Before you begin, there are a few things I need to clarify.

This is the second in a series, Sang being the first, and this story takes place after that. It is not necessary to read Sang first, but that is the case I wrote in which the boys come to grips with their feelings for the other and what transpired in that story will be alluded to here and there.

Chronologically, this series can take place anywhere you would like in the BBC series. The only direct references to the episodes in series 1 and 2 will be from A Study in Pink (because obviously this would be after that), so that you can imagine this wherever you would like, pre or post Reichenbach.

Thank you for reading! :)

The woman lingered beside the ornate railing, peering at the river beneath her. Anticipation and fear pulsed through her, coursing through her veins as she braced herself for the icy plunge. The hum of conversation around the woman faded away as her heartbeat dominated her mind. Refusing to look away from the water, she deftly climbed atop the railing. Whether the emotional stress had finally taken a toll on her or the lack of physical activity had weakened her exponentially, a wave of exhaustion crashed through her body. Despite her reputation, she had never been a spiritual woman, yet she couldn't help but send one last prayer, the first of many to possess sincerity, before she pushed herself off of the ledge.

Silence fell as her body crashed into the murky river.

John Watson was having one of those days, the sort where everything seemed to go wrong. Even the staunchest of realists would wonder if fate was against them on such a day the doctor was experiencing.

Nothing monumentally horrible had transpired; it was merely a buildup of little problems. The clinic was overflowing with flu victims, one of which vomited all over John. Dozens of patients, some pleasant and others disagreeable, whining about their problems or making a big deal out of small ailments.

Normally, this didn't bother the doctor. Or, at least, it didn't bother him when his phone was silent.

Sherlock had texted John no less than forty times within the first hour and a half of arriving at the clinic. They were random messages, mostly composed of boredom complaints or updates on odd experiments that didn't seem to have a purpose until whatever findings they produced proved meaningful on a case. John would reply haphazardly when he could at first, but his responses lessened steadily throughout the day until the doctor didn't even bother to glance at his phone when it buzzed. As his patients grew more numerous and the gap between his replies widened, the detective began texting him more.

Sarah was blatantly obvious about her disapproval towards said texting, making a point to snidely comment on the disrupting messages whenever she could. John knew she didn't like that Sherlock texted him during work, but she hadn't ever made a big deal about it like this before. She knew that he worked efficiently regardless of the detective's intrusive behavior.

Despite usually possessing the ability to shrug off hostile commentary, John found himself literally biting his tongue to keep harsh retorts from being verbalized. It was especially challenging to restrain himself when the cleverness in her barbs began to wane.

Truthfully, Sherlock was annoying John almost as much as he was annoying Sarah, but John had learned the hard way that turning his phone off was not an option (Lestrade had showed up at the clinic with news of an experiment exploding in their kitchen; Sherlock was physically unharmed but the kitchen was a complete disaster). Of course, his phone was only able to chime or vibrate; both options equally annoying when the detective was texting.

Rain streamed from the sky as John finally left the clinic, trying (and failing) to get a cab. Stubbornly refusing to go on the tube, the doctor walked home, his normally favorite weather adding to his mounting frustration.

When he finally reached Baker Street, he groaned aloud as he clapped eyes on the familiar expensive vehicle stopped in front of their flat and a familiar assistant hovering in their doorway. He contemplated turning around and fleeing, but Anthea heard his sigh and motioned for him to enter. He contemplated avoiding the flat but then refused to flee from his home. Stomping past Mycroft's assistant, John traipsed up the stairs and hovered in front of the closed door. He glanced at the watery footprints trailing behind him and winced. He made a mental note to apologize to Mrs. Hudson later.

"You can come in John!" The detective called, his voice muffled through the closed door. Whatever guilt John had felt vanished as his irritation reemerged.

He barely restrained himself from violently flinging the door open. Despite his restraint, the brothers ceased their squabbling and looked up at the doctor as though he had burst into the room in a dramatic fashion.

"Mycroft, why are you here?" John inquired, all but sinking into his chair.

"If you had paid attention to my texts, you would know why," Sherlock interrupted, his chastising tone clashing with the strange gleam in his eyes that had emerged after their case with Madison Bender.

"I was a bit busy you know. I do have a job, and I can't be checking my phone the whole time."

"You already have a job as my assistant. Why you think you have to go work is-"

"As much as I am loathe to interrupt a lover's quarrel, I didn't come here on a social call," Mycroft interrupted, stepping away from Sherlock. "I need my brother's assistance." The words were all but spit out of the elder Holmes' mouth, blatantly disgusted. He waved a file in the air then held it toward Sherlock. The detective scoffed and waved his hand dismissively at his brother.

"I'm not your sniffer dog; you can't just order me to do your dirty work."

John was torn between amusement and aggravation at the childish behavior of the geniuses. He cleared his throat and reached for the files. Mycroft turned and relinquished them to the doctor. "It is imperative that you read this."

"Will do," John replied, rising from his chair.

Mycroft smiled, though it didn't meet his eyes, and promptly left the flat, though not before reminding Sherlock that it was key to the safety of London. This time it was John who scoffed lightly as he closed the door behind the elder Holmes. "Drama queens, the lot of you," the doctor muttered as he walked to the kitchen for a cuppa.

"I'm not a drama queen," Sherlock indignantly hollered from the living room.

"Please, next to your brother, you're the most melodramatic person I know," John replied after his cuppa was made and he was back in his chair. His aggravation still lurked deep in his mind, but exhaustion dominated his thoughts and body. Fighting the urge to sleep, the doctor moved to look at the newspaper.

"Dull; there's nothing for you to read."

"I don't read the same things you do Sherlock; besides, we don't usually get cases from the papers."

"Yes, well, clients have been scarce lately."

"Maybe if you didn't refuse a majority of them, more people would come to you for help."

"No, that's not it. My selectiveness never bothered them before, and I don't see why it would now."

"Quite frankly I'm every bit as annoyed as you; your boredom is interfering with my work."

Sherlock looked sharply at John, his mouth slightly agape. The doctor prepared for a snarky comeback or scalding insult, but nothing escaped the detective's lips. The slightest hint of sheepishness blossomed on Sherlock's face, tinting his pale cheeks a light pink and sending his gaze to the ground. It wouldn't have been noticeable to anyone but John, and the knowledge that he was allowed to witness the slight displays of weakness eliminated the lingering irritation.

It was over in an instant; the detective hopped out of his chair and strolled into the kitchen, peering into stereoscope.

John lingered in his chair for a little while longer, finishing his tea in quick gulps. When the cup was empty, the doctor smiled and walked to the kitchen sink, brushing past Sherlock. He touched the detective's shoulder as he placed the dish into the sink, his thumb lightly running over the purple shirt. Sherlock leaned slightly into the doctor's touch, and a smile graced both of their faces.

"I'm going to order dinner, Chinese okay?"

Sherlock ambiguously grunted, and John interpreted it to be an affirmative response.

The doctor moved to the couch and reached for the remote, the telly blaring to life. He aimlessly strolled through the channels, nothing interesting enough was on that made him want to continue watching, though several movies popped on that were decent.

Sherlock plopped down on the couch next to John, his body pressed against the doctor's right side as he wove their fingers together. John continued to flit from channel to channel until he found a game show the detective was fond of hollering at, and he stopped there.

As the deductions began flying from the detective, a bemused chuckle bubbled within the doctor, escaping his lips as the sound of knocking floated into their flat from the front door. He rose from the couch and lumbered down the stairs, pulling out his wallet. John paid the delivery boy, took their food, and carried up to the living room.

He strolled into the room and handed Sherlock his food. The detective grunted and lightly picked at his meal as the doctor dug in. The stress of the day was long gone, banished by his detective (despite the fact that he had been a prime source of said stress), the only remnants an empty stomach that was quickly being filled.

It was astounding how quickly someone could make everything better with just glances and touches.