has to be your choice. You need to trust me for it to work." John let his hands fall loosely on his thighs, palms down, and closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until he felt the light pressure of Sherlock's knees against his own. When Sherlock had stopped moving, John looked up and found his flatmate mirroring his own posture, albeit with a question in his eyes.

"Hands out, palms up."

Sherlock licked his lips, opened his mouth to ask a question, but obviously thought better of it. And complied. John took Sherlock's hands in a gentle grip and pressed the pads of his thumbs into Sherlock's palms.

"Eyes on mine. Don't talk - just focus on me. Focus on me. Focus on me. Focus on me . . ." John repeated the words until they were just sounds, until they had lost all usefulness for conveying meaning. He hadn't done this in ages, not since his first year in the army and one of his army mates introduced the squad to meditation. It had seemed a bit silly then, at first, but they all had tried it a few times and John had privately thought it helped, at least a bit. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock's, willing his face into impassiveness. He wondered idly when he had given this up.

"Focus on me. Focus on me. Focus on me." Sherlock's brows were lowered slightly - confusion and curiosity. But he was no longer quivering, no longer about to jump up and steal the cocaine away to his room. And he was focused on John's face. John used his peripheral vision to read Sherlock's body language and vital signs - his chest was moving slower now, his breathing deeper and more even. His pulse, if John had been able to time it, should have been slowing as well. The lines of his posture said Sherlock was relaxing, giving in to the repetition. "Focus on me."

John kept it up until Sherlock began to sway. Just the tiniest little bit, but it was enough to prove he really was affected by the slow and steady monotone. John let the chant die off, but kept his eyes on Sherlock's.

"Half an hour, Sherlock. I am going to give you half an hour to deduce me."

Sherlock blinked and swallowed, pulling back into himself a tiny bit. "Deduce you?" he echoed.

"Observe me, read me, and let that guide your actions. Keep your focus on me."

"What should I do?"

John lifted his chin a fraction. "Whatever you think will make me happy. Half an hour, Sherlock. Go."

Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes growing a bit brighter at the challenge. "John Hamish Watson, younger of two children, sister Harriet, goes by Harry. Alcoholic, which you don't like but feel like you have to tolerate -"

"Not that," John interrupted. "Not my past. Deduce me right now."

"Ah." Sherlock straightened his spine a bit, settling into his "deducing" pose. "Long day at the surgery, at least two difficult patients -"

"No. Not talk; do."

Sherlock stared one more long moment, then gracefully - and silently - rose to his feet. "Will you sit here the whole time?" he asked quietly.

"I will remain wherever you think I want to be."

Sherlock nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. John arched his back, extracting a sharp crackling sound, and pulled out his phone to set a 30 minute timer. He took one more glance at it, to ensure there wasn't anything likely to draw his attention away, then silenced everything except the alarm and slid the phone across the floor until it fetched up against the leg of the desk. No need for that distraction until time ran out. He closed his eyes again, let his palms fall back on his thighs, and forced himself into stillness.

He lifted his head precisely four minutes later, when Sherlock reappeared with a cup of tea and a sandwich. Two sandwiches, John amended - he had (correctly) deduced that John would prefer him to take in some calories himself. John accepted the tea and the plate and sipped in silence.

Sherlock waited until John had finished both his tea and his sandwich - and until he had finished most of his own - before offering a hand to help John to his feet. "Go upstairs and lie on your bed face-down," he said quietly. "Your shoulder is paining you."

John opened his mouth to protest - a nap wasn't really what he had intended - but Sherlock looked so earnest and serious and John found he didn't want to interfere with whatever fragile thing was happening right at that moment. He heard Sherlock picking up the used plates and teacups as he headed up the stairs to his room.

It was military-neat, like always, but he hadn't bothered to make his bed that morning. John debated changing into pajama pants and a t-shirt, but his shoulder was hurting. He ultimately compromised, toeing off his shoes and socks and pulling off his jumper and climbing under the rumpled covers still in his shirt and work trousers. The sound of the kitchen sink running came from downstairs. Sherlock rinsing their dishes.

The door creaked open a minute later. John turned to look over his shoulder - Sherlock, hands still damp, watching him intently from the doorway.

"You're not tired," Sherlock said. "Too curious about what I'm doing. But a patient fell against you today and jostled your shoulder, and you can't quite get the scarred part of the muscles to relax."

John nodded.

"I can help, if you'll let me." Sherlock drew closer, stretched out a hand to trail his fingertips lightly over John's injured shoulder. "The scar is paining you, a massage will loosen the muscles, therefore a massage would make you happy." A pang of uncertainty crossed his face. "Did I deduce correctly?"

"Yes." John closed his eyes and buried his face in his pillow. It figured Sherlock would know how to give a massage, just like he knew everything else - the man was a bloody sponge when it came to strange skills. And he did have those long, agile fingers . . .

The second touch, when it came, was beautifully gentle. John made no motion toward removing his shirt, and Sherlock didn't ask. He just lowered himself onto the edge of the bed so he could lay his palms flat on John's shoulderblades and started rubbing little circles into John's skin through the fabric. The circles gradually grew into firmer glides, up and down over muscles John hadn't even really realized were sore. Sherlock carefully worked every trace of stiffness out of John's shoulder, then his fingertips drifted upward to the nape of John's neck and worked all the tension out there as well. John let out an involuntary moan at the sensation. He immediately regretted it, but Sherlock merely huffed softly and ignored the noise.

John really had intended to stay awake, but the distant ringing of the alarm on his mobile brought him out of a near-doze. Sherlock's hands were still trailing over his back, gently but with just enough pressure to bully his strained muscles into submission. John stifled a yawn and rolled over onto his back. Sherlock was staring down at him with an intense expression.

"Better?" John asked.

Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded. "I didn't . . . that was good," he finally said.

"Are you ready to go flush the cocaine?"

"I was intending to do it already, when I finished the dishes, but I thought you might want to watch. To make sure I hadn't just hidden it." He ducked his head. "I considered it," he admitted, "but it wouldn't have made you happy. So I didn't."

John grabbed his hand and squeezed. It wouldn't have felt like such a natural gesture an hour ago. "Thank you."

They went back downstairs together and Sherlock flushed the white powder down the toilet. John watched, nodded, then went to go order supper.