Part III. Fallen Into Sentiment

The conductor announced they'd arrived back in London. John hadn't even been gone for a full day. It seemed that he was rather crap at running away. Or maybe that it was just nice to be found again. They walked out of St. Pancras Train Station and into the bustling streets of London. It was late in the afternoon, and John's stomach was rumbling. He hadn't eaten a decent meal in over two days. Sherlock tugged at his sleeve and John followed, ducking into a small Indian restaurant that smelled like bliss.

Sherlock didn't eat, which wasn't unusual, and John didn't point out when he nicked food off his plate, which also wasn't unusual. If John closed his eyes he could almost pretend that the last twenty-four hour hadn't happened. That his emotional roller coaster was a figment of his own overly active imagination.

"Tell me something that no one else knows about you," He requested between mouthfuls of food, feeling selfish to know Sherlock's secrets for some reason.

The consulting detective hummed in thought. Normally he would disregard John's inquiry, scoff at him for prying (and thereby breaking rule number one on their cohabitation list), but he knew that he'd nothing to hide anymore, especially from this ex-soldier who had already bared his soul.

"When I was a child I wanted nothing more than to run away and become a pirate."

John bit his lip, "Why a pirate?"

He shrugged, "Independence on the high seas, no one to tell you what to do, crime, adventure, treasure. The usual reasons children enjoy fantasies."

John smiled at the thought of a small Sherlock, face rounder and countenance innocent, wearing a red pirates coat and a patch over one eye with his curly black mop disheveled as he stared longingly towards the sea.

"I always wanted to be an astronaut." John remarked. "Land on the moon."

"I'd have assumed you were the firefighter sort,"

"Since I'm a doctor or because I was a soldier?"

"No, because of your innate desire to assist those in need, take action, fight impossible battles. An astronaut does none of those things."

"Maybe that's why I went into medicine. Becoming a space cowboy sounded dull, almost tediously easy." John grinned, the expression splitting across his face without his knowledge. "The solar system is so boring."

Sherlock smiled back, genuinely and boyishly. "Well, does 'Consulting Doctor' make the cut?"

"I'll have to think on it," John teased. "Chasing suspects across London rooftops, getting trapped in skips, sewage drains and freezers while being shot at, solving puzzles and crimes… It's all very questionable."

"It passes the time." Sherlock affirmed. Then he hesitated a moment before adding, "I won't break any rules on the list ever again, John, or at the very least I will do my utmost to try and avoid doing such."

"Sherlock, it was never really about you not telling me you were going to perform the autopsy ahead of time. Anyway, I'm over it. I forgive you."

He opened his mouth to add something but Sherlock's mobile buzzed on the table between them. Pulling it out he glanced at the text.

"Another body, this one found in Brixton. You coming?"

John threw his napkin on the table, tugged a few bills from his pocket, then gave Sherlock his most affectionately fond grin. John was trying to push the point that everything was forgiven, at least for now. This particular grin was the one that made the detective never want to see that expression on John's face for anyone else besides him, ever again. That grin always gave him an ugly possessive feeling of want.

It gave Sherlock the urge to do something he'd never desired before; to kiss the grin right off of his face and replace it with a vastly different array of expressions.

"Always," John told him.

New Scotland Yard was a short taxi ride away. John still had his duffle with him, wrapped around his back, and the heavy winter clothes he wore were cumbersome. They strut into the yard like they owned the place, Sherlock with a bit more flare and John with a bit less finesse.

Lestrade met them in his office and glanced up from his computer, "Where the hell were you, mate?"

John wasn't sure if the Detective Inspector was addressing him or Sherlock.

"I made a quick trip to Ilfracombe to retrieve something that belongs to me." Sherlock said breezily, making John nearly choke on his spit.

"Ilfracombe, like on the other side of the UK?" Lestrade repeated warily, looking between the two of them like they'd grown an extra head apiece. John was trying very unsuccessfully not to blush slightly.

"Irrelevant." Sherlock insisted.

"Alright, I'll put that firmly in the realm of I really don't want to know," Lestrade said mostly to himself. "The body was found in a skip outside Brixton, 6AM, by a jogger. This time the kid was three blocks away from the Thames, no twine, more obvious signs of struggle."

"A deliberate change in pattern."

"Or a mistake." The Detective Inspector confirmed, "ID confirms eight-year-old Hannah Alberton, she was on a class trip and disappeared around the Brixton Market. The body is already in the morgue-"

"You removed the body from the crime scene before I could look at it?" Sherlock snapped, irritated.

"Well, forgive me," Lestrade snorted sarcastically. "The body was called in at 6AM and you were nowhere to be found and not answering your texts. We couldn't just keep her there for the better of the afternoon waiting for whenever you would deem us worthy to grace us with your presence. Body's in the morgue. Crime scene photos and paperwork on my server. Get out of my office."

John and Sherlock traveled on the elevator down to the Scotland Yard morgue. John felt slightly guilty and a little overwhelmed over the fact and knowledge that for possibly the first time in his life, Sherlock put The Work on the back burner and instead went to find him. The doctor felt something akin to pride.

This morgue was a forth the size of the one at Barts and less high tech. The low lighting and counters made the space appear expertly sterilized and professional. The child was stored inside a standard issue body bag, a tiny lump in a giant black shroud. Sherlock pulled gloves on and opened the zipper down to its base, peering at the body.

She was less than four feet tall, brown hair, fair skin. Her clothes, a yellow jumper and blue jeans, were filthy and torn. No shoes. She had red marks on her fingers, a sure sign of struggle. Her lips were also bruised and cut. Sherlock examined her teeth. Traces of blood.

"She got one last good chomp," John murmured.

Sherlock slowly examined her entire body, peering at abrasions on her arm beneath his magnifying glass.

Afterwards, John sat at the table by a microscope and addressed him, "So, walk me through it."

The detective nodded, pulling up her stiff hand and wrist, "The attacker was quick, barely gave her time to respond. He probably nabbed her in a restroom, which can be confirmed from her post-mortem defecation. He injected her with the same chemical cocktail as the other victims, but she was moving too much and the needle snapped."

Sherlock pointed to a small mark, barely noticeable. "She didn't get the full dose. He took her to a secluded area, an ally most likely, I'll have to examine the soil from her clothes. She awoke halfway through his assault, struggled, probably started screaming. He used his hand to cover her mouth and she bit him. Cause of death was a fatal injection of ketamine. Probably a quadruple dose based on the track marks. This one didn't go the way he planned, so he left her in the skip."

"That skip must've been close to the scene of the crime, then," John knew Sherlock was already way ahead of him. He'd recognize that glazed yet intense look on his face anywhere. Sherlock was in his mind palace. John waited patiently for him to sort through whatever mental files he needed to.

"I think we should go to the crime scene," Sherlock hummed, turning away, fingers slipping up to his face as he placed his thumb on his lip. "John? Will you send a text? To Lestrade. Exactly these words: DNA can be matched between victims. Send body to Bart's for confirmation. SH & JW."

"And JW?" John mused, pulling out his mobile and typing the message in.

Sherlock gave a small smile, "Well, you are my partner."

John bristled, "Yeah, about that, what were you trying to pull with Lestrade in his office?"

"Simply helping him avoid the subject and move on to relevant information."

"I do not belong to you." John remarked, voice even despite the fact that his cheeks flushed.

Sherlock simply raised his eyebrow into his 'you are an idiot' expression and dramatically exited the room. The crime scene in Brixton was through a maze of slum apartment surrounding a giant market. The river was four blocks away. The skip seemed unremarkable at first glance. Sherlock knelt down to examine the bin, his eyes scanning over the walls before turning back to John.

John was visibly exhausted. He obviously didn't sleep much or very well the night prior, and Sherlock knew he'd been working long hours the entire week. Dark smudges haunted under his eyes and the lines on his face seemed older and more haggard. It was getting late in the evening, so Sherlock nodded at his companion and they hailed a cab.

"221b Baker Street." Sherlock told the cabbie.

"Not Bart's?" John asked, budging over to let Sherlock slide next to him.

The detective shook his head, debating if he should tell the truth or lie. He'd been admitting to far too much sentiment in the last twenty-four hours and his dignity could hardly bear it.

"Molly can do the tox screen herself so it does not require my presence. You are tired. We'll go home and you can sleep until we get more data. I need to think for a while."

John got a strange look on his face, as if he needed to sneeze. Sherlock was trying to be considerate, John hummed to himself in awed realization.

Sherlock pouted waspishly and snarled, "What, now?"

"I just, um, wow. Well. Hmmm." John crossed his arms over his chest and smiled bemusedly out the window.

Sherlock could feel his patience snapping in three, two-

Instead of responding, John reached over and placed his hand gently atop Sherlock's leather gloves and gave a small squeeze. Sherlock stilled, glanced down at their hands resting between them, and looked out the window instead. He still wasn't quite sure what this was about, but John was smiling a little pleased smile and cupping their glove-clad hands together and Sherlock didn't want to say anything because he was afraid he would let go.

For a long minute, each second Sherlock counting in his head, John held his hand. When they got home, John released him like nothing happened and pulled out his wallet to pay the cabbie.

They marched inside Baker Street together. John dropped the duffle that he'd been hauling around all day with a relieved huff. He pulled off the double layers of coat he was wearing and stuck them on his peg by the door. The flat had been returned to a slightly cleaner version of what it normally looked like, and for that John was grateful. He toed off his shoes and went straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"Alright, so what do we know about our suspect?" Sherlock inquired from where he was gracefully throwing himself into his customary chair.

"That he's a child rapist, potentially a necrophiliac and murderer who needs to have his dick lopped off?" John suggested.

Sherlock gave a smirk, "All factual, yes, but I was hoping you'd go further."

John poured two spoonfuls of sugar into Sherlock's tea and a dash of milk into his own. He brought the trey over and sat comfortably before handing the detective his steaming beverage.

"He must know the area of the Thames very well?" John suggested as he cradled his own tea, warming his fingertips.

"Yes, and that his appearance must be relatively unnoticeable since he picked up each of his victims in high-traffic areas."

"Not another bloody cabbie?"

"I was thinking more of a freighter or boatman. They have a view of the harbor from the water, and the first three victims were found in isolated pockets not easily accessible from land. So, then, by water. Yet he'd have grab his victim, get back on the boat without anyone noticing, commit the crime there then dump the body? Unlikely. He lured the children to the boat."

"But all the kids were last seen nowhere near the Thames."

"A message?" Sherlock mused, "No, I'm thinking blackmail."

"What does somebody blackmail a child with?" John sounded disgusted by the prospect.

"Pertinent question." Sherlock confirmed. "I'm not sure."

Sherlock's mobile chimed and he quickly scanned the message. "DNA was a match between victims. Molly said this one had alcohol in their system also."

"Why would a eight-year-old on a school trip have alcohol in their system?"

"DNA was no match in the crime database. Which discards our theory that the suspect is a violent criminal."

"Just because he didn't get caught doesn't mean he never committed a violent crime," John reasoned.

"Yes, but the vicious manner of these attacks leads me to conclude our man couldn't manage to hide his temper from day to day life, ergo he is not an angry man."

John's eyebrows scrunched on his forehead, "You lost me."

"Drug user." Sherlock stated, setting his tea down. "Likely a calm and likable person on the surface, easily trusted by a child at first glance, enough that he could get close to them to give them a message of some sort. Then he waits for them to meet him, drugs them after."

"Why not drug them instead of give them a note?"

"Two reasons. A man carrying an unconscious child will inevitably draw attention. If he drugged them and gave them a note simultaneously then the children couldn't come to him without appearing suspicious or collapsing. Children are remarkable actors and can often hide their intentions, so blackmail first, drugs later. The kids came to him."

John sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, "Well, on that cheery note, I'm going to shower and take a kip."

A dark head bobbed his acknowledgment, he was already lost in his big brain. John strode the bathroom, turned the faucet on as hot as it would go, and got undressed. He stood under the scalding spray, not moving, hands splayed on the wall in front of him. What a hell of a day, he thought. What a hell of a twenty-four hours. Luckily he hadn't been scheduled at the A&E, but he'd have to call in tomorrow if he was planning on finishing the case with Sherlock.

He was still a little amazed with himself that he was back home. He'd been so prepared to block Sherlock Holmes out of his life forever and start over, no matter how agonizingly painful that process would be. If Sherlock hadn't come to get him, he would probably still be moping in a hotel room. But now he was back at 221b with his maniac roommate obsessing about their current case he was undeniably relieved. This kind of life wasn't normal, but it was his normal and that's all that mattered.

Sherlock came to find him, to set things right. The genius dropped a serial killer case to bring John back home. And John knew that the words they'd shared wouldn't automatically and magically righten all of their problems, but it was a start. John knew he was hard to live with, and made concessions left and right, but he'd never thought about how often Sherlock did the exact same. Turning off the water, his skin was a healthy pink. He toweled himself off, put on his dressing gown and grabbed his clothes to head upstairs. Sherlock was still in his chair, hadn't moved a muscle except to cradle his violin to his chest. John debated saying good night but figured Sherlock wouldn't hear him when he was like that anyway.

His bed was utopia, his sheets the finest luxury. He closed the curtains from the last vestiges of sunset and curled himself under his sheets and John was fast asleep moments later. Sherlock woke him five hours later, at two AM. He didn't wake him with his usual shake on the shoulder, but instead politely knocked on his door until John heard him.

"Wha-?"

"Lestrade thinks he may have found the suspect," Sherlock murmured from the hallway. "We're needed at Scotland Yard."

"Oh," John replied, voice groggy, "Ta, give me five minutes."

Sherlock nodded and spun back down the stairs. The military taught him to get dressed in a heartbeat so he used that skill to good use. Pulling on a pair of jeans, shirt and jumper he also tugged his warmest socks on, the pair Ms. Hudson had given him for Christmas. His gun was resting on his bedside table. He checked the ammo and hid it under his shirt. Wallet and cell phone were next, he was glad he'd remembered to charge it. Glancing around he absently wondered why he couldn't find his house keys.

The next thing he knew his coat was shoved at him and they were in yet another taxi. He idly wondered how much the pair spent since they'd met on taxi rides. Sherlock was busy on his cell phone, probably googling who-knows-what. John cleared his throat.

Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, "Last night a man was found, unconscious, in a boathouse alongside the Thames. He was mumbling nonsense and the owner called the police. James Tylern, 28-years-old, ferrymen. Tylern was so out of it he didn't notice the police taking a swab of his saliva."

John frowned, "Saliva?"

"Enough for a confirmation that the DNA matched. We are going in to question him."

"Damn," John pouted, intending to sound overly dramatic.

"What?"

"No chases over rooftops or anything! The damn coppers found this guy for us. This Consulting Doctor stuff is pretty dull," John's tone was warm and playfully teasing.

Sherlock huffed a laugh, unable to help himself, "Agreed! They can't all be a 9 out of 10. However, I will be eager to find out how he managed to lure the children, what pretense he utilized."

"It's probably going to be disheartening, freaky and slightly perverted in the bad way." John hazarded a guess.

"Fascinating, then." Sherlock confirmed.

John chuckled, glancing in amused disbelief at his flatmate. Sherlock maintained a slightly pleased smile on his face. People who didn't know the man wouldn't be able to tell, but John had long since memorized Sherlock's smile, in every form it took.

"Um," John spoke after a long moment of companionable silence. "I don't think I can sit through this entire interrogation. Not after seeing those kids. It's just a little too…"

"I understand." Sherlock assured him, thinking of the great wealth of knowledge he'd learned about John in the last couple days. John stripped himself metaphorically bare in the train for Sherlock, and just as the great doctor wore the people he'd killed like a set of scars, Sherlock would as well. The genius sleuth hadn't believed in heroes. Then he met John Hamish Watson.

The next few hours were a blur as they took continual statements from James Tylern. Turns out, Sherlock was right on all accounts. The man was a ferry driver who had no criminal record. He'd gotten into meth a few months prior, and mixing that with LSD boiled holes into his brain. He admitted to killing the four children, laughed about it on record. Said that he took photos of the kids in the bathroom and told them if they didn't come to the harbor he'd send them to all their classmates. This confused John behind the two way mirror until Lestrade reminded him that most grade school children owned cell phones now, that it was the norm. The children followed and John left the room while Tylern described how he drugged, raped and murdered them. He could stomach a lot, but this wasn't something he needed to hear.

Sally Donovan brought him a bitter black coffee as he lounged in some chairs by Lestrade's office. She sat on the chair beside his and stared him down curiously. She looked like an interrogator trying to deduce someone a bit not right in the head.

"Sick man, that," Donovan remarked. "Lestrade told me the Freak did one of the kid's autopsies back at your flat. Don't know how you can live with such depravity."

John felt his hackles rising, "If by sick man, you are referring to the disgusting excuse for a human being that raped four little girls before murdering them, you are right. If you're talking about Sherlock, than you've really got your priorities fucked with."

Donovan smirked, "You defend him like a bulldog. Never understood how the Freak found someone so loyal."

His shoulders tightened unconsciously as he forced hateful words back down his throat.

"It's all for the best," she mused. "At least this way we know he's not the one raping and murdering children yet-"

"Shut the fuck up, Sally Donovan." John snarled in his Captain Watson voice as his temper snapped, jolting to his feet and looming over her like a wolf and his prey. "How very professional, calling him a freak. Left primary school, yet? You will live and die and never be one fourth of the human being Sherlock Holmes is. Yeah, he performs autopsies in our flat when the Bart's lab is full. But guess the fuck what? The DNA he found nabbed the fucker over in that interrogation room," John pointed at the closed door. "And that man is the true Freak."

John took a deep steady breath. Donovan didn't seem to know what to say, she stared up at him like he'd just gone off the deep end.

"If I ever hear you talking about Sherlock like that again, or calling him a freak, I will report you. You're a cop, act like one. Leave him the fuck alone and do your goddamn job."

John took off down the hall before she could even open her mouth. As he tore down the halls he watched people glance up to stare at him. He didn't care in the slightest. His fury was still pumping like a drug through his veins, his anger at Scotland Yard's treatment of Sherlock too palpable for him to handle. Sherlock had dealt with these ignorant fuckers his whole life, with nobody to stand up for him. He couldn't imagine Mycroft Holmes sticking up for his little brother and Sherlock never mentioned any pervious friends. It bothered John, and made his stomach twist. His mobile chimed in his pocket.

5:56 AM
Location?
SH

5:57 AM
Outside north doors.
Needed air.
JW

6:00 AM
Stay there.
SH

Sherlock arrived a few minutes later as John stared into the distance blankly just beyond the doors. Sherlock tucked his scarf tighter around his neck and stood by John's left side.

"He's irrevocably pleaded guilty. Lestrade is processing evidence as we speak."

"That's good," The words blew puffs of visible air past his lips. "Let's go home?"

"Lets." Sherlock agreed.

Without speaking they'd both nonverbally decided to walk the fourteen blocks home instead of catching a cab. It was chilly out, but the sun was bright and the sky was clear and another serial killer wouldn't be preying on London streets any longer. The case was over. To think it could have been his last.

"What did he say?"

Sherlock frowned towards his snow-clad shoes in contemplation, "It's all very unpleasant and unoriginal. Bares no need repeating."

"I see."

The consulting detective sighed, staring up again towards the roofs of London apartments and shops, "Donovan apologized to me, earlier."

John flinched, "Did she now."

"She seemed a bit… intimidated."

"Well," John deflected weakly, "You just can't please some people."

Sherlock grinned his happy-genuinely-excited grin, turning his face away before tugging at John's coat with his hand near his wrist. The gesture was a thank you, was a reassurance, was a tiny miracle in John's mind. John gently reached up and captured Sherlock's hand for the second time that day, squeezing the appendage for a long moment before they parted, strolling inches away from one another in perfect synchronization. They walked back silently, but this wasn't the oppressive lack of noise from the beach. This was the silence that told Sherlock everything would be fine, just fine.

But Sherlock knew he couldn't leave it unsaid, knew that he had to speak the words aloud otherwise John would never know. And it was a risk and it was a leap and it was also the greatest gift he could give him. So right before they turned onto Baker Street, Sherlock pulled John into the park and halted.

"What's going on?"

"Shut up for a moment, please." Sherlock snapped, trying to make it sound less offensive by adding the please.

John tilted his head, eyebrow raised, but shrugged and gazed around the park with an absentminded appreciation. They were both invigorated from their long walk, their blood pumping healthily through their veins. Sherlock navigated John to a park bench, between a set of large hibernating oak trees surrounding them on either side.

"When I was a little kid Mycroft was my hero." Sherlock murmured, voice so hushed it was almost a rasp. "My father died by the time that I was five and Mummy never forgave me for looking just like him."

So, Sherlock talked and talked and talked. And his stories weren't as easy to follow like John's, but nonetheless he spun memory after memory, filling in the gaps of time before they'd met. He talked at length about his drug use, his addiction, his rehab. He spoke of a perverted step-uncle, who through trying to molest Sherlock (and failing when he exposed him via videotape) gave the budding scientist a taste for puzzles and mysteries. John asked question after question, the detective replying honestly and evenly to each one. No deflections, just unflinching trust.

They were frozen ice blocks by the time Sherlock ran out of words, and John tugged at his hand and lead him home. They locked the door and drew the curtains, taking off their heavy jackets. Sherlock stoked the fire while John made tea. They both grabbed comforters from their respective rooms and changed into pajamas and dressing gowns. A few birds were chirping out their sitting room window. Sherlock stared as John meandered down with his blanket drawn around his shoulders. The ex-soldier plopped on the couch beside him and they both watched each other, thoughts whirling in their minds.

"I think we've just learned more about each other in this last row than we have during our entire friendship." John remarked in a bemused tone.

"Indeed." Sherlock confirmed.

"You haven't slept in days," John commented.

"Nooooo."

John pulled his feet up on the narrow space of the couch, and Sherlock mimicked his action. Their comforters twisted together, and Sherlock's bare foot brushed up against John's clothed ankle. They both stared at each other from across the couch, breathing in unison. John reached under the blankets, wrapping his greedy fingers around Sherlock's slender digits, the pressure returned moments later. They twined fingers and shifted closer, thighs and calves and arms relaxing. Eyes sliding shut from the world, falling away.

When he awoke they were wrapped around one another, his nose near Sherlock's cheek. Sherlocks's shut eyelids were dancing with dreams, and John took a great breath in to remind himself he was alive. Their hands were still clasped, slightly sweaty from sleep, bodies fitting effortlessly on the space the sofa allowed.

He'd never known that life could be like this. For the longest time dating had been a means to an end. John was a heterosexual, and only slept with women. But this wasn't just some bloke. Sherlock was this brilliant mesmerizing quasar, pulsing with life, and John thrummed alongside the man, his partner. The genius treasured his secrets, but in that freezing park that smelled of crisp morning, the consulting detective shared himself passionately and trusted him with his past. John was privileged. They would be fine. Everything would be just fine. Sherlock shivered in his grasp, slowly coming to consciousness. His eyes cracked open, looking more blue today than gray or green, and he smiled.

And when Sherlock Holmes smiled his unaffected little quirk of lips, John Watson fell in love with him all over again.

"Good morning," John murmured in a husky voice.

"Judging from the shadows on the floor it's actually late afternoon," Sherlock remarked absently.

John pulled at their joined fingers, thumb tracking the back of a slim palm to feel his pulse.

"Did you know?" John breathed, still a bit tired but otherwise inexplicably content, "That you are a like a brilliant bloody quasar, powered by the black hole of your intellect, pulsing and thrumming in cadence alongside me?"

Sherlock moved his head against the back of the couch, regarding John for the longest time.

"I find myself to have fallen into sentiment with you," Sherlock returned.

John blinked, grinned, and rolled his eyes, "Oh, sentiment?"

"Yes, some variation of it. Probably not healthy, since it might paint you with a target board across your chest."

"Already worn Semtex, ta."

"John, you could be at risk." Sherlock protested, sounding like a grumpy old man.

"Sherlock, I'm stupidly in sentiment with you."

Sherlock surged forward and captured John's mouth, slanting their lips together for a chaste brush of affection. John felt Sherlock taste him and wrapped his arms around that slender neck. Sherlock tilted his head, tapping at John's lips with his tongue and it was moist and wet and hot and John felt like he might drown. When they were both sitting down the height difference wasn't as much of an issue.

Pulling back, John pressed his forehead against Sherlock's, freeing his hand to cradle his aristocratic face.

"Thank you for coming to get me, I'm sorry I ran away. I promise not to do that again."

Sherlock paused, nodding, "A new list might be in order."

"Yeah, I couldn't be arsed to care about that at the moment," John said, pulling Sherlock back towards him and forcefully pushing his tongue into the detectives mouth. Sherlock made a noise, a pleading sort of keen, and all thoughts promptly left the doctors head and rushed towards his groin.

They kissed like it was the only thing they'd ever wanted to do. Sherlock told him in the park that despite the fact he wasn't a virgin, he was a neigh shade away from inexperienced. He didn't feel comfortable with previous partners (only two, males, from Uni) and Sherlock maintained some serious trust issues. He'd never came by their hands, and he explained that these previous men tried to use sex against him. So he stopped doing it, focused on drugs instead. He could never get hard when he used, and that only encouraged his celibacy.

But at that moment the detective was whimpering and lapping at John's mouth with sloppy satisfaction, pushing their chests together and exploring his tongue over each tooth. He was stroking his violin-calloused fingers into John's short hair, cradling his skull with such a gentle steady hand that John could barely breath.

John returned the attention, hands diving under the back of Sherlock's shirt and up around sharp shoulder blades. One of their comforters fell to the floor, John got on his knees and crawled over Sherlock, hand on his shoulder, other braced on his hipbones. Sherlock's slender arms wrapped around him like vines, their hips accidentally slotting together and shifting, tenuous friction startling them both.

Sherlock's eyes were half-lidded, his mouth was bruised from the attentions and he was the most bloody gorgeous thing John had ever seen. And what did it matter if sex complicates relationships slightly? He was practically already dating this crazy man anyway. They spent all their time together, lived together, shared finances and now he wanted nothing more than to strip this marvelous bloke bare and sweat.

Sherlock seemed to have the same idea; he was pulling at the hem of John's t-shirt, dressing gown sliding down his body and cotton pajamas over his head. John was a modest person, he never walked around starkers, even in their flat. Sherlock paused to run his hands over the ugly reminder of his injury, dipping his palm around to caress the other side of the puckered scar.

"This brought you to me," Sherlock murmured, voice deep and sensuous.

John was lost after that. Clothes pooled to the floor, hands grew bolder, skin shiny with sweat and the heady musk of sex filling their sitting room. They groped and fumbled and giggled at one point, mouths fused together like magnets. Sherlock took them both into his large hand and pumped. John became nothing more than an incoherent mess of small syllables. When Sherlock came, he was silent, and John watched each second, refusing to close his eyes even to blink. John followed moment later, semen pooling on the genius's flat belly. The doctor collapsed atop his flatmate, their chests heaving as they tried to catch some much needed air. John twined their fingers together and pressed his cheek into Sherlock's collarbone.

John grinned, appearing almost shy, "What happened to, 'Well I'm flattered by your interest?'"

Sherlock smirked, "That went away on holiday, forever. Hand in hand with your heterosexuality, I'd presume."

John huffed a laugh, leaning up and smashing his lips against Sherlock's with little finesse.

Everything would be fine, just fine. Within the subsequent week, the flatmates tore down their previous lists and sat at the experiment and foods table to draft up a replacement. They drank coffee and discussed things like adults, and Sherlock managed to only pout a little bit. Their modified list read:

-All dead people parts are to be labeled, properly stored in certified dead people part containers, not smelly & must be disposed of accordingly.
-Sanitize kitchen table and countertops if questionable substances are experimented on.
-NO FLAMMABLE EXPERIMENTS and open the damn window if it's toxic, you berk.
-Keep JW up to date on all cases, including if autopsies need to be performed in the flat; never go on a dangerous chase without notification and backup.
-Mycroft is a git and should be treated like one.
-On the rare instance SH sleeps, please don't wake JW when climbing into bed by shoving cold hands up his shirt. Only wake him if there is a nightmare or case.
-Ask before any new sexual act is introduced. Remember what happened with the handcuffs? Panic attacks aren't fine.
-Medical kits are still for medical purposes.
-No more than three nicotine patches a day.
-No more than twenty clinic hours a week.

And that was that. Everything that needed to be said was said and they were sincerely glad to get all such sentimental and emotional tripe out of the way so they could go back to living their lives without this entire hullabaloo. They were British after all, these talks on feelings made both uncomfortable.

John was a pain to live with and Sherlock insanely driven by puzzles, but they were together and not going anywhere. The flat was messy and sometimes littered with questionable goo, but the violin that Sherlock played out the window was beautiful and heart wrenching. John occasionally had a vivid nightmare and would often be stroppy the next day but Sherlock knew how to wrap his arms around the man and give him nonverbal comfort.

They of course kept their relationship to themselves, didn't parade their promise to one another around. They weren't affectionate in public, didn't hold hands while walking down the street and god knows there would be hell to pay if John got Sherlock flowers for Valentine's Day. Ms. Hudson knew (always knew) and Lestrade was clever enough also and of course Mycroft tried to corner John for the obligatory 'hurt him and I'll hunt you' speech but those things were bound to happen anyway. A natural progression. Things weren't normal by societal standards but they were normal for this pair.

The Consulting Detective and the Consulting Doctor. A right pair of control freaks. But they were happy and chasing criminals and solving mysteries and high on adrenaline. It worked for them.

END