A/N: This is a gift for OpalJade, who was kind enough to bid on me in the Help_Syria charity auction. She kindly presented me with a list of several prompts to choose from. The prompt I chose can be found in the end notes. I hope this is worth the wait, Opal!

Many thanks are due to several people. To susako, tremendous thanks for the britpick under such short notice. To my ever-patient and encouraging betas thirtypercent and interrosand, and my conductors of light prettybirdy979 and maladroitoracle, much gratitude goes your way for all the support that helped make this fic suitable for posting. Many scenes are a direct result of the ideas they suggested. Hugs and kisses to you all.

This ends up as Sherlock/John, although nothing explicit, so if that's not your cup of tea then best to bow out now. Otherwise, enjoy!

"Just when I thought your brother couldn't get any creepier, he goes and redefines the entire concept."

Sherlock lifted his head from his microscope, giving John a quick glance before peering back through the lens. "Mycroft has kidnapped you again, I see," he remarked as he adjusted the focus. "What happened? I'd think it couldn't be any worse than the last time, when he took you to those caves."

John sighed as he shrugged off his jacket and threw it on the back of his armchair rather than his usual habit of carefully hanging it on the coat peg. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"It wasn't the location that was creepy. I was dropped off at –"

"The Ground Round, of course; your favourite steakhouse."

John blinked. "Yes. Err.. well, anyway, he was waiting in a back booth, and when I got there I found he had ordered dinner.. for both of us. It's not that I wasn't hungry – I was starving in fact, hadn't eaten all day – but I didn't have enough cash on me for an entire meal. He just waved it off and said it was his treat, that it was the least he could do for me for 'putting up with my recalcitrant brother'. His words, not mine."

John exhaled a sigh of relief as he collapsed into his chair and started pulling his shoes off. "So he didn't even start by asking for an update on you, what cases you've been working on, all the usual questions. In fact, we didn't talk about you at all." His brow furrowed, obviously trying to work things out in his mind. Sherlock hid a smile.

"He started by asking me how I liked my new position at the surgery, how my book was coming along, if I'd seen any good films lately. He even asked me if I was currently seeing anybody." He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "If I didn't know any better I'd think he was flirting with me."

Sherlock paused in his tinkering as an unpleasant sensation abruptly flared in his chest. He rubbed at it absently. He hadn't eaten yet that day, so it couldn't be heartburn. Most peculiar.

"And what did you tell him?" Sherlock prodded.

John lifted his right foot onto his left knee and started kneading it. "What? Oh… the truth, of course. That my new job couldn't be a more perfect fit for our lifestyle, that all I had to do was finish the epilogue before submitting my manuscript, that the last time I saw a film at the cinema was before – " John paused for a brief second. "Before Mary died, over a year ago."

Sherlock shut his eyes, inwardly cursing his brother for reminding John of his painful loss, however unintentional it had been. When he opened them he fixed John with a neutral expression and, ignoring the anxious knot in his stomach, asked, "And what was your response to his last inquiry?"

"Hmm? About if I was seeing anyone? Well, I'm not, so that's what I told him. I typically don't make a habit of lying to the human lie detector."

Something unclenched inside Sherlock, and his shoulders relaxed. Sometimes he tended to be blind to the sorts of social nuances that would clue him in on what was going on in John's personal life. He still couldn't believe he had missed the signs so many years ago when John and Sarah had broken up. He had found out about that from John's blog.* That had been… a bit embarrassing, to put it mildly. Someone with his deductive skills shouldn't have been taken so unawares.

"Not that it's any of his business. I don't know what he was on about. I'm sure if he really wanted to know any of those things he could have found out for himself." John set his foot back down on the floor and rubbed a hand through his hair, exhaustion and exasperation radiating off him.

"It was really creepy, though, how he got my dinner order exactly spot on, down to the way I take my steak, the type of salad I like and how I always order the dressing on the side. Hell, even you don't know those things about me, and you live with me."

Sherlock returned his attention to his sample. "I know the things that matter," he muttered under his breath.

John continued talking, oblivious. "Not to mention that you're the most observant man in London – well, apparently the second most observant..."

"Yes, John, I get the picture," Sherlock snapped as he pushed his chair back hard enough to leave shiny new skid marks on the recently cleaned lino. He glared at John before he pointedly turned his back and marched out of the kitchen into his bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to make the walls vibrate.

John sat in his chair, blinking into the empty room and sudden silence.

xXx

John had inwardly prepared himself for dealing with a stroppy flatmate, so he was pleasantly surprised when he came downstairs the next morning and was greeted with the sight of Sherlock engrossed in an experiment. The detective was perched on his stool at the kitchen table, barefoot and clad in his burgundy dressing gown. Two petri dishes seeded with bacteria sat in front of him as he scribbled notes in his moleskine. He bit his lower lip in concentration, brow furrowed and eyes intent. The morning sun glanced off his hair in a way that accentuated the auburn highlights that were normally kept concealed. His dishevelled morning look, helped along by his mussed and unruly hair, brought out an endearing appearance of youth and vulnerability.

The image was nothing John hadn't seen a thousand times on a thousand separate occasions over the years. And yet… this morning, something that had been kept safely dormant within his subconscious for some time threatened to shake loose and break free without his permission.

John's thoughts flew back to that first day at Bart's, when he had been struck by the incongruity of adult charm paired with a face that belonged on a twelve-year old. Sherlock looked the same now, so guileless and unguarded that John's chest constricted painfully with an ineffable, nameless emotion. In that moment, he was overwhelmed with an inexplicable urge to press a kiss against those soft curls. He yearned to wrap his arms around his friend and shield him from anything that dared to touch and sully him. Which was a frankly ridiculous sentiment, given that Sherlock had taken down an entire criminal organisation all on his own.

Sherlock glanced up briefly from his observations before returning his attention to the task at hand. "Good, you're awake. I've been up for hours, I'm dying for a cup of tea."

And just like that, the spell was broken. John blinked as reality shifted and settled itself once again around him, comforting and familiar.

He snorted as he padded over to the kettle. "Something wrong with your legs? Hell, you wouldn't even have to get up, I'm sure you could reach the counter from all the way over there with your lanky arms."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Boring."

After filling the kettle with water and flipping it on, John turned around to face Sherlock, arms crossed over his chest. "Should you be looking at those cultures without some sort of protective equipment?"

Sherlock waved his hand. "Gram-positive cocci, not dangerous and not infectious. Even if they were they'd be distressingly easy to kill."

"Well thank god for small favours. Got anything on today? Any cases?"

"Hmmm, no cases, no."

"Right. Because if there were, I wouldn't be able to join you until this evening. I've got a six-hour shift this morning."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment before leaning down to stick his nose in one of the petri dishes – and letting loose with a thunderous sneeze.

John hid his smile behind his hand. "Brilliant, Sherlock. Are you sure those bacteria aren't infectious?"

Sherlock sniffled and wiped a sleeve against his nose. He shot John a superior glare. "And you call yourself a doctor, really? You of all people should know that the incubation period for most bacteria is far longer than the mere four hours I have been exposed to – "

John held up a hand in mock surrender. "Enough, I get it, please stop. It's too early in the morning for this kind of conversation. Let me at least have my first cuppa before I have to attend your lecture."

"Better yet, leave so that I'm not distracted by your pathetic attempts at male bonding."

Right. Okay. Back to normal, then. Fine. Good.

xXx

John put in his hours at the surgery while Sherlock lounged around the flat in his dressing gown, only deigning to get dressed a little after midday when a timed experiment demanded his focussed attention. No case had magically materialised by the time John arrived home, so he was able to convince Sherlock to accompany him to Angelo's for dinner without complaint.

They sat through the majority of their meal in companionable silence. A flickering candle sat at their elbows (standard fare at Angelo's ever since the first night), casting shadows in the muted lighting. Sherlock's eyes softened whenever he lifted them from his food to gaze at the man across from him. John's smile was warm as he returned the gaze. Their knees pressed against each other, warm and solid. When Sherlock felt the need to voice his thoughts on one of the patrons, he leaned in just a little closer than usual and dropped his voice a tad lower than his natural register.

It was typical of many meals they had shared in the past, and at the same time the most pleasant one in recent memory.

And if Sherlock made a special show of ordering John's favourite dessert to go, neither one mentioned it.

The following month saw Sherlock and John wrapping up a case that had taken them out of London for several days. They were incommunicado for most of that time, since they were in a remote part of the country which precluded mobile phone signals and internet. Sherlock was infuriatingly grumpy and snappish by the end of it all, and John was going barking mad and quite tempted to strangle a certain consulting detective. The only saving grace about the entire thing was that the client was very generous in his show of appreciation. This meant that they could afford first class on the train home, which went a long way towards soothing frayed nerves, although it didn't stop them from sniping and bickering at each other during the final leg of the journey.

They stumbled into the flat, rumpled and exhausted, with plans to tumble into their respective beds and sleep for a good twelve hours – when a clearing throat from the middle of their sitting room snapped them into wakefulness.

"Sherlock, for god's sakes, I've been trying to get in touch with you for days, what on earth – oh. Hello, John."

John scrubbed a weary hand across his face. He flicked a glance in Sherlock's direction. "Didn't we lock the door when we left?"

"Of course we did, John, but Mycroft has never respected boundaries," Sherlock growled as both his coat and scarf landed in a pool at his feet. He stalked past his brother and threw himself onto the sofa, annoyance vibrating the air around him. John sighed as he carefully hung his own jacket up before stooping to pick up Sherlock's.

"Pot kettle, Sherlock," Mycroft intoned from his position in John's chair. He didn't even glance at Sherlock, eyes fixed on John, as he continued speaking to his brother. "I have a case of national importance that I need your help with when you find time to pull yourself away from your little hobby."

"Not interested," Sherlock grumbled, doing a perfect imitation of a stone effigy as he stared fixedly at the ceiling.

John fidgeted under Mycroft's laser scrutiny. Suddenly his skin felt too tight, like it was about to burst open and spill his secrets for all to see. Not that he had many secrets that he was ashamed of. There was one he wasn't… ashamed of, exactly, he just didn't fancy having it revealed to Mycroft Holmes of all people… especially to Mycroft Holmes. And certainly not in front of Sherlock.

"We just got back from a case, Mycroft; we're both exhausted and, quite frankly, irritable. I think we'll pass on this one. Tea?" John turned to escape into the kitchen.

"Oh, John, don't trouble yourself, please. Let me make it." Mycroft stood up in one smooth, elegant motion. "Have a seat; after all, it is yours." He walked over to John and smiled at him warmly. He placed a hand on his right shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

"Just sit and relax, it looks like you need it." He winked before turning to make his way into the kitchen.

John stared after him.

What the hell?

When he finally found his voice again he asked, "Do you need help finding anything?"

"No, John, I can figure it out. It's not terribly difficult to deduce, much like the inner workings of the average mind."

John rolled his eyes. "A Holmes through and through, can't even be nice without being insulting at the same time," he muttered as he sank gratefully into his chair, which felt delightfully plush and luxurious after the low-quality accommodations they had been privy to for most of the past week.

Sherlock grunted. "Honestly, John, why do you even offer? You know we'll never get rid of him when you tempt him with food."

"Wasn't offering food, Sherlock, just tea. And I offer because it's polite."

"Dull."

Several minutes ticked by until Mycroft returned with three steaming mugs of tea. He placed one on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. "None for me, thanks," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock," John scolded.

"It's alright, John, I'm quite used to it." Mycroft handed John his cup.

"Thanks." John smiled tightly and accepted his tea. He leaned back and closed his eyes as the aroma tickled his olfactory nerves. The smell was positively divine, and his mouth watered in anticipation. He wrapped both hands around the cup, relishing the warmth. When he finally took a sip, his eyebrows shot up into his hair in surprise.

It was his perfect cup of tea. The perfect strength, the correct amount of milk… and most importantly, not a hint of sweetness.

"I trust it's prepared to your liking?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, uh… actually, it's perfect. Thank you, Mycroft. A pleasant ending to a very stressful few days."

A disgruntled noise rose up from the lump huddled on the sofa. Mycroft and John shared an amused look over the rims of their cups.

A few quiet moments passed before Mycroft announced, "That shirt complements your eyes quite nicely, John."

Tea spewed out of John's nose and mouth onto said shirt. Sherlock's eyes flew open and his head jerked around to pin his brother with a deadly glare.

"Shit." John shot up out of the chair, hastily setting his cup down on the end table. He fruitlessly wiped at his shirt with both hands. His face flushed beet red. "Excuse me while I – excuse me." He beat a rapid retreat into the bathroom, stumbling over the area rug along the way. He threw a tight smile over his shoulder before slamming the door shut, giving himself a temporary reprieve from the strangeness currently unfolding in the other room.

xXx

Sherlock slowly raised himself to a sitting position, a dark expression on his face. He leaned forward with both hands placed on his knees.

"I don't know what you're playing at, Mycroft," he hissed, "but whatever it is, you'll stop it now."

Mycroft blinked innocently. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sherlock."

"The hell you don't. I won't put up with you playing games and taking advantage. John's still grieving, he's especially vulnerable right now, and the last thing he needs is someone toying with his emotions."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "No one is so blind as he who will not see."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sherlock, his wife died nearly eighteen months ago. He's not," he lifted his fingers and mimed air quotes, " 'especially vulnerable right now', as you so eloquently, and inaccurately, phrased it. He's been moving on for months; if you'd been paying the slightest bit of attention, you would have realised that."

Sherlock scowled. "What would you know about it, then?" His eyes narrowed dangerously. "You don't actually think he'd consider moving on with you?"

Mycroft smiled tightly. "Careful, Sherlock, one would think that you're jealous."

"Jealous?" Sherlock spluttered, indignation colouring his features. "I am not – jealous, don't be preposterous. I'm simply looking out for my friend's well-being."

"Yes, well – John's a big boy, I'm sure he can look after himself. Let's allow him to make his own choices, shall we?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Why you - "

"Sorry about that," a voice floated from the kitchen entryway.

Argument forgotten, the brothers turned towards the landing in unison. John froze like a deer caught in the headlights under the combined weight of their gazes. His eyes darted back and forth between them, as if unable to focus on just one.**

"I – erm – had to use Sherlock's special concoction to get the stain out, but it worked. Shirt's good as new. Just with a wet spot. I mean – oh god." John bit his lip and attempted a grin that ended up more like a grimace. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands as they fluttered at his sides.

"You know what? I'm completely knackered. Sorry, Mycroft, but I think I'm going to have to turn in before I fall on my face. Feel free to stay and finish your tea; I'm sure Sherlock will be up for hours yet. G'night." With that, the brave soldier did an about-face and beat a strategic retreat into his bedroom.

As soon as the sound of John's door closing reached his ears, Sherlock sprung up from the sofa like a fire had been lit beneath him. His face brooked no argument as he pointed at the front door.

"Out."

"Really, Sherlock, you could at least let me finish -"

"I said OUT! Now, Mycroft." He lowered his voice. "John isn't the only one who's tired. I'm not going to sit here and babysit you while you – stuff your fat self with tea and plot world domination."

Mycroft closed his eyes and heaved a long-suffering sigh. When he opened them, Sherlock hadn't moved an inch, finger still pointed towards the door. Mycroft rolled his eyes as he uncrossed his legs and smoothly rose from Sherlock's chair. Unfinished cup of tea still in hand, he headed towards the kitchen.

Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed Mycroft's arm with a vice-like grip. "Where do you think you're going?"

Mycroft turned to face his brother, a bemused expression on his face. "I'm returning my dirty dishes to the kitchen, Sherlock. Surely you don't expect John to clean up after me as well as you? That would be most ungracious of me."

Sherlock scowled. He snatched the cup from Mycroft's hand. "I'll take care of it myself. Now leave. Before I report you for breaking and entering."

Mycroft laughed. "Seriously, Sherlock? Do you really think you could have me arrested? Me? Now you're just being juvenile." He gave Sherlock a smug grin before he pivoted on his heels and strode towards the door, umbrella swinging like a pendulum from his arm. He placed his hand on the knob, pausing to turn towards his brother. The grin melted from his face and was replaced with an unreadable expression.

"A word of advice, little brother? People see what they expect to see. Remember to not just see, but to observe as well. Otherwise something very important might escape your notice. Don't forget what I taught you when you were eight years old: the devil is in the details." With those words of wisdom, he opened the door to 221b and made to depart.

Sherlock's hand reflexively tightened around the mug of tea; it took every ounce of control he possessed to not hurl it at his brother's head. Instead, he grabbed the Union Jack pillow from John's chair and threw it at Mycroft's retreating back. He wasn't quick enough; an unsatisfying thump sounded against the closed door. Sherlock made a frustrated noise.

Damn Mycroft and his meddlesome meddling.

John was so exhausted he didn't have time to obsess over Mycroft's strange behaviour. He was asleep two seconds after his head hit the pillow. His rest was deep and dreamless, and when he awoke eleven hours later, he felt refreshed and alert. The late morning sun filtered lazily through the curtains as he yawned and stretched, popping the kinks from his neck and back. A sense of well-being flowed through him. He had nothing to do and nowhere to be; the perfect day stretched out before him.

He cheerfully threw on a pair of old grey tracksuit bottoms and a ratty RAMC t-shirt. He unconsciously whistled the melody of Sherlock's latest composition as he bounded down the stairs and into the flat.

He walked all the way through the sitting room and half way into the kitchen before he stopped mid-stride. He blinked, turned around and walked back into the sitting room. His mouth hung open and his hands hung slack at his sides as his eyes swept from one corner to the other. He was half-convinced that he had stepped through some kind of portal into an alternate universe.

221b was – well, it was positively tidy. All of Sherlock's papers and books, normally strewn from one end of the flat to the other, had either been cleared out or tucked away into tidy niches. John was sure this was his first glimpse of the mantel's actual surface, with no stacks of rubbish hiding it from view. The woodwork gleamed, polished and dust-free. The lingering scent of disinfectant hovered in the air. No empty or unfinished cups of tea sat waiting for John to gather up for cleaning. Even the hoovering had somehow been done without waking John up.

Slowly, he turned and walked back into the kitchen. The table was free of scientific paraphernalia bar the microscope. The sink, which was usually full of dirty, food-encrusted dishes, was shockingly empty. The drying rack, on the other hand, was filled with glistening dishes and cups, damp towel folded neatly next to it. All the debris and filth that had been building up on the floor for weeks had been swept and mopped away.

Mrs Hudson had been away in Edinburgh for the past two weeks visiting her daughter, and was not expected to return for another week. The flat had certainly not cleaned itself.

When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.

The only logical conclusion? Sherlock had gone on a cleaning spree while John had been asleep.

What – the actual fuck?

What kind of experiment was the bastard subjecting John to this time?

John straightened up and clenched his left hand. He strode to Sherlock's bedroom and raised his fist to pound on it, hard, when he was brought up short by an unfamiliar sound.

Snoring. Sherlock was snoring.

In all the years that they had lived together – all the times that they had ended up falling asleep in the same room for whatever reason – John had never before heard Sherlock snore. The man must be well and truly knackered. He must have actually stayed up for hours after John went to bed to accomplish the level of cleaning that had been done. And he had already been fatigued from their journey.

John turned the knob and gently pushed open the door. The sight that greeted him made his heart swell with hitherto unacknowledged emotion.

Sherlock lay on his side, facing the door. He was clad in a worn grey Cambridge t-shirt, paired with red-and-green tartan pyjama bottoms. His curls lay spread around his head in stark contrast to the pristine whiteness of his pillow. A black halo for a dark, avenging angel. It seemed fitting. His right arm was bent at the elbow, hand resting palm up near his head. His fingers twitched sporadically in time with his rapid eye movements. An especially deep inhale ended in a snort that almost woke him up; he smacked his lips a few times, shifted in his sleep and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Cameos of headless nuns, John." John smiled into his hands as he muffled a giggle.

This was no experiment; if it were, Sherlock would have wanted to be awake to observe John's reaction. There seemed to be no hidden agenda for Sherlock's actions. The thought triggered a blossom of warmth in John's chest.

He closed the door and stood there for a moment, one hand still on the knob and one absently rubbing at the novel sensation forming in the middle of his sternum.

xXx

"Any particular reason why you decided to go on a cleaning spree last night?"

Sherlock roused himself from his navel-gazing long enough to quirk a smile and savour the warmth of appreciation spreading through his body.

"It was my turn. And you were exhausted."

"Yes, and so were you. Thank you, Sherlock. That was quite thoughtful of you."

John peered around the newspaper he held in front of his face to flash a brilliant smile at his friend. Sherlock flushed with pleasure and turned his head to return John's smile with one of his own. In the process, his eyes caught sight of John's left hand where it grasped the day's headlines. Conspicuously absent was a band of white gold around the ring finger.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. How long had the ring been missing? More to the point, how had that fact gone unnoticed by Sherlock until now? Unless this was the first day John had gone without wearing it. But no. John's fingers weren't nervously fidgeting, with his thumb restlessly rubbing against his ring finger as if worrying an empty space that he wasn't quite used to yet. He was obviously accustomed to its absence.

How had he missed this?

Mycroft's words floated unwanted into his palace:

People see what they expect to see.

Don't forget what I taught you when you were eight years old: the devil is in the details.

Sherlock had been expecting John to be consistent in his grief recovery - to take at least as long to move on from his wife's death as he had with Sherlock's. They had been married, involved in the most intimate relationship there was. If it had taken John over two years to even begin to think about moving on after Sherlock, shouldn't it take even longer for him to recover from the death of his spouse?

But contrary to his own expectations - indeed, contrary to all previous data in regard to such things - John had quite obviously begun moving on some time ago not only into acceptance, but into actually moving forward.

Mycroft was right. Sherlock had missed what was right under his nose.

He shook his head in self-recrimination. This was why he seldom bothered with emotions. Give him cold, straightforward facts any day of the week; at least they remained constant and unchanging. They may not provide comfort or companionship, but at least they were dependable and familiar. Emotions, on the other hand…. the things were messy and unpredictable, always complicating things and contaminating the data. They rarely remained consistent or followed preordained patterns.

One thing was certain, however. Sherlock would be damned if he was going to let his brother of all people fill the recent vacancy in John's heart.

Sherlock pushed himself upright and gave John a calculating look. Perhaps the time was ripe for a pre-emptive strike, before Mycroft had a chance to make another move. A diversionary tactic, so to speak, to distract John from his brother's attentions. If he were prone to military metaphors - which he wasn't, of course - he would have been quite proud of the analogy.

"Do you have any plans for tonight?" he asked casually.

"This doesn't seem like your kind of place, Sherlock," John said as they entered 'The Dancing Monarch'. Sherlock ignored John's remark as his long legs carried him swiftly across the floor to the bar. John shook his head and, as always, followed in his wake.

Sherlock leaned against the bar and plastered on his most charming smile from his arsenal of fake personas. Skin-tight black jeans hugged his legs and thighs, leaving nothing whatsoever to the imagination.. A deep purple silk shirt, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, stretched across his torso like a second skin. John drank in the sight in front of him, and sighed. All eyes would be on Sherlock, he would have the pick of any woman... or man... here. So many people would be vying for Sherlock's attention that John would fade into the background like yesterday's news, unnoticed and forgotten.

Sherlock charmed his way into two free drinks: a Long Island Iced Tea for himself, and a bottle of Heineken for John. John gave him a suspicious look as he accepted the beer from his friend.

"You know my favourite beer?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he took a sip of his drink. "Of course I do, John, don't be daft. How long have I known you?"

"I thought you deleted things like that."

"Things like what?"

"Trivial details. Things not related to crime or chemistry. Unimportant things."

"Nothing that concerns you is trivial, John."

John blinked at the unexpected compliment. He hid his smile by taking a deep draught of his drink. He was uncommonly glad that the low lighting masked the flush he felt creeping up his neck and onto his face.

"So," John grinned as he situated himself on a barstool next to his friend. He gestured towards the dance floor. "Planning on asking anybody to dance? Do you even dance? No, wait... do you even like women?"

Sherlock frowned as he glanced down at John. "I told you when we first met that women are not my area."

"Right." John returned the frown. "Then why are we here, exactly?"

"Because you do."

"I do what?" John asked in exasperation. Sometimes trying to follow Sherlock's train of thought was tantamount to translating Chinese into English.

"Like women."

"Well, yes, obviously, I married a woman, you git! That still doesn't explain why we're here."

"You're not wearing your wedding ring."

John opened his mouth, only to promptly close it again.

"Don't tell me you've made some sort of deduction from that observation," he asked dryly.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied. He craned his neck as he looked towards the far end of the bar.

"Acceptable," John heard him mutter. He set his glass down and took John's elbow as he stood up.

"Where are we going?" John weakly protested as Sherlock dragged him along down the length of the bar.

"There are two women sitting over here who have been making eyes in your direction ever since we came in. You are going to - what's the expression? - chat them up."

"I am? Why?" John perked up. "Is there a case? Why didn't you tell me so beforehand?"

Sherlock made an impatient sound. "There is no case. What gave you that idea? Oh look we're here."

xXx

Sherlock stepped in front of John as they approached the two women. Red-headed and buxom, Sherlock was sure that they were John's type. They were obviously sisters - quite possibly even twins, although not identical. He was sure that he had read somewhere - or possibly seen in a film - that that was every red-blooded man's fantasy. Well, at least every man who wasn't strictly homosexual.

"Good evening, ladies," he purred as he flashed them his most winning smile. Two pairs of emerald-green eyes met his smoky blue ones. Both women instantly straightened their backs and grinned back, eyes darting from him to John and expressions of approval written all over their faces.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "This is my flatmate and friend, Doctor John Watson, who also was a captain in Her Majesty's army. Wounded in action, even. Quite the hero, and quite the catch for two lovely ladies such as yourselves." Sherlock placed both his hands on John's shoulders and steered him forward. "Enjoy your evening."

Then he pivoted on his heels and beat a hasty retreat out of the stifling atmosphere and out into the welcome open spaces of London. He grinned, quite pleased with himself and what he had just accomplished. He hoped his flatmate would take proper advantage of the opportunity he had just been given.

xXx

Not even two hours had gone by when Sherlock heard the familiar steps treading up the stairs. He frowned, hands in his usual prayer position beneath his chin and eyes closed. It wasn't what he was anticipating, what he had come to catalogue as the "happy" John tread. It could only be described as 'clomping'. The steps were heavy and forceful. Instead of the expected light tripping up the steps, they were deliberate with pregnant pauses in between. Sherlock had experienced this manner of return several times throughout the years. It always meant that John was upset.

But why? Why would John possibly be upset? Sherlock had just handed him two lovely and eager young ladies on a silver platter. He should have been much later coming home, if he had even come home at all. Sherlock had fully expected to not see him until after the sun had risen.

Sherlock sat up as the door to the flat creaked open. He took in John's frazzled expression as his flatmate stepped through the door. Sherlock's gaze raked over him, looking for clues as to what John was feeling and why he was home. John paused in the doorway as their eyes met and held. His jaw clenched as he forcibly shut the door behind him.

"Mind telling me what that was all about, Sherlock?" John asked, voice low and tight with barely maintained control.

Sherlock blinked. "I assumed that I was doing what friends do. Being your 'wingman'. Isn't that the correct term?"

John shook his head, his shoulders slumping. He scrubbed a hand over his face; when he removed it, his expression was weary and resigned. "It's the correct term, Sherlock," he signed as he made his way over to his chair and collapsed into it. "It's just not what I was expecting or needing at the moment."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't understand. You're not wearing your wedding ring, I took that to mean you were open to dating again. Was I wrong?"

John pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed hard. He dropped his hands down on the arms of his chair, fingers restlessly tapping.

"Are you trying to get rid of me, Sherlock?" John asked, voice soft and small.

"What? No, of course not. I was only trying to help you meet someone new."

"I'm not interested in meeting anybody new!" John exclaimed in exasperation. "I'm interested in - "

John clamped his mouth shut mid-sentence. His eyes widened and something like fear flitted across his face for a brief second before schooling his expression.

Anxiety coiled deep in Sherlock's gut, hot and heavy. If John wasn't interested in meeting anybody new, that must mean he wanted somebody he was already acquainted with. From the look on John's face he didn't want Sherlock to know who that person was. He could already feel the green snake emerging from the seething pit of sibling rivalry.

"Never mind, it's not important. Look, I know you tried to do a good thing, and I appreciate it, I really do. But I'm not looking for anybody or anything, Sherlock. I've already found exactly what I need."

"I see." Sherlock swallowed. "Well, I apologise for wasting your evening, John. I won't take up any more of your time." He stood up and left for his room with as much dignity as he could manage.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean –"

John's entreaty was cut off by the shutting of Sherlock's bedroom door. The sound rang through the flat with an air of finality.

John shut his eyes and let his head drop back onto his headrest, utterly spent.

It was two in the afternoon, and Sherlock had yet to come out of his room. John was fed up with waiting for him to make an appearance. The day was bright and pleasant, so he decided to step out and clear his head for a bit.

He walked mindlessly towards Regent's Park, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets and eyes staring ahead unseeingly. It took an embarrassing five minutes for him to notice the black limousine sedately keeping pace with him. When he turned his head and saw it, he actually felt relief surge through him instead of the usual annoyance. If Mycroft wanted to chat, maybe John could unload to him about his brother and gain some sort of insight into his flatmate's recent bizarre behaviour. Although come to think of it, Mycroft had been behaving pretty strangely as well, lately. He wondered if there was some kind of connection between the two, and if that connection might very well be himself.

He sighed as he waited for the car to come to a stop. No time like the present to find out, he thought to himself as he reached out and opened the rear door.

He slid in – and bit back a yelp when a familiar smooth voice purred, "Good afternoon, Dr Watson."

"Christ, Mycroft! What the hell?" John put an unsteady hand on his chest, willing his heart rate to return to normal.

Mycroft smiled from his seat in front of John. His expression was obscured by the shadowed interior, but John could very well imagine that it resembled a cat that had just got the cream.

"Startled you, did I? My apologies."

"You could say that! What's going on?"

Mycroft leaned forward to reach for the decanter of brandy in the side-bar next to John. In doing so he brushed up very close, pressing their knees together almost intimately. A waft of very expensive cologne assaulted John's nostrils. Mycroft gave him a predatory smile before leaning back and elegantly pouring generous helpings into two snifters.

"I have a proposition for you, John," Mycroft replied smoothly. He handed John his drink, smile still in place. John accepted it rather grudgingly, suspicion settling at the back of his mind. He tried to quell it. He had never had any reason to be suspicious of Mycroft or fearful of manipulation by him. He had always come right out and asked him - or told him, rather - exactly what it was he expected from him, and why. Unlike another certain someone. John scowled as thoughts of Sherlock insistently forced themselves upon him, even when he didn't want them. Especially then.

"What sort of proposition?" John asked wearily. He closed his eyes as the warmth from the brandy permeated his entire being, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He could get used to this sort of treatment, very quickly. John wondered if he should suggest a weekly meeting of some sort, where he and Mycroft were driven around for hours, drinking brandy and partaking of expensive caviar. With no danger of being interrupted with annoying demands and snarky insults.

"An offer you can't refuse. I'd like you to come over for brunch at my residence next Sunday to discuss the details. It has to do with utilising your... unique skill-set for an undercover operation. All very hush-hush, you understand. As such, I'd appreciate it if you weren't entirely forthcoming with Sherlock on this one. You know how I worry, especially since his - confrontation with James Moriarty."

John frowned. 'You want me to keep a secret from Sherlock? I'm afraid you overestimate my acting abilities, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled tightly. "Not at all, John. I'm not asking you to lie to him; just to omit certain details."

"A lie of omission is still a lie."

"Just humour me, John. Please."

John sighed. "Just tell me what it is before I agree."

"Very good." Mycroft took a sip of his drink and relaxed into his seat. He closed his eyes briefly as he swirled the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing it. When he opened them, they glistened with focus and intent.

"This will require skills you were taught in the army, John; specifically, combat skills. It will be very dangerous, and it will require you to be out of the country for several weeks. If you agree to this, I will arrange for you to have a leave of absence from your job without any negative professional repercussions." Mycroft picked up a file from the seat next to him and handed it to John. "Read this over while we ride. I will go over all the intricacies and logistics with you next Sunday. By then I will have another, thicker, file for you to look over. Ten a.m. would be ideal, if that works for you."

John took the file and casually flipped it open. He glanced out the window. "Are you taking me anywhere in particular?"

"No," Mycroft replied, crossing his legs. "The driver will drive around the area a few times until you've read and absorbed everything there. I don't want to risk you taking it home and having Sherlock get his hands on it."

John settled in while Mycroft patiently waited. After twenty minutes, John snapped the file shut and handed it back, his face carefully blank.

"I'll think about it."

"Good. That's good, John. I think it's just what you need right now, don't you? A break from the sort of melodrama that constant contact with Sherlock provides?"

John nodded knowingly. "And yet still enough melodrama to keep me interested."

"I knew you'd see it my way. Do you agree to tell Sherlock as little as possible?"

"I do, although I'm curious as to the reason for that stipulation."

"My reasons are my own."

John sighed. "Can't you two ever just give me a straight answer to anything?"

"What would be the fun in that?" Mycroft smirked.

John felt his mouth twitch. Damn these Holmeses and their ability to give him exactly what he needed when he needed it. "Indeed," he replied.

Mycroft reached above his head and pressed a button. "Jenkins, you may head back to Baker Street now."

"Very good, sir," came the tinny reply.

Mycroft smiled warmly at John as the car smoothly turned a corner. John felt himself responding in kind before he carefully schooled his expression. He would not allow himself to be pulled into another Holmes' orbit.

The car pulled up to the kerb outside 221b. Before it came to a complete stop, Mycroft leaned forward and placed his hand on John's knee. "I can't thank you enough for sticking by my brother all this time and looking out for him, John," Mycroft said in a husky voice. His eyes glinted in the darkened interior. "Please know you have my undying gratitude."

John stared at the hand on his knee. It took him several seconds before all of the pieces slotted into place, and another full minute before he was able to manage a coherent reply.

When he finally felt able to say something without sounding like a bumbling fool, he looked Mycroft straight in the eye without flinching. "I don't do it for you, Mycroft. I do it for him. I'd do anything for him. So kindly leave off your pathetic attempts to butter me up, you're pants at it. I live with the master of manipulation, and after so many years I can smell it from a mile away. You don't need to buy me dinner, make me tea, or compliment my clothing in order to get me to do your bidding."

Mycroft smirked. Unfazed, he squeezed John's knee before releasing it and sitting back. "I hope that Sherlock will come to appreciate the friend he has in you. He does have a habit of overlooking what's right in front of him."

"Yes, well, I'm quite used to being taken for granted," John replied. He reached over and unlatched the car door, a look of surprise crossing his face when it actually opened for him. "I'll see you on Sunday," he said as he exited the vehicle. He gave a terse nod before shutting the door firmly and walking towards 221b.

Mycroft shook his head and chuckled dryly, a look of smug satisfaction painted on his face during the entire ride back to his office.

xXx

"Sherlock? Oh good, you're up. Look, something that's never happened before just… happened. I need to talk to y-"

"Oh save it, John. Of course I know what happened, it's patently obvious! I really don't need all the gory details." With a dramatic huff, Sherlock flung himself onto the sofa and pushed his face into the cushions, back to the room.

"Wasn't going to give them to you, actually. You know, you really don't have to be such a git all the time, Sherlock. Wouldn't hurt you to be pleasant once in a while, would it. I was just trying to give you a head's up and let you know what was going on. Common courtesy, maybe you've heard of it? That's what mates do, isn't it?"

Sherlock twisted his body around and sat up, entire body vibrating with tension. His nose wrinkled in distaste, then his eyes swept over John for mere seconds before he opened his mouth and spouted a rapid string of cutting remarks.

"Mycroft picked you up himself this time, in a limousine, no less. He wore his best cologne; the bastard must have really wanted to make a good impression. He had the car drive the two of you around, no destination in mind, while he plied you with drinks and quite possibly caviar, although he only brings the last part out when he truly wants to impress. He told you that he had an offer you couldn't refuse. You're seriously tempted to take him up on it, although you haven't quite made up your mind yet. How'd I do, mate?" he spat bitterly.

John blinked, clearly taken aback by Sherlock's hostile tone. He shrugged, pointedly not making eye contact as he toed off his shoes and walked into the lounge. "Spot on, pretty much. Except for the little detail that I should meet him at his house next Sunday to – well, to negotiate terms, I'm assuming."

Sherlock stiffened and gasped as his face drained of all colour. "Negotiate – negotiate terms?"

John gave him an odd look. "Well, yeah, isn't that what's done in these situations? I know I've been out of the game for a while, but really…. What are you so upset about, anyway? I know it's Mycroft, but it's a great opportunity for me. I'd like to get back out there, you know? They say it's just like riding a bike, but skills do get rusty over time."

He got a faraway look in his eyes, and his voice softened as he whispered, "I miss it, you know. It's been far too long."

Sherlock's gut clenched painfully. How could he deny John this when it was what he so obviously needed? He wasn't used to being altruistic or letting go; he was far too self-absorbed. The conflict between his need to see John happy and his own childish resentments threatened to wrench him in two.

"But… Mycroft," he stuttered weakly.

John lifted his chin in determination. "I'm going to go for it," he announced decidedly.

With that, Sherlock's resolve crumbled. Panic tried to claw its way out of his chest and close up his throat. He struggled to breathe as his entire world threatened to collapse around him. Somehow he managed to rasp out one word.

"No," he exhaled shakily.

John blinked. "Excuse me?"

"No. I said no, no, NO, you cannot DO this, John!" Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed John by the lapels of his jacket, pulling him so close that their noses almost touched. "Not with Mycroft, not when he doesn't feel a fraction of what I feel for you."

John stared at his flatmate. He licked his lips, then stammered eloquently, "W-with Mycroft? What you – you feel for me?"

"Obviously," Sherlock growled before closing the minute gap between them and pressing his lips to John's.

John gasped into his mouth. Sherlock tensed and started to pull back, imagining mortified shock in that sound. John must have sensed his intent, because a needy whimper escaped him as he raised his arms to grasp Sherlock by the shoulders and keep him in place. His lips parted in silent invitation and he swiped his tongue encouragingly along Sherlock's own lips. Sherlock groaned in response, tongue meeting John's as they kissed and explored each other's mouths with abandon.

Eventually their frantic kisses slowed and softened into something more languid and tender. Sherlock's hand reached up to cup John's face, thumb stroking his cheek with unspoken affection. After several moments they reluctantly pulled apart and rested their foreheads together. John let his breathing slow a bit before he gave a shy, tentative smile which was mirrored by Sherlock.

John asked, "What are those feelings, exactly, that you feel for me?"

The look in Sherlock's pupil-blown eyes was full of heat and promise as he replied, "Let me show you. Come to bed with me, right now. Will you?"

"Oh god yes."

xXx

Several hours later they lay in Sherlock's bed, entwined and sated. Sherlock found that he couldn't stop touching John; his need to catalogue every dip and ridge, every surface and crevice, was a compulsion that he couldn't let go of. Even more telling, he didn't want to let go of it... not now, and not ever. He had wanted this for so long, and now that he had it, he knew that he could never again be without it. It was a bit alarming, frankly.

Speaking of alarming...

"I can't believe that you actually considered taking Mycroft up on his offer. Negotiating terms? I mean really, John. If you were the BDSM type, I'm sure I would have deduced that about you." Sherlock's eyes widened as he considered the implications. "You aren't, are you? I mean... it's honestly not my thing, but I suppose I could try to accommodate - "

John raised his head from Sherlock's chest in alarm. "What are you on about, Sherlock? Oh my god... Are you kidding me? You didn't seriously think... That me and Mycroft... oh god."

To Sherlock's consternation, the man in his arms broke out into a fit of hysterical giggles. He usually found that sound aggravatingly endearing, but in this instance it set his teeth on edge. What in the world could be so amusing about John and Mycroft engaging in sexual congress? The thought wasn't amusing at all; on the contrary, it made Sherlock faintly nauseous.

"Oh Sherlock," John wheezed as he struggled to regain control of himself. "For a genius you can be uncommonly thick sometimes."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly affronted by such an accusation. "Explain," he demanded in that tone of voice that demanded instant obedience.

John started giggling again. He thrust his fist into his mouth in an effort to hold his laughter in, with limited success.

"Oh for god's sake!" Sherlock exclaimed. He pulled away from John and scooted into a proper sitting position, crossing his arms in annoyance. "If you aren't going to explain what's so funny, I'll ask that you vacate my bed and leave me in peace."

John grinned as his laughter subsided. "Mycroft offered me a job, Sherlock. He wanted me to meet with him at his house on Sunday to hammer out the details. Of the job. Oh!" He raised himself up to Sherlock's level, eyes shining with mirth. "And you thought that I wasn't interested in those women because I was interested in Mycroft." His mouth quirked in amusement. "You are a proper idiot, you realise? The person I was interested in was you. Have been for quite some time, even if I didn't recognise it until just recently."

Sherlock huffed. "There's always something," he groused. Suddenly he stiffened, eyes widening and gleaming in a way that usually signified a case-solving epiphany. The corners of his mouth pulled down in consternation.

'Mycroft." He spat the name like a curse. "Why that meddling, interfering, utterly loathsome insect - "

John snorted, catching on immediately. "That arse utterly manipulated both of us, didn't he? And not in the way I thought." His eyes softened as he asked, voice laden with affection, "How long have you wanted this, Sherlock? Truly?"

Sherlock flushed and looked down at his hands, nervously plucking at the threads on his duvet.

"Sherlock?" John asked gently.

Sherlock cleared his throat, eyes remaining downcast. "Ever since I stood up on that rooftop and your response to my denial that anybody could be that clever was, 'You could.' In that moment, I was lost." Sherlock's eyes lifted and locked onto John's. "Nobody ever had that much faith in me before. I realised then that nobody ever would. You were the one. But then it was too late. I was forced to leave you. By the time I was able to come back, well... you had Mary. You were happy. So I pushed all those feelings aside, and put them out of my mind." He shrugged helplessly. "I was just happy to have you back in my life. I never expected my feelings to be reciprocated."

John's eyes shone suspiciously bright as he placed his hand on Sherlock's bare chest. "You don't have to worry about that anymore," he whispered.

Sherlock placed his own hand on top of John's and gave him a grateful squeeze. He brought their hands up to his lips and pressed a kiss to John's palm before returning it to the spot just above his heart.

They didn't emerge from Sherlock's room until late the next morning.

EPILOGUE

Mycroft had been at the office for fifteen hours straight before he was finally able to sink down into the plush leather sofa that was pushed against the wall across from his desk. He would be here for another four, if he was lucky. Anthea had just been sent out for Indian takeaway, their first meal of the day. He rolled his shoulders as he tried to loosen the knots in his muscles. He hoped she returned soon, the woman had magic fingers when it came to dissolving the tension in his neck.

His phone pinged with a text. The tone signalled that it was from his head of surveillance, Thompson. Mycroft opened it up, to be confronted with a jpg file entitled simply "221b". He immediately clicked on it.

He grinned in satisfaction at the image of Sherlock and his doctor locked in a passionate embrace.

As soon as he closed it, two more texts chimed back to back, both from John Watson. On any other day, he would have ignored them until the day's business had been completed. John always called if something required his immediate attention. This time, though, his curiosity got the best of him. His mouth twitched in amusement and gratification as he read.

I decline the job offer. You can kindly piss off now. -JW

But thank you. From both of us. -JW

THE END

END NOTES: The prompt for this fic was: Mycroft starts to 'flirt' with John in order to force Sherlock to acknowledge his feelings for his flatmate. John has no clue what is going on.

*Sherlock is referring to a certain comment thread on John's blog that can be found here: johnwatsonblog dot co dot uk/blog/01may. Be sure to read all the comments to get an idea of Sherlock's reaction.

**This paragraph is taken almost word-for-word from thirtypercent's brain, when my own paragraph didn't want to adhere to the required POV. Thank you for your generosity.