Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.

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Detective Inspector Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, inwardly counting till five.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, that our average brains can't compete with your superior one, but please stop ridiculing everyone in your vicinity for a minute and explain it in terms us dullards can understand!"

He was at the end of his tether, something John could relate to. Sherlock, after having examined the crime scene, had been rather cryptic about his findings, seemingly oblivious to the fact that people were not following him, and merely commented on their incompetence instead. Lestrade usually didn't let it get to him when Sherlock was that irritable, but he had had a long day and was weary.

"Fine," Sherlock now snapped, "pay attention, then!"

John did not know what exactly it was that had brought about his horrible mood; Sherlock had been reading that morning, seemingly rather relaxed and content when the call from Lestrade came.

Though, coming to think of it, his inner blog voice said, he didn't dash downstairs as quickly as usual. John often caught himself writing about Sherlock in his head like that, even though most of those things were unlikely to ever go into the actual blog. It had become a habit, a private recording much like a diary, the difference being that he certainly wasn't going to remember it all.

He did not listen to his friend as Sherlock took Lestrade through his account of the incident, but watched the detective carefully. Sherlock talked slightly slower than usual, if with his habitual impatience, and at one point, he stretched out one arm to support himself on something, in this case, the wall. Lestrade, whose eyes were on the victim right then, did not seem to notice it. Sherlock did look rather pale, too; something was odd.

"...unless you want to file this away as unsolved, you better look for the man's boat," Sherlock was finishing, already turning away.

Lestrade didn't want to let him go yet: "Look where?"

The detective began to walk faster: "Regent's Canal," he called over his shoulder, a quiver in his voice only John noticed, who fell into step next to him.

"Are you all right?" he asked, because clearly Sherlock was not.

His friend didn't answer, walking even faster now, obviously keen to get to the main road. They turned a corner but had not yet reached the end of the alley they were heading down when Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned sideways. A moment later, he was retching, holding himself up with one hand against the wall. John waited until the bout was over, since he knew that Sherlock didn't appreciate being treated like someone who couldn't cope on his own. He did notice with slight alarm though that his friend was trembling severely and looked rather worse for wear. Wordlessly, John handed him his handkerchief and waited until he had sorted himself out a bit.

"Back to Baker Street, I think," he then said, hoping they were not going to have to stop on the way.

They didn't, but by the time they had arrived in front of 221B, Sherlock was very green around the gills and all but dashed inside. John paid for their fare and followed him a little more slowly, picking up the discarded Belstaff on the stairs and the blue scarf from the kitchen floor.

The retching sounds from the bathroom told John all he needed to know: apparently, Sherlock hadn't been done throwing up yet. John hung the coat on the hook in his friend's bedroom and sat down in his chair. Sherlock had probably been feeling unwell before and had hidden it as long as possible, just because he liked to consider himself unassailable. It was strange, though, since there hadn't been any discernible symptoms, and John was certain he'd have noticed.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead with his hand; of course, being a doctor somewhat predestined him to be observant about these things, but if he was honest with himself, that wasn't the only reason. He was bloody besotted with Sherlock, that was why he couldn't keep his eyes off of him. In fact, it was rather miraculous that nobody seemed to have noticed yet.

His initial affection had steadily turned into something more profound, something which he knew he must hide, since Sherlock had made it very clear very early on that he was not interested in anything but a platonic relationship. On most days, John managed to handle it and was content with just being in the detective's company, despite his often erratic behaviour. There were occasions on which John wished for more, though, wished for example that he was allowed to caress the other man, to be close; wished for Sherlock to return his feelings.

On days like this, when something was off, it was especially difficult to keep his distance when he would have liked nothing better than to physically comfort the other. Since that was unlikely to ever happen, however, John usually was careful to keep his distance rather than take advantage of Sherlock being unwell. Yes, he told himself, that really was the only way to handle it if he didn't want to risk making their living together very uncomfortable for the both of them.

Sherlock spent the remainder of the day in bed. Since he couldn't keep anything down and the nausea persisted, John gave him antiemetics so that his body could recover while Sherlock rested. That evening, he drank a bit of watered down tea and eventually went to sleep; hopefully, he was going to be better in the morning.

When John looked in on his friend the following day, however, he found Sherlock's room empty and the bathroom door closed.

No sounds were audible. John knocked on the door: "Sherlock?" A feeble groan answered him.

"Anything I can do?" John prompted, feeling his worry increasing.

For a few seconds, there was only silence, finally followed by a weak "John," that didn't bode well.

"I'm coming in," he announced and opened the door.

The first thing he registered was the sour smell that attested of vomit.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, hunched in on himself and tilted sideways a bit. John crouched down next to him: "Sherlock?"

The detective closed his eyes for a moment and began to sway. Quickly, he opened them again; they were reddened now, emphasizing how peaky he looked.

"Everything's moving," he said hoarsely, "I'm dizzy. Couldn't get up. And I've got tinnitus."

John frowned; maybe the nausea had been caused by rotatory vertigo rather than a cold.

"Come on," he said gently, taking Sherlock's arm and supporting his back, helping him up. Sherlock leaned on him rather heavily, grateful to have someone to hold him. The floor underneath his feet was still seesawing, however, increasing the nausea again. His torso was aching from throwing up, and he was certain that he hadn't anything left in him, but it did not seem over yet. He was glad to be lying down again, though, supported by two pillows in order not to intensify the vertigo any further. It did not seem to make any difference, however, since he still felt more than a little queasy. It was made even worse by the din in his ears, a constant whistling which was accompanied by what sounded like atmospheric noise. It was unsettling and strongly added to his discomfort.

John, who had left the room, came back in with a bowl (Sherlock groaned), a damp cloth, a glass of water and another antiemetic pill.

"Hopefully, this will settle your stomach for now," he said.

Sherlock hummed; when he took the glass from John, his fingers were trembling. John applied the cloth on Sherlock's neck, eliciting a delicate shiver. It was difficult to not sit down and put an arm around Sherlock once more. He had felt so frail just then, shaking all over from exhaustion and coldness; John wanted to hold him, provide him with warmth and something solid to lean against.

Darling, he thought. Who'd have thought that he'd become so precious to me.

"I think you need to see an otorhinolaryngologist," he stated after a moment of pulling himself together.

Sherlock groaned: "I can't even get up."

"You can't keep going like this either," John replied sympathetically. "I'll go and make an appointment, and then I'll help you get dressed."

"I'm 36, not 63."

"There's no need to be ashamed because you need help."

Sherlock looked as though he'd like to disagree, but he didn't say anything; as it was, talking only made him feel worse.

Half an hour later, they slowly made their way down the stairs; a taxi was waiting outside. John, who had a firm grip on his friend, could feel him shaking again, this time from the exertion of simply keeping his balance.

Since the Princess Grace Hospital was only around the corner from Baker Street, the taxi ride did not last longer than a few minutes.

"Could've walked," Sherlock muttered, but John shook his head: "Not like this."

When they returned four hours later, Mrs Hudson, who was busy cleaning, turned off the hoover and covered her mouth at Sherlock's sight: "Oh dear, what happened?"

"He's got a severe inflammation of his auditory nerves," John answered without stopping; Sherlock still was not able to walk unaided, and John didn't want to lose whatever momentum they had. Apart from that, Sherlock needed to lie down again.

Even though it did explain the dizziness, the diagnosis had been a bit of a surprise, since Sherlock hadn't experienced any discomfort concerning his ears prior to the tinnitus, and yet both sides were affected; the doctor had had to cut open Sherlock's left tympanic membrane to suction off the liquid which had gathered behind it in order to relieve the pressure. It had been very painful, and afterwards, Sherlock had been white as a sheet and barely able to keep his legs under him. He had received medication in the form of pills as well as an IV, which also served the purpose to rehydrate him.

Later, after he had recovered somewhat, several audiometric tests as well as a caloric reflex test had been performed. The latter nearly had had Sherlock vomit again: warm water had been poured into his right ear, causing the earth to tilt in a most unpleasant way.

Once they were done, Sherlock had been absolutely knackered, and they called a taxi once more, despite the short distance to their flat.

Mrs Hudson followed them upstairs, where John took Sherlock straight through to his bedroom while their landlady put the kettle on and began bustling around in the kitchen.

"Is there anything I can do, dear?" she asked John when he joined her.

"Yes, actually- maybe you could stay for a while?" he said. "I'll just pop out to the chemist's and to get some groceries. Sherlock is rather worn out now, I think he'll want to sleep anyway, but it'd be better if he wasn't alone."

"Of course," she said. "So it's his ears, then."

John nodded: "Out of the blue, too." With a brief smile, he left.

Contrary to John's prediction, Sherlock tried to stay awake. His left ear made itself known with a dull throb, and the tinnitus was distracting. The doctor had told him that it was very likely going to lessen once the inflammation was receding, but it was of little comfort. He wanted peace and quiet, but that was not to be had. At least the nausea was decreasing now. He closed his eyes but quickly opened them again; it was better to look around, keep his mind occupied in order to drown out the din. Mrs Hudson was cleaning the kitchen now, from the sounds of it, and not much later he heard John's footsteps on the stairs.

His friend came in soon afterwards, bringing a glass of ginger ale mixed with water, and a paper bag with medication.

"How are you?" he asked when he saw that the detective was awake.

"My ears are too loud." Sherlock looked upset.

"Nothing we can do about that, I'm afraid," John said, smiling at him sympathetically. "Or would you like me to put on some music?"

"Hm," Sherlock considered this. "Yes. Maybe a little Chopin."

"If you tell me how to turn on your fancy sound system." Goodnaturedly, John motioned towards the Bang and Olufsen design with his head.

"I can do it," Sherlock muttered. "Just find the remote."

John spotted the device on the dresser and handed it to Sherlock, then sat down on the mattress.

"How's the pain?"

"I can handle it." Sherlock's voice was slightly hoarse from all the throwing up.

"Must've hurt like hell," John mused. "Did you know that piercing the tympanic membranes is a very popular form of torture in some Asian jails?"

"Figures," Sherlock grumbled, experimentally closing his eyes. He was still very pale, but he did look marginally better.

In the clinic, he had been too drained after the treatment, too quiet. John had sat with him during the one-and-a-half-hours it took for the IV to run and had found that he didn't like it at all when Sherlock was so subdued, even though the situation was neither life-threatening nor otherwise dangerous. Sherlock's eyes had closed after a while, but he had barely begun to doze off when the sound of a door slammed shut startled him out of it again. "John," he had said at once, completely disoriented, reaching for his friend even before he had gotten his bearings.

"I'm here," John had answered quietly, taking Sherlock's hand. He didn't let go of it again even though Sherlock kept his eyes open during the remaining time, unseeingly staring at the ceiling.

John hoped that his friend was going to be able to rest a little now that they were home; maybe the music was an appropriate means of distraction.

Sherlock soon opened his eyes again, however: "Chopin isn't suitable for this." He picked up the remote control and selected a different CD.

"Grieg," he said after the first few tones, obviously satisfied with his new choice.

"Would you like some tea?" John asked.

"No."

"Okay. Right, I'll leave you to it. Call me if you need anything."

Sherlock, who had closed his eyes again, only hummed in response, concentrating on the music already.

Twenty minutes later, John was just making himself a cuppa when Sherlock called for him.

The music was turned off when he came into the room, and the detective's expression was weary: "It's not working."

"You need to be little more patient," John said, hiding a smile.

"I was," Sherlock replied, "it's no use." He slowly turned sideways and reached for a book which was lying on the nightstand, which he then handed to John: "Here."

"Inside the Mind of the Serial Killer", John read, raising one eyebrow: "What am I supposed to do with it?" he asked, even though he had an inkling what his friend wanted from him.

"Read to me, obviously," Sherlock said.

For some reason, he looked rather pitiful, and his voice had sounded remarkably young.

Manipulative bastard, John thought fondly. Loudly, he agreed: "Fine. Let me just get my tea first."

With his mug in one hand and the book in the other, he settled down on the edge of the mattress.

At first, Sherlock kept commenting on what John read, snorting derisively a few times, but eventually he fell silent, and when John noticed that his friend was asleep, he put the book aside and just looked at him. A fleeting pang of regret made itself known, and he quickly got to his feet; best not to linger on how it could be, if things had turned out differently. If he could have stayed here, stretched out next to Sherlock, listening to the detective's quiet breathing, his heartbeat, share his own warmth, hold his hand again which had felt so good.

Careful not to wake Sherlock, John left the room and closed the door behind him.

Being unnerved by the noise in his ears was Sherlock's main state of being during the following few days. As soon as he felt well enough to be up, he paced around the flat, picking up his violin and putting it down again, too tense to play, or muttering to himself.

John tried to talk to him about the tinnitus, but he wouldn't listen.

"I've read everything on the subject there is," Sherlock snapped at him the last time he mentioned it, so John let him be. Sherlock would learn to ignore the din, and if he was lucky, it was going to go down a bit with time. Still, he felt sorry for his friend. His not playing the violin usually was a reliable indicator that something was seriously wrong, a notion which was only emphasized by how irritable the detective was.

After he had brought Mrs Hudon to tears twice on one day, John decided it was enough.

"Stop pitying yourself, for heaven's sake," he said, "you're not bloody invalid!"

Sherlock bristled: "You have no idea how it feels not to be able to get even a few seconds of silence," he snapped, "it's driving me mad!"

"As a matter of fact, I do know how it feels," John retorted, folding his arms in front of his chest. "I was in Afghanistan, remember? Lots of noise, in case you're wondering why I'm bringing it up! I do have a form of tinnitus myself, Sherlock, but I've learned to deal with it. Which you can as well, or at least you could, if you decided to pull yourself together again at one point!"

Sherlock frowned, probably wondering why he had not deduced this fact about his friend, but didn't say anything. He continued his pacing in silence, still visibly irritated.

John's words seemed to have made an impact however; from that moment on, Sherlock kept his tongue in check and did his best to be civil. He stubbornly refused to talk about the tinnitus, though, and acted as if it wasn't bothering him any longer. His flatmate and friend knew him well enough to read the more subtle signs which betrayed him, however, tell-tale evidence that he wasn't nearly coping with the situation as well as he pretended.

There were dark smudges under his eyes, and he was weary. He moved with less grace and wasn't interested in anything. He went on a case a week after the incident, but he lacked his usual enthusiasm. He also talked less than ever.

"You are allowed to be affected by it," John said without preamble one evening after he had come home and found the detective's upper half in the chimney where he was looking for hidden cigarettes. It was a mystery to John how he had managed to twist his torso into the narrow opening, but then, Sherlock was rather slim after all.

He was covered in soot when he reappeared, but acted unfazed: "I'm fine."

John pursed his lips: "No, you're not."

"I am not pitying myself, am I? I'm learning to live with it. All's well."

"No, it really isn't. It's always either all or nothing with you, Sherlock. I told you not to overreact-"

"You said I was pitying myself."

"Different words, same meaning."

"If you say so."

"I do. However-"

"Oh boy. Here comes the lecture."

"Will you please stop interrupting? Not overreacting doesn't mean to pretend it's not there, because that won't work. The tinnitus is there whether you want it or not, and it's likely going to stay. You need to learn not to listen to it, and just as with the music, find means to distract you when there's too much silence and the noise is bearing down on you."

"I don't see why pretending it's gone is so much different from ignoring it."

"If you pretend it's gone completely, it'll be even worse when it makes itself known again. Believe me, I've tried that." He folded his arms in front of his chest: "Getting used to it, or more precise, desensitisation, is necessary if you want to keep your sanity. It's called habituation."

Sherlock huffed.

John sighed: "There'll be times when it's easier to tolerate it and times when it indeed drives you mad. But just waiting for it to decrease won't help you. You have to do it yourself."

"I read about so-called maskers which are used for tinnitus retraining."

"They can be useful," John conceded, "though I'd give it a bit more time to see if your tinnitus is going to lessen a bit. I don't think you'll need them. You should be good with your music and maybe watching TV and the usual everyday din. You know, Mrs Hudson and me." He grinned.

"Hm." Sherlock's expression softened a bit as he sat down in his chair, looking tired all of a sudden.

"How about a shower?" John suggested.

With a frown, Sherlock glanced at the soot which was covering him: "Oh... yes," he muttered.

John wasn't even aware of his own affectionate smile. He has no idea how lovely he is.

That evening, Sherlock turned on the TV and watched an American sitcom, frowning throughout. At one point, John took pity on him: "We don't have to watch TV," he said, "if you don't want to. I'd be fine with music as well."

"It's not the right time for music."

"Oh."

"You could read to me."

John sighed. "If it helps," he said. "But we're going to buy some audiobooks tomorrow."

In the end, they didn't. John didn't really mind reading aloud to Sherlock, on the contrary: it was rather nice, sitting in front of the fireplace or on the sofa together, a cup of tea at hand. Much to the doctor's regret, they didn't get to do that very often, though, since they were busy with cases from Lestrade during the next few weeks. John strongly suspected that it helped, since it took Sherlock's mind off his ears; the noise did indeed lessen gradually, even if it didn't disappear completely, as anticipated.

Sherlock could count himself lucky that his tinnitus hadn't been generated by stress but had had physical causes, John thought more than once after yet another night of little sleep and a lot of theorising. How his friend did it remained a mystery to John, but Sherlock seemed to thrive under pressure, dancing back and forth in front of his improvised case board (otherwise known as living room wall) and thinking aloud. When he was pushing himself as relentlessly as that, running on barely any sleep or food, Sherlock's energy seemed boundless whereas he usually dropped like a stone once the respective case was solved.

John could already see the first signs of the impending crash in Lestrade's office in the early hours of a rainy Thursday after Sherlock had gotten the DI to piece the last bits of the puzzle together by proving the connection to another, older case.

Lestrade had been adamant that the two cases couldn't be related, and was now rubbing a hand over his eyes: "Blimey," he muttered, visibly shaken, "the guy would have walked free if you hadn't pointed it out."

It was a tell-tale sign that Sherlock didn't react other than rolling his eyes. John could however hear Sherlock's voice in his head as clearly as if he were actually talking: Oh, that's what I was doing, wasn't I, pointing it out? (Here, he'd snort derisively.) Really, Lestrade, use your brain once in a while! Even you could have found out that Jones was the man's illegitimate child. It's not that difficult to fake a birth certificate!

And Lestrade would have been too baffled to reply that the problem hadn't been the birth certificate but finding the connection at all, which admittedly had taken Sherlock several days.

As it was, the DI just sat down in his swivel chair and sighed: "I'm not looking forward to writing that report."

John gave him a sympathetic smile: "We'll be off, then," he then said. "It's late."

Obviously, Sherlock said in his head, but again, that was in John's imagination. The actual Sherlock only blinked owlishly and quietly followed John as he walked towards the lift.

In the cab, Sherlock visibly deflated. For too long he had been running solely on adrenaline and the occasional cup of tea or coffee; now that the rush was wearing off, he was out of resources. He huddled into the corner of his seat, eyes closing of their own account, and when the cab stopped in front of 221B, he didn´t even wake up.

John paid the driver, stepped out and quickly walked around the cab; he opened the door on Sherlock´s side and gently shook him awake: "Sherlock, we´re home."

Sherlock´s eyes snapped open, as his body forced itself into automatic mode; he blinked a few times, clearly disoriented, then he sighed and fumbled with the seatbelt. John reached over to help him, then he pulled his friend out of the cab and into a remotely upright position. Sherlock was barely awake and therefore didn't protest.

Even though John had had a nap that afternoon he was tired as well, but now he felt wide awake again due to the surge of adrenaline which had rushed though him just then. He allowed himself to keep a light hand on Sherlock's back as they dragged themselves up the stairs, just to make sure the detective didn't lose his balance. John expected him to steer towards the sofa once they were in the flat, but Sherlock seemed to want his bed for a change, and made the last few meters on his own.

After a moment of deliberation, John followed Sherlock into his room. The detective lay diagonally across the bed, facedown and still in his coat.

"No, Sherlock," John said gently, shaking his head, "you can't sleep like this."

"Can," his friend groaned, muffled.

"It's not comfy, and your clothes don´t deserve to be treated like that."

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible, but raised himself up nevertheless until he was in a remotely sitting position, squinting up at John with a frown, then holding out one arm expectantly.

It took John a moment to comprehend, then he huffed good-naturedly despite the fact that his stomach was doing somersaults: "The things I'm putting up with." He grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's coat and pulled, heart in his throat all of a sudden. It took a moment until the coat came off, and Sherlock somehow managed to nearly topple off the bed in the process. John let go of the Belstaff and caught him in time, heaving him back up. Sherlock, still half-trapped in his coat, began to giggle.

"Sorry, he then muttered, audibly exhausted,"I'm so tired."

"I know you are," John replied, barely able to speak and aware that he was trembling all over because he had Sherlock in his arms, and somehow it was different from each of the many times it had happened before. Sherlock was making no attempt to free himself but leaned against John instead, head on the doctor's good shoulder, and gave a contented sigh: "I'd really be lost without you, wouldn't I?" he slurred. John was so dumbstruck that he didn't know what to say. This was highly unusual behaviour for Sherlock, even when he couldn't think clearly anymore. But it was nice, and John, exhausted himself, wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. So he just stayed where he was, feeling Sherlock's head gradually getting heavier as he fell asleep, resting his cheek against the detective's curls and inhaling his scent, and allowed himself to enjoy the moment. I find that I want this, his inner blog wrote itself, more than anything.

He woke up a few hours later with a severe crick in his neck and no idea where he was or what had happened, but then the person he was entangled with stirred, and it all came back to him within seconds. Immediately, his heart rate sped up as he realized that he was cuddling with Sherlock, on Sherlock's bed. For a moment, he felt wild joy spread through him, but it was soon drowned out by doubt. He didn't expect Sherlock to actually want this, even though the detective was currently wrapped around him in the most pleasant fashion.

John had no desire to leave, in fact wanted to sleep some more, but despite the overall rather agreeable circumstances he'd have liked a pillow and a blanket and for his legs not to half dangle off the mattress.

His hand crept up to Sherlock's face, but then hesitated. He was fairly certain that waking Sherlock might result in the opposite of what he wished for. Still, he had always preferred not to take advantage of people, so he very gently ran his fingertips along Sherlock's jaw, almost caressing: "Sherlock. Wake up."

"Hm." The detective sounded unwilling to do so.

"Sherlock, wake up. We fell asleep together."

"Know. 's nice."

John stared at him.

"You...," he swallowed. "You're okay with this?"

Sherlocked hummed affirmatively, but seemed to sense, even in his drowsy state, that John was genuinely puzzled.

"You were right about the noise," he muttered, as though that'd explain everything. They'd talk in the morning, John thought, there obviously was no point in trying to now.

With a lot of coaxing, he at least managed to get Sherlock to stretch out on the mattress properly, and pulled a blanket over them. His heart was still beating like a drum and he could hear his blood rushing in his ears, all his nerves seemed on fire. Sherlock, bony as he was, was warm and soft and solid, his scent all around John. Who would happily have stayed awake to just savour all that, but after a while of basking in his still slightly perplexed happiness, his eyes closed of their own account, and he went back to sleep.

"...all the cupboards but it's just not there."

Groggily, John opened his eyes to find Sherlock perched on the mattress next to him, wearing his favourite dressing gown and talking, apparently, to him.

"You didn't put it in one of the drawers, did you?" he asked now.

John blinked: "What?"

"The coffee, John. I can't find it."

"It's in the fridge. Why are you looking for the coffee?" John asked, befuddled.

"Because I wanted to make some, obviously."

"You."

"Yes."

"Huh."

"There's no reason to react like that, I did make coffee before."

"Oh, yes," John scrambled to sit up, "now that you're mentioning it, a rather large dog comes to mind." He squinted at his flatmate: "Sherlock- why are we talking about coffee?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No, it's not. We fell asleep together, and when I woke you up, you said it was nice. And now you just talked me awake as if nothing had happened."

Sherlock frowned: "I'm making you coffee. Well, technically I didn't make it yet, but the water's about to boil."

John felt a myriad of little butterflies flutter around in his stomach. "That's very... sweet of you," he said, feeling entirely too lightheaded to have this conversation.

"I can be sweet," Sherlock agreed, grimacing at the last word.

John couldn't but smile. "Yes. Yes, you can. But I still don't know... I mean, what is this? Us sleeping together all of a sudden?"

"Oh," Sherlock finally seemed to catch up with him.

He fiddled with a tea towel he was holding: "Well, I mean... the last few weeks were..." He paused, nervously twisting and untwisting the tea towel a few times before continuing: "You were there for me. To be precise, you always are. But... it felt different, somehow. I realize that you're the most important person in my life, and that maybe..." He paused again. It was endearing to see him so lost for words for once, but John found it hard to sit still now.

Sherlock didn't look at him when he continued, his voice very low and hesitant: "Maybe there's more for a person than just their work. That is, if they met someone who not only tolerated what they do but even supported them." He cleared his throat. "And also whom it's nice to be spending time with."

John's mind was reeling. It obviously hadn't been easy for Sherlock to say all those things, and even though the doctor knew that his flatmate was fond of him, he'd never have anticipated something like that. Slowly, he reached out and touched Sherlock's cheek, trembling all over: "Look at me," he breathed.

Sherlock's gaze was almost timid as he did so.

"For how long have you been feeling this way?" John asked.

Sherlock blinked.

"Long," he eventually muttered. "I didn't lie to you when I said I considered myself married to my work. Only... once you had moved in and we got to know each other better, it soon became clear to me that I had been foolish to make such a statement, even though it was true."

"So what has changed?"

"Well..." Sherlock's gaze roamed over John's face. "The Work suddenly wasn't sufficient anymore. And that was emphasized only recently when it didn't keep me occupied enough in order to drown out the tinnitus. It was you, in between, who made sure I didn't go crazy."

He took a deep breath: "You keep me right, John. Without you, the world is mute and colourless."

John gasped, briefly wondering whether he was dreaming.

"That is unexpected," he all but stammered.

"Very," Sherlock conceded.

"But you probably knew about my feelings for you, didn't you," John asked after a moment.

"Obviously."

"So you thought I'd be at your beck and call once you changed your mind about the whole matter."

Sherlock had the decency to at least try and look contrite.

John snorted: "I really am too bloody easy, aren't I?"

"Easy?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "No. If there's one thing you aren't, it's easy." He cleared his throat. "I, er- I took the available data and tried to predict all possible outcomes, but I wasn't sure about your reaction at all."

"Why not? You knew how I felt about you, what could possibly go wrong?" The doctor sounded a tad belligerent now.

"You don't like to be manipulated," Sherlock said. "And even though people think I'm cold and heartless, I do care about you. The least thing I wanted was to make you feel as though I'd pressured you into something."

"I don't think you're cold and heartless," John objected.

A feeble smile ghosted over Sherlock's features.

John insisted:"I know you're not cold and heartless." You're anything but.

"Oh, and you're stubborn," Sherlock murmured, ignoring him. "If you feel thrown off now, I may have made the worst mistake of my life."

For a moment, they remained silent.

"I don't," John said, after a moment of deliberation. "Not in a bad way, anyway. On the contrary."

As Sherlock met his gaze now, he seemed nervous: "What are we going to do?" he asked quietly.

I never wanted to kiss you so badly, John thought, but that'd probably be the wrong thing to say.

"You could make coffee," he therefore replied slowly. "For a start." He caught Sherlock's hand and carefully wrapped his fingers around it, savouring how it felt:"It seems I'm really not dreaming this," he murmured.

When he lifted his head, he found that Sherlock was watching him with an expression that was almost bemused: "You're really not angry?"

"No," John gave him a smile. "Seems I'm much easier than you thought. And you're calling yourself a detective." His smile turned into a grin.

Sherlock only stared at him quizzically until John sobered up: "We could go out for dinner tonight," he suggested. "And see how that goes."

Sherlock seemed relieved; he had been sitting rigidly, but now he visibly relaxed. "All right."

"Under one condition, though," John added. "You'll have to turn off your phone."

Sherlock looked at their joined hands as if he was weighing the pros and cons, but then he shrugged: "Fine."

"And we're not going to Angelo's."

"Why not?"

"Privacy, Sherlock."

"Hm."

Sherlock was rather quiet all day. John worked on his blog for two hours and didn't hear a peep from the detective, who albeit didn't complain about the silence either.

He's having second thoughts, John actually typed but then quickly deleted it again when he realized that he had just done the equivalent of thinking out loud. He couldn't shake off the unpleasant flutter of his stomach as easily, however. What if Sherlock didn't feel comfortable with how he had revealed his emotions? What if he wanted to end what hadn't even properly begun?

It'll change everything, John's inner blog said, I'll have to move out.

He felt like weeping at the idea of losing Sherlock.

By the time he had gotten ready for their date, he was a wreck. He was convinced that neither his first ever date (with a girl called Mindy) nor going to war had rendered him so nervous.

Sherlock had always, always hidden his feelings, in fact had felt better off without them. How could he, John expect to be the reason for a change? It required someone special, didn't it? John didn't feel special. He didn't think he was out of the ordinary, someone who'd turn someone else's life around. He had done nothing outstanding, he had simply been himself. True, he had shot someone to save Sherlock's life when they had barely known each other. But anyone who was half decent and had the necessary skills would have done that, wouldn't they?

Sherlock was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, and his face visibly lit up when John appeared, causing the doctor's heart rate to speed up considerably. Why had he been worrying at all, he now wondered almost dizzily, unaware that he was beaming.

Sherlock, whose expression mirrored John's by now, held his gaze: "Ready?" he asked.

"Ready," John said. Darling.

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The End

Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback.

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Author's notes: The line "You keep me right" is borrowed from "The Sign of Three". The condition Sherlock was suffering from in this one is something which has happened to me a few years ago. I have since learned to live with the noise, even though it still is difficult at times, and there are occasions on which one really misses even a few moments of silence and feels one is going mad. I'm sorry for doing this to our favourite detective, but I couldn't resist. At least I didn't shoot him. ;D

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