There are an awful lot of jokes about Sherlock being able to read peoples' minds, which got me to wondering what things would be like if it weren't a joke. Kind of an AU, kind of not. It's also the longest thing I've ever written, and way longer than the longest non-explicit thing. I hope you enjoy it!

The third taxi in a row has just driven straight by them, and John huffs in annoyance. It's almost as if they're going out of their way to avoid the pair, and for once they're not even covered in blood or grime. He grabs Sherlock's wrist and drags him towards the nearest tube station.

"John, it's a nice day, let's just walk."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. It's at least six miles to Baker Street from here and my feet are sore. What is it about the tube that you hate so much?"

"It's dull. It's filled with smelly, dull people. Living their dull little lives. It's crowded and unpleasant. And d—"

"Yes, yes, I got that bit. It's dull. Deal with it, just for today, alright?"

Sherlock acquiesces with a soft grunt and follows John down the stairs into the station.

The car is crowded with evening commuters, and they're forced to remain standing. John finds himself almost wishing he still had his cane, but he's too much of a gentleman to ask anyone to shift enough to make room for him.

Sherlock turns to a rather frazzled-looking woman in the disabled priority seat and snaps at her with more vitriol than generally reserved for anyone other than the Yard's most inept member of the forensics team.

"You there, get out of that seat. My friend here is an injured war veteran, he's had a long day, and he deserves this seat far more than you do." John turns beet red and attempts to stammer out an apology to the poor woman but she's already stormed off in a huff. Embarrassed and furious, he sheepishly sinks down into the vacated seat and glares up at Sherlock, preparing to tell him off.

What he sees catches him off-guard. Sherlock, usually so elegant and composed, looks a mess. His eyes are now scrunched tightly shut and his forehead is clammy with sweat. He's pale, much more so than usual, and that in and of itself is noteworthy. His lips are moving rapidly, almost as if he's talking to himself. Whatever he's saying is short, clipped, not flowing like his usual deductions. Almost as if he's reciting something. John reaches out, gently touching Sherlock's arm, and the consulting detective jumps, startled out of his train of thought. His eyes are wide, pupils blown in alarm.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?"

"It's the tube, John. I hate it. I told you."

"Come on then, we're nearly there. We can walk the last two stops." John's being generous. His feet are still sore, but Sherlock is clearly in more discomfort than he's letting on.

Sherlock looks at him, the look of misery on his face shifting to one of gratitude as they rush out of the carriage, through the tube station, and back up into the fresh air. John looks as though he wants to ask questions, but he's decided to wait.

Safely ensconced in the warmth of the flat, Sherlock seems to unwind. He's lying on the couch, eyes closed, hands folded neatly across his chest. Thankfully his skin has lost the waxy pallor it had earlier, returning to its usual marble creaminess, or John would have been reminded uncomfortably of a corpse laid out at a funeral.

"John." He looks up, that deep voice drawing his gaze like a magnet. "I'm sorry about before. Thank you for indulging me." The doctor coughs, unsure of what to say. It's so rare for Sherlock to acknowledge this sort of thing, or to thank anyone.

"Sherlock, it's fine. I had no idea you really hated the underground that much. You kept saying it would be dull, but you certainly didn't look bored. It's almost as if you were claustrophobic, but lord knows we've been wedged into tighter spaces together and it didn't seem to bother you a bit. What is it about the tube that upsets you?"

"I just tend to find it a bit overwhelming. All those people, so close together. It's not just the tube – any situation that's got me surrounded by so many people in such a cramped space. Their voices, their smells, the press of their bodies, their thoughts-" at this point his mouth snaps shut with an audible click, and John's eyes refocus slightly.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, did you say their thoughts?"

"John, don't be ridiculous, I said nothing of the sort."

"You did. You absolutely did."

"Be reasonable, there's no way peoples' thoughts could bother me that much." Sherlock trails off, the look on John's face making it clear he will brook no further argument. He knows what he heard.

"Sherlock, do you mean to tell me you think you can read minds?"

Sherlock rubs one pale hand over his eyes, shifting his weight slightly on the couch. "That sounds far more fantastic and poetic than the truth, John. Readingone'smind implies conscious effort, skimming through the pages with intent. Hypothetically, this would be more like having everyone shout at you all at once."

"Hypothetically." John grunts and rubs his hands over his face. He's absorbing this, and feels as though he should be a lot more freaked out than he is. However, his flatmate is so fantastic and unique and unearthly that this almost doesn't come as a surprise at all. In fact, things suddenly make so much more sense – the way he always seems to anticipate what John's going to say at any given moment, encouraging him when he's on the right track at a crime scene or leading him in another direction when he's fixating on something irrelevant; the way Anderson's mere presence makes his skin crawl even when he manages to keep his ratty little mouth shut; even those memorable words to DI Lestrade on that first night in Brixton. You were thinking. It's annoying.

"So. You're telling me… you can…" at this, he stops talking, and concentrates on thinking very clearly, as if to project what's in his head. Hear my thoughts.

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath and braces himself, the movement of his muscles minute but still perceptible. He looks as if he's expecting a physical blow of some sort.

"Yes, John. Not just yours, either. Everyone's. And there's no need to focus them like that. Also, 'unearthly'? I'm flattered."

"Christ, Sherlock. You— it—really. Bloody hell." John grips the arm of his chair. "So then, all those incredible deductions, all those gifts, it's all a front?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Think before you speak." At Sherlock's unfortunate choice of words, both men are struck with a bout of adrenaline-fuelled nervous giggles. The detective coughs and composes himself. "Firstly, corpses don't think. Secondly, I only experience thoughts that people are currently, actively thinking. When we first met, were you thinking coherently about your military service record? Were you thinking about Harry, about your phone? No. You were wondering if Mike was pulling your leg, thinking I was part of some elaborate joke."

John says nothing, but nods and gestures for Sherlock to continue.

"I will not deny that this ability has helped me glean information, and it's helped sharpen my deductive abilities. Once you know for certain that someone is lying, or hiding something, you learn to observe, to study deeper. The deduction started as a front – I wanted to be sure I had an excuse if I ever let things slip that I wasn't supposed to know. But I came to realise I was good at it. Damn good."

Sherlock rolls over so he's lying on his side on the couch now, facing John. His face is oddly calm. "I have to say, you're taking this far better than I anticipated."

"Am I? I'm not really sure how I'm taking it." John leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, and rubs his face with both hands. "Somehow, though, you're right. Of course you're right. Ha. But really, it's not bothering me as much as it should."

Sherlock lets out a low chuckle. "You've got questions, John. I can hear them buzzing around in there."

"Do I," John pauses, trying to work out the best way to phrase things. "Do I need to say them out loud? Should I just… think them?" His brow furrows at the absurdity of the situation, but Sherlock merely smiles.

"I think it's best if you just ask them normally. It will likely be more comfortable for you, at first. I am also concerned that if we do slip into the habit of communicating in an apparently one-sided manner, we may slip up and do it in public. Do you really want all of Scotland Yard to know that I really and truly am inside your head?" At this, John chuckles and relaxes a bit more. He settles back into the chair, his posture less alert and anxious than before.

"I guess I'll start at the beginning. How long?"

"How long have I been able to do this? All my life, I suppose. I cannot remember a time when I wasn't able to, and Mummy figured it out when I started talking. I'd respond to things nobody had said aloud. Of course, at that age I had no idea there was anything abnormal about me, I assumed everyone communicated in this manner."

Sherlock stares at John, watching as the logical, rational side of him steps aside and makes way for the infinitely curious one. "How does it work? Is there a physical limit?"

"As far as I can tell, it's very similar to standard hearing. I'm only capable of sensing what people are actively thinking about, as though they were saying it out loud. The range seems to be a bit wider than that, but not by much. Generally it's only people within my line of sight, but enclosed spaces seem to make it worse – sort of like an echo."

"So that's why the tube was so awful. Sherlock, I'm so sorry about that. We won't do it again." Sherlock smiles bitterly in acknowledgement. "Thank you John. I can tolerate it mid-day or late at night, when there are not as many people. But the morning and evening rush-hour commutes… I'd rather avoid those whenever possible."

John nods. "So, does anyone else know?"

"Besides you? Well, Mummy, of course. A few doctors at some institute somewhere in Norway. Mycroft, unfortunately."

"Can he... I mean, is he… like you?" John, thinks back to scenes of the two brothers sitting in the sitting room, barely saying a word to each other and yet somehow apparently communicating smoothly.

"Mercifully, no. He's an insufferable know-it-all as it is, I can't imagine how much worse he'd be if he really did know everything that went on in my head. Or anyone's head, for that matter. He's just frightfully good at reading facial expressions and body language. It's not genetic, if that's what you were wondering." John chuckles softly. "Thank goodness. The world is a safer place."

"Unfortunately, I suspect Moriarty also knows."

At this, John's entire body goes rigid and a chill settles in his twisting gut. Oddly, this is the first revelation all evening that's well and truly scared him.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. How?"

"I have no idea how wide his web of influence spreads, but I would not be surprised it if it stretched at least to the institute that studied me as a child – I imagine it wouldn't have been too difficult for him to get a copy of my file there. There wasn't a huge amount of info, but enough for someone like him to manipulate. When we first met 'Jim from I.T.', he was incredibly guarded with his thoughts, thinking nothing specific about me other than lewdly inappropriate things with an undercurrent of boring technical jargon that I assume was supposed to mislead me and cement his story about working upstairs. It seemed too forced, too rehearsed. That, and he knew exactly who to threaten to remove from my life to well and truly throw off my concentration." If John notices the slight flush across Sherlock's sculpted cheekbones at that last statement, he makes a point of politely overlooking it.

"So, this institute, did they ever figure out why? I mean, you can't be the only person who can do this? No offence, I mean, you're pretty uniquely spectacular and all, but…" John cuts himself off before embarrassing either of them further.

"Thank you, John. They had seen several other cases, all slightly different but with similar end results – the ability to experience the thoughts of others. It happens a few times in every generation. They never did narrow down what caused it, nor have they figured out a way to prevent it. Call it magic, call it a hiccough in human evolution."

"It's incredible, is what it is."

"That's not what I imagined you'd say when you found out. I've imagined so many scenarios over the past few months, all of them ending badly. You calling me terrible names, you leaving the flat in a panic…" Sherlock trails off, his eyes locked on some invisible spot in the middle-ground behind John's head.

"I knew you'd figure it out eventually, you know. I suspect that's why I let my guard down and said what I did. You're much smarter than anyone gives you credit for, including yourself. I say that with absolute certainty, having seen everything that goes on in your brain."

"I suppose I can't argue with that now, can I?" John pauses, a flicker of realisation crossing his eyes. "Oh, hell, Sherlock. Everything?" Sherlock smiles slightly at the blush creeping across John's nose and causing the tips of his ears to go pink.

"Yes, John. Everything." Sherlock draws the word out, almost purring. Can it be there's a hint of humour in his voice? He jumps abruptly off of the sofa and walks over to John's chair, squatting down on his heels, so they're sitting nearly face-to-face.

"Sherlock, I am so sorry. Private thoughts, you know? I had no idea…"

"No idea I could hear them? Of course you didn't. Who ever stops to think 'Gee, I ought to stop fantasizing about shagging my flatmate – he might be able to read my thoughts.' And besides, I have to say, they're not entirely unpleasant to me, or entirely unreciprocated."

John blinks, startled. He had indeed fantasized (rather obscenely) about the infuriating and gorgeous man, certainly, but he tried not to think that it might actually lead anywhere. There were also all the awkward emotional implications to dwell on, and he'd rather avoid those. He realises he's been staring into Sherlock's indescribable eyes and abruptly turns away.

"Why haven't you said anything, then?"

"Because along with the rather vivid fantasies, I've also heard the ridiculous existential crises running through your head. I know you consider yourself to be essentially heterosexual. When you were in college you had a few drunken party games escalate into questionable territory, and you had a few dalliances of convenience in the military. However, you've never felt such a strong emotional bond with another man. And you're conflicted, which is understandable but unnecessary. I felt it would be unfair of me to exploit my knowledge and attempt to trick you into anything. If we are to start a relationship, I would much rather it be built on a more solid foundation, one where you're sure of your feelings."

John shakes his head. Somehow, Sherlock sparing his emotions and worrying about the "fairness" of exploiting his ability to read minds is much more unnerving than the fact that he can do it in the first place.

"There's also the matter of sex."

John splutters, raising an eyebrow.

"People tend to view me as asexual. They run under the assumption that I am inexperienced, or uninterested. I seem to emit some kind of a vibe – you have no idea how many people I hear outside imagining deflowering me, often in far less poetic terms." John opens his mouth as if to say something, and Sherlock holds up a finger. "Yes, I know.Married to my work, it's all transport, etcetera. But think, John. Really think. What goes through your head while you're having sex? All that noise, all that fire, that emotion, all those chemicals firing off. It's confusing and overwhelming, is it not? Now imagine that mirrored back at you, in the most intimate way possible. It's not that I'm disinterested, exactly. It's just that my prior experiences were all traumatic, to say the least. And to have to hide what was going on in my head, for fear of upsetting my partner…" he sighs, looking a little bit lost, and a lot unlike himself. "It just got much easier to avoid it altogether."

John, emboldened by this sudden exposed vulnerability in Sherlock's generally unflappable facade, reaches out and gently runs one thumb along the taller man's prominent cheekbone and down along his jaw line. "Sherlock, that's awful. I'm sorry…" he bites his lip, frustrated at a lack of adequate words. "I will do my best to stop thinking that way about you. I can't guarantee it won't still happen when I'm asleep."

"As I said – I don't mind. Your thoughts are somehow both more interesting and less vulgar than most peoples'. And besides, dreams tend to be blurrier and less coherent anyway, they're easier to ignore. Although if you ever need to unload about your nightmares, John, I will do my best to listen." Sherlock smiles, tight-lipped, and John can tell he's seen (heard? felt? What is the proper verb in this case?) the traumatic, vivid nightmares, all blood and sand and screaming.

"I'm sorry you had to see those, Sherlock. And as for the, er, existential crises… If I didn't have feelings for you, I wouldn't be worrying, would I? I care about you, I have feelings for you, and you have to know that's true. Nothing else is important, right?" And of course, Sherlock knows for a certainty that John is telling the truth. "As for the sex thing. We'll figure that out when we get to it. If we get to it. I mean, if you want to try at some point." John can feel the flush creeping back across his face, and it's Sherlock's turn to reach across and stroke John's cheek gently. "I imagine it would be less stressful and more enjoyable with someone who was aware of my abnormality. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. I think this is an awful lot for you to absorb all in one night. Your mind is racing, and you need some rest."

John smiles up at Sherlock. "I'm not sure I'm really going to be able to sleep, I've got a lot to process."

"Do you trust me, John?" the two men lock eyes, and John almost feels for a moment that he can see into Sherlock's head in return. "At this point, I rather have to, don't I?" Sherlock chuckles, the laugh deep and gravelly in the back of his throat. "Okay then. Go upstairs and get into bed, I'll be up in a few moments."

The look on John's face and the explicit pictures that run through his mind make Sherlock grin, an oddly engaging and artless smile with no guile behind it, for once. "Not yet, John. Just trust me."

The fairer, shorter man has changed into his pyjamas and settled into bed, resting against his headboard. He hears footfalls on the stairs and his breath catches in his throat as he tries to calm his mind. The door opens gently, the light from the hallway beyond framing Sherlock. He's wearing his deep blue bathrobe, his hands resting relaxed at his side. In one hand hangs his violin, and in the other, his bow.

"I thought I might play for you, see if it relaxes you a bit. If you'd like."

John smiles, shifts from the middle to the far left side of the bed, making room, and thinks quite clearly, but quietly, Yes, please, I'd like that very much.

Well, this was an interesting experience to write, being almost nearly entirely dialogue. It can theoretically stand as a one-off, but I do potentially have more ideas in my head. Not necessarily a chronological case-fic or long plot, but definitely assorted vignettes in this little 'verse. I'm not trying to manipulate people into leaving reviews or anything, but I'm not sure if I should bother writing more of this or just work on other things. So if you'd like to see more, please do comment and let me know! And yes, if I do continue the rating will eventually go up as they experiment with certain things. ;)