Note: This is my contribution to this year's Holmestice gift exchange for Dryad! It was strongly inspired by Umisabaku's Kuroko no Basket fanfiction, Designation: Miracle, in particular Don't Blink You'll Miss It (Lift Up Your Head), which I strongly recommend if you have any interest whatsoever in superhumans playing basketball (a little) and falling in love. My thanks go to the lovely nottoolateforthegame for betaing, all remaining mistakes are my own.

I also want to thank nottoolateforthegame for the wonderful fic they wrote for me based on the original Sherlock Holmes stories, 4 People Who Saw and 1 Who Observed, which everyone should check out! (All of the fics mentioned are on Archive of Our Own)

At night, John dreams of the battlefield.

Bullets fly through the air. Men shout as they hurry between cover behind crumbling walls and overturned cars - the ruins of another town ravaged by war - kicking up dust in their wake.

"Watson!"

Another man down. There's too much blood. He can't even see what he's doing.

"Watson!"

He doesn't look up in time. He barely feels the impact, and then his shoulder is on fire. He can hardly think over the pain. He needs to stop the bleeding. There's too much blood…

._

John jolts into awareness. His heart is racing and he's breathing fast. He can almost smell the gunpowder. His shoulder burns. He tries to call for a nurse, but he's not in the hospital any more.

He's in London, in a hotel if you could call it that. The ceiling, dull grey in the dim light, stares back at him. He forces himself upright, too wired to sleep, trapped between four dull walls. The room is empty; a nightstand, a bed, and nothing, as though no one lives there at all.

"You haven't heard about them?" Mike demands again, as though he can't believe his ears. "I knew you were off the grid, but I didn't know it was that bad!"

Mike is everything John is not; healthy, happy, well adjusted to civilian life. He's even adjusted his waistline a little since John last saw him, while, if anything, John has gotten thinner, and not in a good way.

John just shrugs.

"It turns out there was a laboratory hidden up north, in the moors, dedicated to making superhumans for some nefarious purpose," Mike explains, reveling in the drama of it. "Well, there were two really; there was another lab in Japan where they made kids with real superpowers. The one here just made messed up geniuses, apparently."

"As long as they weren't shooting at us…" John trails off.

"One of them has been working at Barts, I can introduce you," Mike suggests. "I should warn you, he isn't very nice, but it's impressive to watch."

That's not how he was planning on spending the day, but it's not like John has anything better to do. "Sure."

Mike is happy to lead the way back to Barts. It's changed a lot over the years, and John is surprised how strange even the familiar parts feel, like it's somehow too pristine. They step into a lab where a lone man is working with brightly colored chemicals, clearly too well dressed for a lab coat.

John isn't sure what he expected a person created in a lab to look like, but this isn't it. His skin is pale, like he hasn't spent much time outside, but he looks like an ordinary man; tall and thin, with no extra limbs or unusually colored skin or hair. Even his eyes are just grey, a piercing grey, but grey.

But there is something about him… He doesn't quite look like a soldier, though that's the first thing John thinks of. His jet black hair falls over his forehead in tousled curls and he's wearing a fitted suit that's far from practical. But there's something in those grey eyes, almost a desperation, like a man on the brink of death who will pull through with sheer determination, not for his loved ones back home, but just out of spite. In a dying man, a look like that would be a relief, but in a healthy man - a superhuman one, at that - it's a little more alarming.

John finds himself inexplicably drawn to him, but he'll deal with whatever's going on there later.

When the man moves, it's in quick, precise movements. His words are even sharper, like bullets aimed to kill. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he fires off without looking up from John's phone - he borrowed it to send a text for some reason.

"What?" John isn't sure he heard him right.

He repeats his question with a growing impatience.

"Afghanistan," John replies reluctantly - the answer has already been drawn out of him, somehow. "I'm sorry, how did you know that?"

He's interrupted before he can finish the question and when their conversation continues, it's on a different topic entirely; "How do you feel about the violin?"

John glances over at Mike, but he just shrugs. He almost feels like he's being tested. Finally, John says evenly, "I'm sorry. What?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end - would that bother you?" he continues, as though it's a perfectly natural extension of their conversation. When John doesn't answer, he finally explains as though he shouldn't have to, "You obviously need somewhere to live, can't afford a place of your own, so you need a flatmate. I happen to be in a similar predicament."

John doesn't know how this complete stranger knows so much about him, but everything about the situation screams danger. "How do you know about that?" he asks. Something inside him readies for a fight that he doubts he could win.

"You've recently returned from military service in Afghanistan, clearly haven't settled in yet - you're following around a man you barely knew years ago and haven't seen since, and living in a hostel by the shape of your room key" - he must have seen it when John pulled out his phone - "Of course you're looking for a flatmate," he concludes.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John insists.

He just waves it off as though it's nothing and John is tempted to believe him. Instead the man says, "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London - together we could afford it. We'll meet there, tomorrow evening, 7 o'clock."

"I don't even know your name!" John attempts to protest.

"My designation is S-H," he replies, as though that means something, "But I've been going by Sherlock Holmes. The address is 221B Baker Street."

With that, Sherlock Holmes bids them a good afternoon and runs off, apparently to retrieve his riding crop from the morgue.

The next day, John arrives at 221B Baker Street a little before seven. He doesn't really know why he's there - well he has some suspicions, but it's ridiculous, he barely knows the man and it wasn't exactly a stellar first impression, or that's what he tells himself. At least this time, he has a slightly better idea of what to expect. He's done his research, though he was surprised by how little information is out there about Sherlock or any of the other superhumans.

He doesn't expect Sherlock to have already started moving in to the flat, but in retrospect, it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise. John glances around, already thinking about how he'd use the space, though he still expects Sherlock - or anyone really - to reveal that it was all a joke, a big hoax, that of course superhumans don't exist, Sherlock only knew John was in Afghanistan because Mike told him, and he can go on with his meaningless, mundane existence. He's full of questions, but assuming it is all real, being created in a lab doesn't sound like something he can just ask about.

Instead, John remarks as casually as he can, "I looked up the news reports - from when they broke you out of that Institute."

"Find anything interesting?" Sherlock asks, sounding bored to death of the whole subject - of course, that's probably the first thing anyone mentions to him.

Still, John forges on. "It said you could tell anything about anyone from a single glance." He doesn't bother to hide his disbelief.

Predictably, Sherlock waves it off. "Only the obvious."

"How?" John asks. "Can you read minds?" He's mostly joking, but then again, the man in front of him was apparently created in a secret lab, so who knows what's possible.

Sherlock just gives him a look.

"No mind reading then," John says. "Do you have any superpowers or are you just some kind of supergenius?"

Before Sherlock can answer, the bright red and blue lights of a police car stream in through the window from the street below. John's first thought is to wonder what Sherlock has done. It turns out Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard is there for Sherlock, not to arrest him, but to ask for his help solving a case. It's obvious in retrospect; some of the more recent articles mentioned that Sherlock had become some kind of detective, John was just distracted by the whole thing about meeting a superhuman created in a lab.

To John's surprise, Sherlock pulls him aside and says, "You're a doctor."

It's an invitation - to a crime scene of all things, but it feels like an invitation into Sherlock's dangerous, exciting life - and John can only say, "Oh, god, yes."

There's a thrill in his veins, his heart races as they take a taxi to the crime scene. He knows it's probably just a corpse dumped in some alleyway - nothing romantic or exciting about that - but that's just the beginning of a trail with some criminal at the end - Sherlock mentions a serial killer - and Sherlock's excitement is contagious, made even more so by his obvious brilliance now that he's faced with a real challenge.

In the back of John's mind, there's something telling him that neither of them should be so happy that someone's been murdered, but he brushes it aside. Afterall, they're trying to catch the culprit. Still, he does try to be a little more discreet about it than Sherlock when they reach the crime scene. John can only imagine being raised in a lab didn't help him with social norms.

John has had a lot of his expectations challenged in the past twenty four hours, first about Sherlock, and now about what it's like to investigate a crime scene. He didn't expect it to be so busy. The house - not a foggy alleyway - swarms with crime scene technicians in protective sheaths that almost look like futuristic spacesuits. The least surprising thing about the whole set up is the murdered woman, dressed all in pink.

Everything is going well, he examines a corpse, and then Sherlock decides to vanish on him. John shouldn't really be surprised, but there's something humiliating about following a man to a crime scene and then being abandoned, like he should have known better - like he should have known Sherlock better before agreeing to follow him around. Even worse, he has a sinking feeling that he's being used.

John's standing outside the house, no doubt looking lost, when one of the crime scene technicians that bickered with Sherlock when they arrived walks over to him. She's one of the last people he wants to see. Sherlock's abrupt departure has as good as proven her disparaging words right, and there's nothing he can say to protest - he's not even sure that he wants to. He bites back a frustrated retort that she doesn't deserve - Sherlock can give as good as he gets.

She seems to take pity on John and offers him some advice, "Stay away from Sherlock."

"Why?" John asks, for some reason still willing to defend a man he met twenty-four hours ago who just abandoned him at a crime scene.

She gives him a look like she thinks he's crazy, and he probably deserves it. "You know he isn't human. For all we know, he could just be toying with us. He doesn't exactly have a high regard for human life. He could be behind all these murders, leading us on a wild goose chase, and we'd have no way of knowing. Even if we could catch him, who knows what superpowers he has. The farther you stay away from him, the better - for your own sake."

She clearly believes her own words, and it's hard for John to argue as much as he wants to. It doesn't seem like Sherlock would really kill anyone, but how much does he really know about the man? The news reports certainly didn't tell him anything. He was created in a lab for goodness's sake, John could probably never completely understand him. Still, he can't imagine staying away.

He's lost in thought as he limps away from the crime scene. He's struggling along what looks like a major street when he hears a phone ring. The sharp sound startles him, but when he glances over, he doesn't expect the source of the noise to be a payphone. He didn't even know you could call a payphone. He assumes that someone must have the wrong number and continues on in search of a cab.

When he hears another payphone ring, he doesn't know what to think. It has to be a coincidence, or someone that keeps dialing wrong numbers - maybe the payphones are just a digit off from each other. By the time he passes the third, he knows something must be up. This isn't even the weirdest thing that's happened to him today. He's thinking about moving in with a man who may or may not have superpowers - maybe it's Sherlock trying to get ahold of him.

He answers the phone. He doesn't expect there to actually be someone on the other end, and unfortunately, it isn't Sherlock. It's the most roundabout way anyone could have possibly gotten ahold of him, but it proves a point clearly enough. When a car drives up to the phone box, he gets inside without protest - not that the person on the other end gives him a chance to say anything before hanging up.

The car takes him to an empty garage, of all places. Standing leisurely between concrete pillars is what looks like a perfectly ordinary civil servant, in a conservative pinstripe suit with a bright red tie, leaning on a leathery black umbrella like a cane - John wonders if he's using it to disguise a limp. But something about him reminds John inexorably of Sherlock.

He's not quite the same. He's tall, like Sherlock, but clearly with a much healthier appetite. He has neat, close-cropped black hair and a round face. He seems more imperious than manic, but there's something in his cold grey eyes, that same desperation, like he's fighting for his life and he will not lose.

"You were made in a lab," John blurts out.

"I see Sherlock chooses his pets well," the man replies, not bothering to hide his condescension. "You are correct. My designation is M-H, though these days I am addressable as Mycroft Holmes."

"What do you want with me?" John demands, still bristling at being called Sherlock's pet. "I barely even know him."

Mycroft looks at John as though he doesn't believe a word he's said. "And yet, you're planning on moving in with him."

"Am I really?" John retorts. "Can you tell the future? Is that how you were able to time everything?"

Mycroft doesn't deign to answer. Instead he says, "I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money, on a regular basis, to ease your way."

A little money wouldn't hurt, but he'd be mad to trust a man that lured him to an abandoned parking garage just for a little chat, even madder than he would have to be to move in with Sherlock Holmes. "Why?" John asks, waiting for the catch.

Mycroft finally gets around to the point of this whole little rendez-vous. "In exchange for information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"What do you want with him?" John demands. There's an unspoken threat in his voice that he doesn't expect and definitely doesn't have the leverage to be making.

"You could say that I'm his rival. He would call me his arch enemy," Mycroft says, as though it's perfectly natural.

"From the Institute?" John feels like he has to clarify, because normal people don't have archnemeses or even rivals, usually.

Mycroft again gives him a condescending look, as though he's a dog that just performed a very simple trick after an inordinate amount of effort. But, in the end, he deigns to throw John a bone; "Sherlock and I were both part of Generation H. Only the best projects in each generation were allowed to survive, and I was always one step ahead."

A retort about Mycroft's modesty is on the tip of John's tongue when his words fully register. And then, all John can manage is a subdued, "Oh."

John is amazed that he manages to return to the flat unscathed.

He steps inside and finds Sherlock strewn across the sofa. He begins to wonder how long Sherlock has been waiting when he notices what he's doing. He has one sleeve rolled up and is doing something with his arm. It doesn't take a genius to see what's going on.

John is already berating himself for his bad judgement as he makes his presence known. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock glances up at him, clearly annoyed by the interruption, but he shows John his forearm all the same, covered in a line of large square bandages. "Nicotine patches," Sherlock explains nonchalantly. "They used drugs to keep us under control. Turns out it's a difficult habit to break."

John stops short. "They?" he asks, but he already knows.

"Our handlers," Sherlock says, which wouldn't actually answer John's question if he hadn't already guessed.

John doesn't know how to respond to something like that. The way both of them, Mycroft and Sherlock, talk about the Institute so casually, it doesn't sound real. None of it seems like it could possibly be real. But everything about the man in front of him says that it is.

John doesn't press, instead he remarks, "I just met Mycroft Holmes on my way back from the crime scene. He said he was your archnemesis."

Sherlock seems to take it in stride. "He's the most dangerous man you'll ever meet. He took down the Shelley Institute single-handed."

"Did he?" John can't help but ask. From the articles, it sounded like it took a whole army to bust the Institute open, and even then they were almost too late - the evacuation had already begun. The name Mycroft Holmes wasn't even mentioned.

Sherlock just waves it off. "They were getting in his way. It was a matter of time."

John hesitates. "He said that you were both part of 'Generation H,' and he chose the same last name as you. Does that mean he's basically your brother?"

To John's surprise, Sherlock glares at him. "Humans have 'brothers,'" he says like it's a foreign concept.

"And what are you?" John retorts.

"Not nearly as dull," he says dismissively.

"Excuse me," John says.

"We were created to be smarter, stronger, better in every way." Sherlock leaves no question as to whether he thinks they succeeded.

"Then what do you want a human flatmate for?" John demands. He's already standing and he takes a step toward the door.

"I didn't want just any flatmate," Sherlock says, as though that would be ridiculous and to be fair, not many people would put up with him. "There's something about you…"

Sherlock stands abruptly and suddenly he's much too close, staring at John with an inhuman intensity. John's heart leaps into his throat where it pounds much too fast, but his hands are steady. He can feel Sherlock there, just inches away.

John belatedly steps backward, to leave a little more distance between them.

Finally, Sherlock continues, "You're interesting. You're still slow and weak, but you don't think like an ordinary human."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asks. He's insulted, of course, but probably not as much as he should be, and he can't deny that he's curious.

Sherlock just changes the subject.

John sees Sherlock through the window, his hand raised to his mouth - John can almost see the capsule in his hand. He's too late.

"Sherlock!" He tries to shout, but no one can hear him.

He levels his gun on instinct and fires without a second thought. He feels no remorse for the life he's taken. He is frighteningly calm as he leaves the building to wait just outside the crime scene. He half expects Sherlock not to even notice him there.

He is even more surprised when Sherlock asks, "Are you alright?" This is the most genuine John has seen him.

John can only smile. Maybe things will work out alright after all.

He moves in to the flat, of course, and follows Sherlock around on his cases. John gets the feeling Sherlock mostly brings him along to have someone to monologue at and maybe to act as a barrier between him and the rest of the world, who still watch him with mistrust. He gets to examine a few corpses, but he doubts he's really doing anything Sherlock couldn't. But it is somewhat endearing to find that Sherlock isn't always right. And whenever a client arrives, Sherlock glances over at John before accepting the case, which somehow makes it all worthwhile.

Not that Sherlock isn't infuriating, leaving without warning as though John should be able to read his mind - he isn't convinced Sherlock and Mycroft don't have psychic powers - and assuming John will always be at his beck and call like he's some overworked personal assistant. The idea of John having other plans is apparently beyond his powers of deduction. And at times he can be downright insulting.

Sherlock is in one of his worse moods. He calls it boredom, but John suspects it's a chronic symptom of withdrawal. Either way, there's only so much abuse that John will take. He's been working on getting over his unhealthy crush on a man created in a lab who doesn't even see him as human and actually has a girlfriend now - it's great progress - so he goes to spend the night at her place where everything is blissfully, if a little blandly, normal.

The next morning he turns on the telly as he stretches out his back from spending the night on the sofa - not that he hasn't slept on worse. When he sees Baker Street blown apart by a gas explosion, all his anger from the night before vanishes.

He runs out the door as though there's anything he can do that hasn't been done already, hoping desperately that Sherlock is alive and well. He must be made of stronger stuff, but he doubts Sherlock would take well to being confined to a hospital bed.

Sherlock is, of course, unharmed, sitting casually in the living room, arguing with Mycroft as though nothing happened. Still, John lets out an unsteady sigh of relief and feels a little giddy - not that Sherlock's indifference to his arrival helps his mood. John has to remind himself that it doesn't matter what Sherlock thinks because he has a girlfriend.

That doesn't stop his heart from leaping when Sherlock says with some irony, "I'm lost without my blogger," before leading the way out the door.

He sweeps out of the room like a force of nature, eager and indomitable, and John can only follow in his wake, his heart racing, but his hands steady.

Of course, it was not a gas leak that destroyed the flat across the street; that would be too much of a coincidence. The trail leads them to a pair of shoes left in the unoccupied basement flat, 221C. Sherlock says they're familiar, but will say no more.

And then the phone rings.

"Hello, sexy." On the other end is a crying woman, who has been threatened into acting as the voice of the hidden mastermind, who only goes by Moriarty. It's a diabolical game; they are presented with a mystery that must be solved before the victim's time runs out. And then they get another.

It's a trap, it can only be a trap. There's no way someone would go through so much effort to arrange something like this if they didn't get anything out of it. It takes John embarrassingly long to figure out what.

Sherlock probably doesn't even realize he's being flirted with, but John can see how intrigued he is - probably the closest he's ever come to having feelings for someone. Sherlock is the happiest John has ever seen him, and the most callous. His insides twist with a mix of fear and jealousy - the latter of which should probably be the last thing on his mind.

Finally, John snaps, "There are people dying, Sherlock!" He knows he's grasping at straws, Sherlock's concern for others has always been tenuous at best and now... he's probably already gone somewhere John can't reach him.

Of course, Sherlock answers, "So?"

"Why are you even doing this if you don't care about them?" John demands. It's probably the wrong thing to say. The last thing he wants to do is push Sherlock over the edge, and he's so close already, but it slips out. He was never good at hiding his feelings.

"I'm not human, John," he answers. There's almost a threat in his voice and for the first time John is a little frightened of Sherlock. "I wasn't made to care. It just gets in the way."

There's nothing John can say to that. Of course this is what Sherlock was made to be. He wonders if Sherlock hasn't started to think he's getting in the way, and what will happen then.

One moment John is on his way to Sarah's without a care in the world - or close enough - the next thing he knows, a dark cloth bag drops over his head. He swings without thinking, flailing wildly at his assailant. He lands a hit, but it's not enough. Someone pins back his arms to force on a heavy, bulky jacket and slips a speaker into his ear.

"I would cooperate if I were you," a soft voice coos in his ear.

The man on the other end is trying to be seductive and threatening all at once, but John finds that he's mostly annoyed. He's frightened, of course, and frustrated that there's nothing he can do but lead Sherlock into a trap, but at least he has standards. He's more relieved than he has any right to be that serial bomber is apparently not his type.

He doesn't struggle - he knows where that would lead. He's still hoping there's some way out of this, that Moriarty is just using him as another pawn to entice Sherlock to solve another mystery and that he'll be released when Sherlock solves it and it's all over. He even dares to hope that Sherlock might care about him just enough to get the case over with quickly. But John knows there's got to be more to it than that; he has no illusions that he's anything more than a pet to Sherlock, but he didn't know any of the other victims.

John keeps his head down and does what the voice says, waiting for an opening of any kind. He's surprised when he's led into a public pool, of all places, saturated with the smell of chlorine. It's empty, closed for the night.

He waits.

"Show time," the voice in his ear says at last.

He walks mechanically down the hallway, at least now he can see his surroundings. That doesn't stop his heart from pounding in his ears. He pushes open the double doors and steps inside.

His heart drops. The soft light inside illuminates a small pool, and standing at the edge is Sherlock, holding a memory stick up in the air.

The voice in his ear prompts him, and John speaks, simultaneously trying and trying not to make it a convincing performance. "'Evening. This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes widen. It may be the first time that John has seen him afraid, and it would be flattering if John wasn't so terrified himself. "John? What the hell are you-?"

It's a relief when John is allowed to step a little closer and reveal the deception, even as Moriarty toys with him.

And then the man himself strides into the room. He's familiar, but John can't place him. It's not the familiarity that's striking, at least not his face, but his eyes. He's just like Sherlock and Mycroft, a little more wild, but he's got that same desperation; he's also fighting for his life. But this time John knows better than to say anything.

"Jim. From the hospital?" Moriarty attempts to remind them.

It still takes a moment for the name and face to come together. He was Molly's boyfriend, who Sherlock rudely outed at the lab just days before, but he looks so different now. He looked like a normal person then, but now it's unmistakable what he really is.

"J-M," Sherlock says at last. John recognizes it as his designation.

"It's Jim Moriarty now," he corrects Sherlock with a teasing lilt. He's still flirting. "That's the fad, isn't it? A human name, a human pet."

Sherlock's eyes flicker over to John. He appreciates the concern, if not the label. All he can do is hope it doesn't stick - assuming they get out of here.

"It's maddening, isn't it?" Moriarty asks, drawing Sherlock's attention back to himself. "Being free at last, but not quite. No murder, arson, not even theft" - he ticks them off his fingers - "None of the fun stuff. There's nothing worse than being a wolf among sheep and not being allowed to hunt, is there, Sherlock?"

"People have died," Sherlock snaps with more righteous anger than John could have possibly expected. His heart rate picks up, but not because of the danger he's in.

Moriarty gives an exaggerated sigh. "Humans have died."

Sherlock glances over at John again.

Moriarty pretends to gag. "You didn't even tell him about little Carl, even after I went through so much trouble to get you his shoes, and I'm sure you remember the pool where it happened" - he gestures at their surroundings. "It's almost like you're ashamed of what you are. Like you want to be human. But you can't tell me you aren't bored. M-H can get his kicks starting wars from behind a desk, but you and me, we're different, we like to be in the thick of it all."

"At least I don't need to kill people," Sherlock retorts.

"Yes, you just need someone else to do it for you," Moriarty taunts back. "We both know that without me, you'd be bored out of your mind."

Sherlock can't argue with that, they all know how bitterly he was complaining of being bored before Moriarty came around.

And then, to John's complete and utter surprise, Moriarty says, "Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have a proper chat," and leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him. For a moment, Sherlock doesn't move. He's still holding John's gun, trained on the door. They both expect Moriarty to come back any second. But then he glances over at John and it's like he can't stop himself. Sherlock drops to his knees in front of him. The gun clatters to the ground.

"Alright?" Sherlock asks urgently, nearly breathless.

At first John doesn't even understand what he's saying.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock insists, as he stands to tear off the bulky overcoat and the vest covered in explosives. He throws them across the room, as though that would be enough to save them.

And then he's back on John in an instant, patting down his torso as though searching for more explosives, but John's shirt isn't that baggy.

"Sherlock," John says, resting his hands on Sherlock's arms to stop him, slow him down.

He can hear his heart still pounding. The fervor of fighting for his life has given way to a new excitement. He can feel the proximity, Sherlock's lean, immaculately, tightly dressed form, suddenly much too close, his hands resting around John's waist. And he's looking at John, his eyes a bright, pale blue in the light of the pool, staring into John's eyes as though he's lost in them. He can feel an uncertainty and a longing - a need - radiating off of Sherlock. It's almost overwhelming.

Reflexively, John reaches up to kiss Sherlock, to reassure him.

But Sherlock is gone, suddenly standing a few feet away. He runs out to check on the door, to see if Moriarty is still there.

John is confused and then a little stung by the rejection, but he doesn't have time to begin to process it as the enormity of everything that just happened crashes down on him and his legs give way.

They're both subdued the whole ride home. John is just exhausted. Sherlock seems on edge. He keeps glancing over at John like he has to confirm he's still there. But John isn't ready to deal with whatever is going on. When they arrive back at the flat, John goes straight up to his room and collapses. He hears a few strains from the violin drifting up the stairs before he's out like a light.

The next day, John expects Sherlock to be sleeping off the case. He's been awake for days and even with superhuman endurance, he needs to rest. John is looking forward to having a little space, a little time to process everything - Sherlock's rejection included. Maybe he'll spend some time at Sarah's, go on a normal date that doesn't involve dead bodies or homicidal maniacs, with someone that actually wants to be with him.

His plans are ruined the moment he comes downstairs to find Sherlock sitting at his computer, as active as ever. There is no question as to whether he's slept. He glances up at John's arrival and then hastily returns to his computer as John sets about preparing breakfast. It's probably for the best that neither of them has mentioned the evening before, though John manages to resent it a little.

Still, it's nice to have a quiet morning at home after everything that happened. Even Sherlock seems to have calmed down. He seems content to tap away at his computer, doing who knows what. Probably checking to see if Moriarty hasn't left him any more puzzles to solve. Neither of them talks much, but to John's surprise, when he steps out to go for a walk, maybe run some errands that were forgotten the evening before, or visit Sarah, Sherlock drops everything he's doing and makes to follow after.

At first, John thinks Sherlock just needs some air, or is planning on dragging John off somewhere after an overlooked clue. But he just follows John on his errands, watching their surroundings with a keen eye and occasionally making snide remarks about passers-by. He even lends John a hand with the machine at the grocery store, which of course does exactly what he wants on the first try.

It's almost like John has an overactive guard dog. It's endearing, in a strange sort of way. However, it soon becomes apparent that Sherlock is planning on following John around everywhere, and that doesn't take long at all to become stifling. It would be too much even if John didn't already have a lot to process.

"You know, the chances of me getting jumped on my way to the store are next to nill," John finally says. He tries to keep his voice gentle, but he's more than a little frustrated.

Predictably, Sherlock just waves it off. "I don't want to wait around if a mystery shows up while you're out. You take forever to get back when you're on errands."

"What if a client comes by while you're out following me around?" John retorts.

"They can wait," Sherlock says dismissively.

John just gives it up as a bad job and swears he'll try another approach later. Thankfully, after a few days, Sherlock finally elects to remain by his computer when John leaves the flat. His concern is touching, but John needs at least a little time away from Sherlock's sharp gaze.

John spends a lot of time wondering what went wrong that evening at the pool. He doesn't think much about Moriarty - probably less than he should, to be honest. Instead it's the moment afterward that keeps replaying in his mind. Sherlock's hands on his hips, their bodies so close he can almost feel the heat radiating off of Sherlock, and that strangely vulnerable, almost human expression. They both leaned in and then- nothing.

John can only sigh at the thought. For an instant there he was so certain, it was so obvious that Sherlock was interested - in him. But maybe it was just the heat of the moment, John's own desires playing tricks on him. And even if Sherlock is interested, he has to remind himself that it's a terrible idea. Even if he would drop everything in a heartbeat.

It doesn't help that John can't stop himself from imagining what would have happened if things had gone right. Sherlock is probably a better kisser than he has any right to be, and John can almost feel those long, clever fingers dancing across his skin. Even being with Sarah doesn't stop him from thinking about it, though he knows it's unfair to her, impossible as it may be.

Mycroft slides a photograph across the table, toward Sherlock. They're sitting around a delicate little tea table in Buckingham Palace, which John still can't quite believe.

"It's not like we haven't been here before," Sherlock said, while John stared at the golden walls. And then he and Mycroft exchanged a glance and hastily changed the topic.

Now, John cranes over to see the woman in the photograph. She's very attractive, and the way she's walking says that she knows it, but there's another look in her eyes that John would recognize anywhere.

"A-I," Sherlock says in recognition. "She hasn't changed a bit."

Mycroft nods. "She currently goes by Irene Adler."

John can't help but ask, "What was she doing at the Institute?"

Mycroft just looks at Sherlock, as though daring him to answer.

Sherlock just scoffs. "Most of us were created not to have physical needs, they just get in the way," he says with some disdain. The implication about Ms. Adler is clear.

Still, when he finds out she's playing his game, of course he's intrigued. John hopes this isn't going where he thinks it is, because he definitely can't compete with a professional.

Of course, when they show up at her apartment, she greets them completely naked. John does his best not to stare like a proper gentleman. He's seen enough to be a little embarrassed already - she is beautiful, and apparently he has a type. Sherlock, on the other hand, does nothing but stare. She's clearly figured out his identity already, because he looks like himself by the time John joins them, not the timid priest he was disguised as.

However, John is surprised when Sherlock throws up his arms in frustration. "How do you do it?" he demands.

She just gives him a look.

"This isn't what we were made for! We're not supposed to be able to form attachments, but I saw her, she's happy" - Sherlock says the word as though Ms. Adler must have done something terrible to have such an effect - "That means you must reciprocate. But how?"

John cannot believe they are having this conversation. Ms. Adler glances between John and Sherlock as though she's piecing together what's going on. John frantically waves his arms in an attempt to explain that it's not what she thinks, still desperately avoiding looking down.

"It's not that hard," she says, almost sweetly, but there's a distinct touch of condescension and underneath that, somehow a hint of a threat. "You seem to have managed so far." She glances over at John again. "Though no one likes a coward in matters of love."

"Caring is a weakness," Sherlock protests. "We're not supposed to have weaknesses."

She just shakes her head. "We're not in the Institute any more, Shirly, or should I say S-H? Now, I can't believe you just came all the way here just to vent your relationship troubles at me."

Afterwards, John can only ask, "You have feelings for someone? You?" He's torn between hoping beyond hope that Sherlock has feelings for him and dreading the inevitable confession that he's fallen in love with Moriarty.

Sherlock throws up his hands again. "Apparently! It shouldn't be possible! We're not supposed to form attachments! But I was so worried..."

His eyes meet John's and suddenly it clicks - that evening at the pool; he's never seen Sherlock more frightened than that, all because he was worried about John. He's about to say something, Sherlock's name is on the tip of his tongue.

And then the moment is gone as Sherlock continues, "And you're human."

"What's wrong with that?" John demands as his heart sinks.

"You're so…" - Sherlock gestures wildly - "breakable - and dull."

"Thanks," John says bitterly. He moves away, trying not to think too much about the rejection. He got his hopes up for just a second and this is where it's gotten him. Even now, he's still trying to rationalize. After all, Sherlock did admit he's interested in him, maybe he just needs some time, but John's not willing to give that to him right now. Damn his terrible taste.

Sherlock follows after him. "All humans are," he attempts, as though somehow that makes it better.

John is done. He has a date that night and he might as well get ready for it. Not that it turns out his normal love life is going much better.

"You know, my friends are wrong about you," Jeanette says, "You're a great boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes is a lucky man."

"Jeanette, please," John begs - not another one. "I'll even walk your dog for you."

"I don't have a dog," she says, and that about seals it.

John is still fuming later, frustrated about the latest disaster and even more frustrated because the truth is, he isn't Sherlock's boyfriend, he's more like his dog. Sure, Sherlock cares about him, but he is only human after all.

"I need the paper," Sherlock says from where he's sprawled on the couch with a vague gesture toward the door.

John frowns. He knows Sherlock doesn't mean anything by it, but he never does. "I'm not your human pet," John retorts.

"Fine," Sherlock says. "Lestrade will get it."

Of course, it's not long before Lestrade arrives, brandishing their paper. "You shouldn't leave it out on the stoop, it'll get soggy," he admonishes them.

Sherlock smirks.

John just shakes his head.

Sherlock and John wind through the labyrinthine, antiseptic halls of the Baskerville lab. They're deep underground, under harsh artificial light that somehow underscores the absence of windows. It's just shy of a miracle that they haven't been caught yet. Clearly they haven't met anyone who can tell the difference between the Holmes brothers. And Sherlock is far from inconspicuous. He stares at the scientists and caged animals as they pass, looking like a wild animal himself. Somehow their guide hasn't noticed.

The officer is foolish enough to remark, "I guess you're used to this sort of place, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock snaps back with an inappropriate deduction, startling the man into silence.

It doesn't help that some of the scientists have started to stare back.

John knows better than to say anything until they're back on the surface, driving away from the base a lot faster than is probably safe. "Sherlock, are you alright?" he asks hesitantly.

"Perfectly functional," Sherlock snarls. "You should be more worried about yourself."

John isn't even sure what that's supposed to mean. It doesn't quite sound like a threat, though it would be easy to mistake it for one.

Sherlock is quiet and distant for the rest of the day, his collar turned up, supposedly against the wind. John supposes he shouldn't be surprised. The lab probably isn't so different from the one Sherlock was created in, and it doesn't seem like it's a place that holds a lot of happy memories.

John is still a little concerned, but there's nothing he can do to stop Sherlock from leading them out on their investigation that night. John falls behind and by the time he catches up with the others, he's apparently already missed the main event.

"Where were you?" Sherlock demands. There's something wild in his eyes, like at the lab earlier.

"Morse code," John attempts to explain, "I saw someone flashing a light, I think they were signalling-"

Sherlock just cuts him off, suddenly cold, "Don't care."

He turns and strides back into the woods. John has to hurry to keep up.

They're back at the hotel, sitting by a campfire out front, when Sherlock explains, his voice low, "I was afraid, John. Afraid."

"Sherlock-" John attempts.

"Do you know what would have happened to me if I was ever afraid? The weak get scrapped. We're not supposed to have emotions, to worry" - he looks up at John, the embers dancing in his pale blue eyes. He looks terrified. Suddenly, he shouts, flinging his arms in the air, dangerously close to the fire, "I'm not supposed to care! I can't afford to lug around a slow, weak human!"

There's a lot going on that John can't understand, but he might have some idea. "Even when we're at war, we still try to take care of the wounded."

"Good for you," Sherlock snaps. He gets up and stalks away without a word.

Of course, when there's more investigating to be done, he doesn't hesitate to text John and send him on his way. He even gets trapped in the lab with a horrible beast for his troubles.

Only after the mystery is solved does John remark, "What happened to me? In the lab. What was all that about?" Those were some of the most terrifying moments of his life, and that's saying something, cowering in the lab, waiting for the beast to come, those bright red eyes that burned into the night.

Sherlock evades a little.

Finally, it dawns on him, "It was you! You locked me in that bloody lab!" He can hardly believe what he's saying, but it all fits.

Sherlock doesn't even have the decency to deny it. "I had to. It was an experiment."

"Had to?" John demands, forcing himself to his feet. He's livid, his anger growing by the second. "I was terrified."

"I knew what effect it had on a superior mind. I needed to try it on an average one," Sherlock says, as though he's done nothing wrong.

"Sure," John says, his voice dripping venom. "At least now I know not to believe all that crap about you being worried."

"Don't you see?" Sherlock demands. "That's why I had to do it. I can't afford to worry about you."

"Well you won't have to," John says. "I'm moving out."

"John!" Sherlock protests.

But John is already walking away.

Somehow Sherlock gets back to Baker Street first. He's lounging in the sitting room when John arrives. It takes all the resolve John has to walk by without a word, but it's easier than he expects. He's tired and frustrated and finally ready to be done.

But before John can reach the stairs, of course, Sherlock says, "John."

John doesn't even turn.

He hears Sherlock moving behind him. Again, he calls out, "John." He's starting to sound a little petulant.

John doesn't move.

"You're not even going to look at me?" Sherlock mostly sounds annoyed, but underneath there's something almost pleading. "I worry about you so much it frightens me. Caring is dangerous."

John turns on his heel to face Sherlock. "Then we're agreed. It's easier for both of us if I leave."

"No!" Sherlock exclaims. "I just need to get over it, that's all."

"No," John says, "I'm not sticking around to help you get over caring about me." He continues toward the stairs.

"What do you want me to do?" Sherlock demands.

"It doesn't matter to me," John says without stopping, though he knows he's taking his time.

"You'd rather be my weakness?" Sherlock asks, incredulous.

"It would only be fair," John says with a sardonic smile.

Sherlock hesitates, but to John's surprise, he finally says, "Fine. If that's what it takes. We'll just have to be more careful."

The papers have been buzzing about "Sherlock Holmes, Superhuman Detective." The press gaggles have gotten bigger at every case they've solved. It's not what John would call being careful, but there's something inevitable about Sherlock's meteoric rise. It would be exhilarating if it wasn't painful watching Sherlock stumble through public appearances.

After the first disaster he exclaims in frustration, "We weren't made to be in the limelight!"

And John believes him.

Of course, the press aren't the only ones who have noticed. It's only a matter of time before Moriarty makes an appearance, clearly desperate for the attention Sherlock has stumbled into. He steals the crown jewels, robs the Bank of England, and orchestrates a prison break, all within the span of a few minutes, and then lets himself get caught. The trial is a farce, not only for Sherlock's refusal to stop correcting the lawyers on how to question him. And then the news gets out.

"Sherlock," John says.

Sherlock ignores him, of course.

John knows better than to be discouraged. "Sherlock, you should see this," he insists. "The news-"

Sherlock finally looks up, but his expression cuts John short. He looks uncertain, almost frightened. Still he answers with his usual sharpness, as though he's annoyed at being interrupted, "Yes?"

John doesn't really know where to begin. Of course Sherlock's already read it. He doesn't even know what he was going to say if Sherlock hadn't - "Did you really kill all those people," isn't really a conversation starter, and from Sherlock's expression, the answer is pretty obvious.

Finally he settles for the rather lame, "I knew the Institute was a messed up place, but I didn't realize it was that bad."

Sherlock is still staring at him, looking like he expects John to yell.

"I mean, I know you didn't do any of that willingly," John clarifies, though he's sure Sherlock will just snap at him for stating the obvious.

To his surprise, Sherlock says grimly, "Following orders isn't much of an excuse."

"Sherlock, you said they kept you drugged," John exclaims. "They raised you from birth to… to do their dirty work. It's a miracle you've turned out as well as you have."

Apparently that's not the response Sherlock expected. "How do you know I'm not still assassinating people and stealing information?" he asks warily. "How do you know I'm not toying with the police, killing people and then leading them on a wild chase?"

John just gives him a mystified look.

"That's what people will think. They've launched an investigation already," Sherlock says.

John shakes his head. "You're not that good at acting. No one is."

"You read the article, we were created for infiltration," Sherlock insists.

John gives him another look, this one more exasperated. "You'd last a day, tops, before you blew your own cover trying to be clever."

"Maybe that's what I want you to think," Sherlock snaps.

"Is it?" John asks, incredulous. He knows Sherlock's ego better than that.

"Maybe," Sherlock says, but it's clearly just for the sake of argument.

"No," John says a little fondly, "If you were trying to fool anyone you'd be nicer and less of a showoff." After a pause John asks, "Have you been undercover for any longer than a day?"

"No more than a month, and that's because someone got the information wrong," Sherlock answers without thinking - John can guess who that "someone" is. "I was made for shorter missions."

John nods. That makes sense. "It must be Moriarty," he remarks. "I didn't realize it then, but it's like how he was taunting you about your first mission at the pool." According to the article, the murder of that kid was Sherlock's first assassination, and that makes sense, with how Sherlock clammed up about it.

For the first time, Sherlock is looking at John like he's the one that's gotten lost in the conversation and is trying to catch up. "You don't mind then? That I've killed all of those people?"

John isn't entirely sure how to respond. Eventually, he says, "Of course, I'd rather you hadn't, but you clearly weren't... made for entertaining at birthday parties. You're still you."

Sherlock stares at John, his eyes a little wide in surprise - John isn't quite willing to call it wonder. Abruptly, he looks away in embarrassment and says quietly, "Thank you. That means a lot to me."

John gives him an awkward pat on the arm, not entirely sure what to do. He wants to hold Sherlock in his arms, but that's not going to happen.

It takes longer than John expects for Sherlock to meet his eyes again. When he does, it's with surprisingly quiet determination. He starts speaking fast, even more so than usual when making rapidfire deductions, almost like if he stops for breath he won't be able to get himself to continue, "From when we first met, whenever you look at me your eyes are dilated, and I felt your elevated heart rate in your hand just now. I assumed it was just a mere infatuation, primarily a physical attraction" - he leans in and sure enough, John feels his heart racing in his chest - "However I was clearly mistaken."

John swallows reflexively. Sherlock's face is just inches away from his now, and John isn't quite sure where this is going. He can hope - his eyes are certainly dilated - but things never seem to go quite right with Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock says - he can feel Sherlock's breath tickling his cheeks - "Do I have to say it?"

John nods.

Sherlock takes his time. "Despite everything I was created to be, I find that I have inexplicably developed feelings for you."

"Not worried about caring too much?" John has to ask.

"It's too late," Sherlock says.

And finally, with what feels like reckless abandon, though it's the most premeditated thing he's ever done, John leans in to kiss Sherlock on the lips. Contrary to John's imagination, Sherlock is far from an expert kisser. He's clumsy and tries to make up for it by being a little too forceful. But nothing can stop John from grinning like a maniac as they pull apart.

Sherlock, meanwhile, looks like his mind is whirring, trying to make deductions at an absurd pace. Finally, he acknowledges, his voice a little thick, "That was surprisingly enjoyable. Now I see why you were able to get so many girlfriends."

John gives him a look, though his smile probably ruins the effect.

Still, Sherlock gets the point. "Not good?"

John nods.

"Would you still be amenable to trying again?"

Sherlock looks so hopeful that even if John wanted to he couldn't say anything but, "Yes."

Before he can lean in again, however, Sherlock says, "But entertaining at birthday parties, really John?"

"Do you want me to kiss you or not?"

Sherlock, always determined to have the last word, leans in and kisses John instead.

Unfortunately, their domestic bliss is short lived. They're sitting on the couch, Sherlock sprawled across everything, including John, while John attempts to douse some of the flames of the recent revelations about Sherlock with his blog. Later, maybe he'll announce their relationship to the world, but they have a bigger battle to fight right now, and neither of them is keen on the extra scrutiny.

Lestrade strides in, clearly in a hurry. He takes one glance at them and says, "Now? Now is the time you decided to shack up?"

Sherlock makes a noise of disgust at the suggestion, apparently oblivious to his compromising position.

John shoots him a look.

Sherlock waves it off, but corrects himself anyway, "Created not to have physical needs - get in the way. John and I are a couple now though."

It's surprisingly gratifying to see Sherlock looking so smug about having "wooed" him.

"I don't know whether to give you my congratulations or consolations," Lestrade says.

John just grins.

Before Lestrade can continue, Sherlock says, suddenly serious, "No."

"What?" Lestrade asks. He glances at John, but this time John has just as much of an idea as the official detective.

"You want me to come down to the station and help with the inquiry. The answer is no," Sherlock says.

Of course. John is torn between suggesting that maybe it would be better for Sherlock to cooperate, and trying to stand - which Sherlock is making rather difficult - to defend Sherlock, with his life if he has to.

"Sherlock," Lestrade attempts, "If you cooperate, there's a better chance of getting them to understand."

"And be paraded in front of the Commissioner? The press gaggle? Treated like some sort of monster?" Sherlock shakes his head. "Got more important things on, sorry. Give the Commissioner my apologies." He sounds surprisingly disappointed, or maybe just tired.

John knows it doesn't sound right, but he has to ask, "Out of curiosity, why are you still trying to help?"

"I never told you?" Lestrade says, sounding a little surprised. "I was one of the officers that was sent to take down the Shelley Institute. That's when I met Sherlock. He was even worse then than he is now, than he was when you came around, if you'll believe it."

"I'm surprised you've stuck around this long," John says.

Sherlock glares at him, looking a little affronted.

John smiles back. "All more than worth it, of course."

Sherlock's smug smile returns and he melts back into John, pinning him even more thoroughly, if possible.

Lestrade can only chuckle and shake is head. "I never thought I'd see the day." More seriously, he continues, "It's a shame the circumstances. Sherlock, you're sure you won't come in? Give yourself a fighting chance?"

John can feel Sherlock tense up. Finally, he answers, "I have the real danger to catch."

John runs frantically down the street. He just needs to find Sherlock and then he'll figure out what to do from there.

"Just a little farther," Sherlock urges in his ear.

John's arm aches from holding his phone up to his ear, but he can't put it down.

And then John sees him, a mostly black silhouette standing on the edge of the roof. He's too far away to quite meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Just hold tight, I'll be up there in a second!" John says.

He sees Sherlock shake his head. "I'm sorry, John, for all the lies."

"What lies?" John asks.

"You saw the paper; I'm a monster. I murdered all those people and solved the cases just trying to impress you. To put on a show."

"What are you saying?" John demands. "You knew you didn't need to impress me."

"But I wanted to," Sherlock says. His voice starts to crack. "I guess this is goodbye. John, I love you."

And then the line goes dead.

"Sherlock! Wait!" John shouts to no avail. "SHERLOCK!"

He tumbles over the edge and hits the concrete with a crack.