Books. So many damned books. John sighed, thinking to himself, why couldn't these smugglers be illiterate football fans? In what came as a complete shock to John, the tagger who had left him holding the bag actually came through for them and found more of the yellow markings. John was able to find a large section of the paint that seemed to be some kind of message. Despite what Sherlock might have thought, John was not a complete idiot and did manage to take a picture of it before it was covered up. Sherlock was able to deduce that the numbers were codes that corresponded with a page and word number in a certain book so he requested that all of the banker's and the journalist's books be sent over. John could not help thinking that if only they would have had more time with Soo Lin then this would all be unnecessary.

Thinking of Soo Lin sent a pang of regret through his chest. Why hadn't he stayed with her? She was scared and vulnerable but the idea never even crossed his mind that he should stay and protect her. When had it become his natural instinct to protect Sherlock? Just the suggestion that Sherlock could be in danger was enough to spur John into doing anything. John shuddered to think what life would be like if Sherlock died or, worse yet, left him behind for good.

Sherlock had not mentioned anything about their kiss earlier but John could not stop from thinking about it and how it felt. Although Sherlock had almost immediately brushed it off as nothing, John swore that he noticed the slightest flash of sadness in the man's face when it ended. John couldn't even decide if Sherlock was serious or not, which truly irritated him. If there was one thing John was good at it, it was picking up on a man's attraction to him, but for the life of him he could not read Sherlock. The arrogant, brilliant man always kept John on his toes and he couldn't get enough of it.

John was brought out of his thoughts by Dimmock appearing by his side at one of the stacks of crates. "I suppose that means you'll take a rain check for tonight?" the detective asked with a chuckle.

John groaned, "I'm sorry, mate. I was looking forward to it and so was Greg, but-"

"No need to explain," Dimmock said with a pat to John's back. "It's the job. We've all been there. Lestrade understands that better than anybody."

John groaned again and took out his mobile to call Greg. Dimmock looked about expectantly and asked, "Is there anything I can help with?"

"Silence would be appreciated," Sherlock drawled.

Dimmock rolled his eyes and waved goodbye at John then turned to leave, saying, "If you do find anything, give me a call."

John was only able to reach Greg's mobile and leave a message about the case and dinner. In some way he was grateful because he felt his own guilt was gnawing at him so harshly, he didn't think himself capable of even talking to his lover.

As they worked on sorting the hundreds of books before them, Sherlock maintained complete concentration on the task. After several minutes, he took John by surprise when he seemingly out of nowhere said, "You cancelled your plans for tonight."

John looked up at him but Sherlock's gaze was on the books. "Yes, well, we have a case," John said with a shrug.

"This is more important," Sherlock stated instead of asking.

John nodded in agreement and continued searching. After an hour of making disappointing progress, they were interrupted when Greg walked in carrying takeaway. John smiled widely but was inwardly panicking. The inspector approached John, giving him a peck on the cheek and cheerfully said, "I hope you don't mind, your landlady let me in, I thought you two could use something to eat. I got Italian, thought you might not be in the mood for Chinese."

"That's wonderful," John replied, feeling like a complete git as he followed Greg into the kitchen. "Thank you."

"Sherlock, it's going to be a long night, you should have something to eat," Greg called out. When Sherlock flat out ignored him, the inspector tried another approach, "You don't have to have much. Look, I brought you a cannoli."

At that, Sherlock perked up and rushed into the kitchen, snatching the proffered dessert and taking it back to the sitting room. John looked on in surprise and Greg smiled as he said, "We all have our weaknesses."

With a sudden wave of affection, John planted a kiss on Greg's lips and said, "I feel like a right prat for cancelling tonight so I'll make it up to you. Let's go out tomorrow."

"John, you don't have to make promises-" Greg began but John cut him off.

"No, I want to do this and I think it's long overdue that we have a proper date."

Greg looked back skeptically for a second but then shrugged and replied, "Alright, a night out does sound appealing."

John kissed him again before the two sat down for dinner. As he recounted the day's events, John could swear he felt Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of his head, but whenever he glanced to check on the man, he was still sorting through books, ignoring everything else.

After dinner, Greg rose and began on the dishes as he always did at their flat when suddenly Sherlock burst into the kitchen and roughly batted Greg's hands away from the tap. John rose and shouted, "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Saving my work," Sherlock replied irritably. "I have an experiment at a critical stage residing in the drain and I would prefer it not be washed away."

"An experiment in the drain?" Greg asked. "How do you cook, clean, eat?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Greg nodded, "Oh right, forgot who I was talking to for a second."

"Maybe it's best if you leave, inspector," Sherlock snarled.

"Sherlock!" John sputtered at the man's rudeness.

"No, it's fine," Greg said, raising his hands in resignation. "I have work in the morning anyway. Sherlock, as always, it's been a pleasure."

After putting on his coat, Greg took John's hand and led him over to the door. After a soft but lingering kiss, Greg smiled and said, "I'll see you tomorrow and do try to get a little sleep at some point."

John squeezed his hand and gave him a peck on the cheek before he left. When John heard the front door close, he turned and tried to glare at Sherlock but the detective was already back to work and paid no attention. With a sigh, John gave up trying to be angry at Sherlock and started to help him with the books.

They worked through the night and when John noticed sunlight peaking through the dusty windows, he decided that he needed something stronger than tea and went to the kitchen to brew coffee. After rooting through the cabinets, dodging mould cultures and specimen jars, John let out tired sigh of victory when he found some instant coffee. As he absently reached for a mug, he was shocked when he felt a hand envelope his own. Startled, John gazed up into Sherlock's grey eyes and held his breath, paralyzed by the intense connection he felt.

Their eyes remained locked for only a moment before Sherlock pulled his hand away and broke the trance, saying, "You're exhausted. Go ahead and sleep for a while."

John nodded dumbly, taking a moment to collect himself before walking toward the sofa.

"Not there," Sherlock said suddenly, making John turn around. "Use my room . . . I don't want you snoring and distracting me."

John raised an eyebrow but eventually shrugged and followed Sherlock into the bedroom, which was surprisingly tidy and well kept. Sherlock pulled back the covers and gave an awkward half smile before turning to leave. John began taking off his shoes and said, "Make sure you wake me if you find anything."

"Of course," Sherlock replied as he shut the door.

After taking off his shoes, John hesitated, wondering if he should remove his jeans. Although he knew it would be more comfortable and Sherlock obviously indicated he should lie in the bed instead of on top of the covers, John worried about the level of intimacy involved in being in Sherlock's bed in only his underwear. Suddenly, the idea of being surrounded by Sherlock's scent on the sheets, rubbing against his bare legs, made John far too aroused than he should have been. With recognition of the inappropriate feelings, John decided to leave his jeans on.

When John woke, rested and refreshed, he nearly did a double take at the clock as he realized that he had slept for nearly nine hours. On his best nights, shagged out with Greg in his arms, John still could only manage five maybe six hours of uninterrupted slumber, making nine hours an unprecedented event.

After straightening his slept-in clothes as much as he could, John went to leave the room but stopped when he heard voices. It was Sherlock speaking with his landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

"Look, they both have this one. We read that in our book club. Which reminds me, where is Dr. Watson? I was hoping to see him," the elderly woman said. "The other women in the club are green with envy that I know him. They ask about him all the time."

"Do you actually read any books or is this club really just some gossip circle?" Sherlock asked snidely.

Mrs. Hudson ignored his comment and continued prying, "Do you know if he's seeing anyone? Nadine has a niece named Mary that would be just perfect for him."

Sherlock groaned loudly, "The last thing I would ever do is subject John to the likes of your prattling friends' boring relatives, and besides, John is a homosexual."

"Is he now?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed and then asked softly, "Are you two . . ."

With another huff of frustration, Sherlock replied, "He's involved with Inspector Lestrade."

"Oh, the handsome officer from the Yard that he shares a flat with? Is it serious?"

"No," Sherlock answered quickly. "I'm not an expert on relationships but it appears to be mostly sexual and arose out of the convenience of their living situation."

"How long has it been going on?" The landlady asked with too much interest.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed. "You waste enough of my time, blathering on about inane topics like tea and the weather, please refrain from turning the life of my friend into fodder for your idle gossip."

"Really, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson scolded. "Sometimes I wonder if you have no manners whatsoever. When you do see Dr. Watson, tell him to stop by so we can chat."

"Good day, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called out crossly as the front door closed.

John emerged from the bedroom sheepishly, hoping not to incur any of Sherlock's wrath, but to his surprise, the man seemed happy to see him.

"Ah, you're awake and well rested," Sherlock said waving him over to the sitting room but paused when John approached. "Did you sleep in your clothes?" Sherlock asked with the oddest hint of disappointment.

"Oh, yes, I didn't want-" John stammered.

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave. "I still haven't cracked the code but tonight I have a plan for us to do some reconnaissance."

"Can't tonight," John said, seeming to surprise the detective. "I'm taking Greg out on a date."

"But we have a case on," Sherlock pleaded with an almost childlike whine.

"Yes, but the case is stalled at the moment so I want to be with my boyfriend," John replied, making Sherlock's lips curl into a scowl. "I'm sure you can manage without me for a few hours."

Sherlock turned and went back to looking through his notes before he suddenly softened and inquired, "Where are you taking him?"

"I don't know, dinner, the cinema?"

"Dull," Sherlock said and handed over a flyer. "Try this. I can even arrange the tickets for you."

"I haven't been to the circus since the boys were little," Greg said as they walked toward the concert hall. "You say Sherlock suggested this?"

"Yeah, he did. I was going to say no at first, but I thought we might as well do something exciting. Usually we're both so tired from work that all we can manage is a pint when we go out."

"I happen to like our simple nights," Greg countered but grasped John's hand and squeezed. "But, I suppose this is a nice change of pace."

When they approached the will call box, John told the clerk, "Tickets for Sherlock Holmes."

The young man nodded as he looked up the right envelope and said, "Yes, that's three tickets, sir."

"Wait, no," John replied. "That should be two."

"No sir, we have three."

With a groan, John turned around and was not surprised to find Sherlock standing behind them, a poorly concealed smirk tugging at his lips. Greg gave a small sigh but stuck out his hand anyway and said, "Sherlock, good to see you. So you've decided to join us tonight?"

"Yes, I got to thinking about this show and thought it would make for an interesting evening," Sherlock said with a practiced air of fake pleasantry. "John had mentioned I should join you two at some point and I thought we were all do for a nice time out and a friendly chat."

Sherlock accentuated the last word as he locked eyes with John momentarily before flashing a phony smile. John immediately recognized that expression and knew Sherlock was plotting something. His mind reeled and stomach knotted with the possible implications of the detective's words.

"Right, yes," John said tensely. "Sherlock, may I have a word with you?"

"Of course, John," Sherlock answered smoothly as John dragged him by the elbow over to the stairwell.

John pushed Sherlock ahead of him so he was on the step higher and looked about before speaking in a low, clipped tone, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I told you, John, I'm taking you up on your offer of-"

"No!" John raised his voice but quieted himself again to say, "I don't know why you're really here but you cannot tell Greg about what happened yesterday."

"A lot happened yesterday. You'll have to be more specific."

"You can't tell him what happened between us," John said, gesturing to the both of them.

"I'm still not sure what-"

"You cannot tell him that we kissed," John spat out just as he registered Greg standing on the step below him.

Sherlock smirked and turned with a flourish of his coat as he ascended the rest of the stairs. John's eyes lit up with panic as he stammered, "Greg . . . that was . . . what happened . . . it didn't . . ."

However, Greg patted his arm and replied, "It's okay. We'll talk about it later."

"But . . ." John began but was cut off with a quick kiss from Greg.

"Later," Greg repeated and kept walking, taking John's hand.

The audience took their positions, standing informally around the performance arena. John stood next to Greg and laced their fingers together as the lights dimmed. Sherlock stood on the other side of John, slightly behind him. John tried to concentrate on the show and Greg but could not stop his heart from racing at the slight contact Sherlock's coat was making with the back of his leg.

To make matters worse, when the performance began, Sherlock leaned in closely and began to softly describe what was happening. The rumbling baritone caused shivers to run down John's spine as he felt himself losing his orientation of time and space. He was suddenly brought out of his trance with an arrow was shot from the massive crossbow, demonstrating its lethality. When John turned to look at Sherlock, the detective had vanished.

Shortly after the escape artist finished, the show, as with most things involving Sherlock Holmes, quickly descended into a brawl that luckily ended without bloodshed because Greg was able to intervene. Unfortunately, the members of the group were too fast and escaped before anyone could be apprehended.

"I'm staying here to help Dimmock question witnesses, but you two head back to Baker Street and continue with that code," Greg said before giving John a kiss on the cheek and sending him on his way with Sherlock.

The cab ride was uncomfortably silent as John could barely wrap his head around what had happened that evening. Sherlock seemed to be deep in thought and unwilling to discuss what about. When they reached 221B, John had a moment of panic and could not bring himself to be alone in the flat with the man. Mumbling something about being famished, John took off down the street to buy takeaway while he tried to clear his mind.

John was two blocks away from the flat when he was grabbed from behind and shoved into an unmarked van. Once inside, he was quickly tied and blindfolded before he could see anything.

Sometime later after being moved from the vehicle, John's blindfold was removed allowing him to survey the scene. He was somewhere underground, probably part of the sewer system and being held by three captors, two with guns and one, who seemed to be in charge, standing farther away. His body was tied rather securely to a large board propped up in front of the crossbow from the circus, primed and ready to fire into his heart.

With a chuckle, John called out, "I must say I'm rather impressed. My life is threatened almost every week but this is the first time someone's done it with a ridiculously large, Chinese crossbow. They usually just have something boring like a gun."

"Dr. Watson," the leader in the back began with a voice that John remembered as the woman from the circus, "we have brought you here to secure the return of the artifact."

"Really?" John replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And here I thought it was so you could enjoy my famed wit and humor."

"We have left a message and you will be released when Sherlock Holmes brings us the hairpin."

"A hairpin?" John exclaimed with indignant anger.

"An ancient jade hairpin worth 9 million pounds," General Shan answered as if John were stupid.

"Three people!" John yelled. "Three people are dead because of a hairpin."

"Dr. Watson, what may seem like a trifle to you, holds great significance to another," the woman admonished, causing John to flinch slightly. "Those people knew the life when they chose it and bound themselves to their fates."

"If you believe so much in fate, could you maybe do me a favor?" John asked. "If it comes down to it and you have to shoot me, please use a gun. It's bad enough that I'd be dying for a hairpin, but I really don't want to be remembered as the man who was killed by a giant crossbow."

"Are you really not frightened?" General Shan asked.

"You're not very frightening," John shot back with a hint of disdain in his voice.

"It seems you are just as brave as people say you are. It will be a great shame to have to kill you," the smuggler said as she strode over to the crossbow. "I suppose the least we can do is accommodate your last wishes."

General Shan then carefully removed the arrow from the bow and tossed it to one of her subordinates.

John sighed sarcastically before saying, "Much appreciated."

The smugglers froze when the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, which seemed to be serving as a perfect distraction for the figure creeping along the wall. John immediately recognized the outline of the man's long coat and prayed that he wasn't about to do anything stupid. The darkness made seeing what exactly happened difficult but John could hear the distinct smack when Sherlock swung something at one of the smuggler's heads, sending the man to the ground.

The resulting melee with the other smuggler ended abruptly when two gunshots sounded out almost simultaneously. John cried out for Sherlock as the police stormed in. His pulse was racing far too fast and his vision was narrowing while his stomach swirled violently, all sensations he had not felt since Afghanistan. However, John kept shouting to know if Sherlock was alive.

He was eventually brought out of his panic by a familiar, deep voice saying, "John, I'm here. Please calm down. Are you in pain?"

John was finally able to concentrate on Sherlock's face as it appeared in front of him, the features lined with worry. After breathing a great sigh of relief, John asked, "Why would I be in pain?"

"John . . ." Sherlock said and moved out a shaking hand. John followed the direction and for the first time noticed his entire right side was covered in blood the source of which was a bullet wound in his shoulder.

As John stared at his wound in shock, Sherlock shouted, "Lestrade! Get the paramedics in here. John's been shot!"

The detective then pulled off his scarf and began compressing the wound. John groaned and said, "Don't do that. You'll ruin it."

"It's just a scarf," Sherlock answered, trying desperately to hiding the waver in his voice.

"But it's my favorite. It complements your eyes," John said, starting to feel light headed. "Leave it. It's fine, it doesn't even hurt."

"You're in shock, so stop squirming," Sherlock hissed, a silent idiot hanging in the air. "The paramedics will cut you down and take you to the hospital."

"What about you, Sherlock? Did they hurt you?" John asked.

"No, I'm fine. Now if you would-"

"Good," John interrupted. "Good. I couldn't stand to see you hurt."

Sherlock gaped for a second, unsure of how to respond, but never had the chance when he was pushed out of the way by a team of paramedics.

When John woke from surgery, he looked over to see Greg at his bedside. Once the inspector noticed John was conscious, he leaned over and grasped his hand, saying, "The procedure went very well. How do you feel?"

Still groggy from the anesthesia, John took a moment to try moving his shoulder, a very unwise decision that caused pain to shoot out violently.

"Whoa, no moving around," Greg reprimanded. "I said the procedure went well but you were still bloody shot. It's going to take time."

John rolled his eyes wondering if doctors really did make the worst patients. Remembering everything that happened, John had to ask, "Did you catch them?"

Greg sighed, "The assassin called the Spider is dead and we have the other smuggler in custody, but Shan escaped seemingly without a trace. Sherlock is livid."

John smiled as he said softly, "I bet he is."

"He thinks that Shan will try some sort of revenge, but Dimmock and I think she's probably going to flee the country. Either she'll go into hiding or will be executed for her failure." Greg then squeezed John's hand and lowered his voice, "At least, I hope so."

"Well, I happen to have my very handsome boyfriend to look out for me, so I'm not too worried."

At that, Greg let go of John's hand and sheepishly looked away. John groaned and leaned back in bed before saying, "You know there should be a law against breaking up with someone when they're in hospital."

Greg chuckled, "Yeah, but there isn't."

"I think we have a great thing going on and maybe if we talk, we can work around this," John said hopefully.

Greg ran his hand through his silver hair and took a moment to collect himself before saying, "I knew going into this that you had certain feelings for Sherlock and I was honestly okay with that. He's alluring and unusual not to mention absolutely gorgeous so it made sense that you would be drawn to him. It's just that I never realized he would feel the same about you. In all the years I've known him, he hasn't shown romantic interest in a single person so I'd always assumed he was somewhat asexual, but it's different with you."

"Greg, Sherlock and I are-"

"He's in love with you," Greg interrupted. John could only gape in response. "I saw it in his eyes when he found out you were taken by the smugglers. There have been other little things, but that was when I realized just how far gone he was. You've become his world."

John opened his mouth to say something but nothing would come out. Greg looked him in the eyes and continued, "I honestly care for you and for Sherlock. There's no way I could live with myself knowing that I'm keeping him from actually being happy. You probably don't realize it but you two light up around each other. I've never seen anything like it. I spent far too many years denying who I really was and I what I wanted to be able to watch you do the same."

As John continued to flounder speechlessly, Greg leaned over and placed a kiss to his forehead. He then slung his jacket over his arm and left the room. John was angry for a moment as he considered that the man had just dropped a bombshell and then waltzed out, but he realized it was for the best, he needed time to think.

By the time Sherlock entered the room – Greg had been kind enough to give him ten minutes before sending the man in – John was ready with what he needed to say. Sherlock gave a terse half smile and stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed as he spoke, "You seem to be recovering nicely."

"I want to thank you for saving my life," John said.

"Yes, well, I know you'd do the same for me," Sherlock replied uncomfortably.

"I want to thank you for not just last night but for everything," John said, causing Sherlock to look up with curiosity. "Before we met, my life was in ruins. I was at the point that I wanted to end everything. You gave me a reason to keep living."

Sherlock could barely contain the hope that sprang up in his eyes as John continued, "I don't think you give Lestrade enough credit as a detective."

Immediately, at the mention of Lestrade's name, Sherlock scowled but John kept speaking, "He was able to figure out that I'm in love with you when I wasn't even aware of it." John paused for a moment and continued with a softer tone, "He also deduced that you're in love with me."

Sherlock's eyes widened while he stared at John as if, had he blinked, the man would disappear.

"Why didn't I see it, Sherlock?" John asked while pleadingly gazing at the man. "When I think back over the past months, it's so obvious. I mean, you were willing to kill yourself to protect me after only knowing me a few days. How could I possibly miss all these signs?"

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock answered, a rare genuine smile gracing his lips that held a world of warmth and affection.

With slight apprehension, Sherlock moved over to John's side and gently grasped his hand. Slowly, Sherlock brought the hand up to his lips and pressed them lovingly onto John's palm. John then slid his hand to clasp Sherlock's cheek and guided him down so he could bring their mouths together in an achingly perfect kiss.

"It seems the item was staring us in the face the entire time," Sherlock said as they strode into the posh bank lobby. "Van Coon was the type to apologize with gifts and this one happened to cost him his life."

Once inside, they paused and Sherlock grasped at John's hand, seeming reluctant to let go. John was shocked to see the normally aloof detective in such a vulnerable state. It appeared almost as if he could not believe that John was his to keep.

"Perhaps he thought flowers were a bit cliché," John said, hoping to ease Sherlock's tension. When it didn't work, he spoke again, "Right, so you talk to the secretary and retrieve the hairpin while I finish up business with Sebastian."

Sherlock suddenly came to realize he was being clingy and dropped John's hand, saying, "Yes, of course, won't take long."

John gave him a reassuring smile before they approached the front desk to announce their arrival. Once upstairs, Sherlock headed toward Van Coon's old office and John went to Sebastian's.

Upon entering the room, John was greeted by Sebastian who stood and gave a smile John wanted to smash off his face. Instead, John returned with his own polite smile as Sebastian spoke, "John Watson, I've read all about you in the papers, seems you're a regular hero. I must say, though, being shot twice in one year, seems like you have a target on your back."

Sebastian laughed loudly at his own joke as he leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. "I have to admit I was a tad nervous hiring Holmes for this job, but with you there to help him, it looks like a brilliant decision now. So tell me: how did they break in here?"

"The man who broke in was called The Spider, a ruthless assassin and accomplished acrobat, but thankfully, a lousy shot," John said, nodding to his shoulder. "He's dead now but if you think someone else might try it, I'd suggest boarding up your skylight."

Sebastian moved back behind his desk and took out his checkbook. "Well, it seems you and Holmes have earned yourself 30 thousand pounds."

"No mate, keep it," John said with a smirk. "You're going to need it. Ta!"

John then turned and strolled out as a team from the narcotics division of NSY marched in. Sebastian's indignant shouts of protest were drawing a considerable crowd. By the time the banker was led out in handcuffs, Sherlock had emerged from Van Coon's office and was watching with wide eyes. He approached John and asked in a confused voice, "What is going on?"

"It seems Van Coon wasn't the only one benefitting from illegal side projects," John said with a thinly veiled grin. "Since our business is done here, why don't we head out?"

Sherlock nodded silently and followed John downstairs. Once they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock, who had not said a word the entire trip back, sat on the sofa and stared ahead, lost in his thoughts. Cautiously, John sat next to him and stroked a gentle hand across his back. Even though he wanted to say so many things, John stayed silent and waited for Sherlock to make the first move.

After five minutes, Sherlock finally spoke at a near whisper, "I was showing off when I took this case. Sebastian once told me nobody would ever be my friend and I wanted him to know he was wrong."

A few minutes of silence passed before John softly said, "I wanted to kill him. Had I met him in a darkened ally instead of a restaurant's loo, I just might've. Actually, I want to punish all those morons who call you freak or weirdo."

"Then you must want to destroy half of London," Sherlock replied.

"Some days, yes," John said with a chuckle. "You're a wholly unique, beautiful creature and they're scared of you. They see your brilliance and try to diminish it with petty insults. I almost feel pity on anyone not able to see just how amazing you are. The fact that I saw it within the first thirty seconds of meeting you makes me feel special. You're the sun and I'm the moon reflecting your light."

"That must be why I revolve around you," Sherlock added.

"Actually, the sun doesn't . . . never mind," John said with a shake of his head. He then moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder up to his cheek and gently ran his thumb alone the man's soft, white skin. Sherlock's grey eyes seemed to shine with rarely seen affection as he leaned over and drew John into a lingering kiss, mindful of his immobilized right arm.

The kiss began to intensify and as John started sliding his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, he moved his left hand down the man's chest, stopping when he felt something strange. Although it took some fumbling, John managed to unbutton Sherlock's crisp, purple shirt and sat back to stare at what he saw hanging around the man's neck.

"Those are my dog tags," John said in a hushed voice.

Sherlock averted his eyes and replied softly, "You were thinking about giving them to Lestrade and I suppose I panicked."

"How could you possibly know I was thinking that?" John asked incredulously.

"We were at a crime scene and you were looking at him while touching your hand to the center of your chest. You can be quite transparent at times," Sherlock said with his normal dry voice, but then he wavered slightly as he said, "Is it . . . not good?"

"No," John said quickly. "Actually, it's . . . perfect. You're perfect."

Sherlock grinned and pulled John back into his arms, kissing him deeply.

Excerpt from: Hidden Messages

By Dr. John H. Watson

It's daunting to think that there is an entire world of information right in front of us that we never see. Well, we see it but we don't observe it, at least that's what the great Sherlock Holmes always says. Most of the time, it's little things like the way a woman cares for her jewelry or a man shines his shoes, but sometimes we miss big things.

While working on the case of The Blind Banker, which you can read about on my blog, I found myself taking a hard look at the messages that elude us even when they're in plain sight. Take for example the taggers and graffiti artists that 'decorate' so much of London nowadays. Some see it as art, some as self expression, the police see it as vandalism, but did you know that some see it as a means of communication? Written out in bright colors for anyone to see are complex codes used to communicate territorial boundaries, locations for secret meetings, and even daily announcements. We all communicate on a much more basic level with our speech and clothing, most of the time not even realizing it.

. . . For the longest time, I held on to a childlike belief that when I fell in love, really fell in love, head over heels, I would be the first to know. As things turned out, I was the last. It took the wise words of a very dear friend to finally make me open my eyes and see what should have been terribly obvious. I'm now very curious as to what else I've failed to recognize. There is an entire world of missed opportunities that pass us by because we fail to truly observe our environment.

Take some time and think about the things in life you might be missing. You'll be surprised when you consider all the times you could have turned left but went right and how different your life would be. Or perhaps, some things wouldn't have changed at all. The question that no one can answer is that of fate. Are there actions we are meant to take or people we are supposed to meet that no matter what, we will find ourselves intertwined with? The practical doctor and soldier within me say no, but the romantic fool continues to wonder.