I woke to Sherlock clinging to me in a way he'd never done before. It was uncomfortable and my arms had gone completely numb from being pinned under me.

In his sleep, Sherlock nuzzled my ear and muttered something that possibly wasn't English.

"I said 'I missed you, John.'" He repeated.

"That's nice."

"You're still angry."

"Think I have a right to be."

Sherlock hummed and pressed even closer – unnecessary, since the bed was more than large enough for two. "You'll forgive me."

He was right. Of course he was right. But at the moment I was still angry. And tense. And wondering why Sherlock was fondling the back of my skull.

"Uh," I started. Sherlock let go of me then, but before I could move, he was kneeling over me, keeping me face-down on the bed.

"Uh?" I tried again. This time Sherlock started massaging my scalp and neck.

"Sherlock, seriously..." I said, hoping the third time would be the charm. He responded by doing something to the nape of my neck that felt so incredible that I almost blacked out.

"Sherlock, my arms are numb."

Grumping, he moved enough so that I could unfold my arms. They were dead asleep and useless and I sighed and let them fall onto the bed on either side of me. Sherlock seemed set on staying where he was and I was quite... unarmed (pun intended).

He started with my left hand and worked slowly up until he reached the bicep. His fingers barely brushed against my shoulder.

"Scar tissue," he said.

"Yes."

He worked on my right arm while he talked. "Massage is very good for breaking up scar tissue. It helps prevent the re-injury of an area because it improves the mobility and frees the muscles. Some people are particular about having scar tissue touched. The scarring can affect nerve endings, causing the massage to hurt more than it should. This may also be psychological, but it's something to be aware of."

"Took massage lessons?"

"I needed something to keep myself busy."

"Well I'm fine with it. I had massage therapy as part of my rehabilitation."

"You'll let me know if I hurt you."

"You know I will." The conversation – the whole situation, in fact – was surreal but so very Sherlock that I wasn't uncomfortable. If this was his way of apologising for the last three years... it was a good start.

I helped him get my shirt off and relaxed as he started again. "So did you do this professionally?"

"For about six months. It was the easiest way to get to Hutchinson. He had a standing appointment for a weekly massage. It was easy to get myself assigned as his regular therapist. I earned his trust, learned his secrets, and when I was absolutely certain without a doubt that he was one of Moriarty's men, I poisoned him."

"Drugs in the oil?"

"A topical anaesthetic in the massage oil, and then nothing more than a scratch to introduce a lethal, nearly undetectable drug."

"Nice one. You're not planning to do that to me, are you?"

"Only if you don't forgive me."

I laughed, but at the same time I wondered if he were really kidding.

Minutes slipped by in silence. His fingers found tiny knots in my neck and shoulders and behind my ears that I didn't know were there. I found myself drifting in and out of sleep.

"Do your massages come with a happy ending?" It wasn't until Sherlock snorted a laugh that I knew I'd actually said it out loud.

It was late evening by the time we had breakfast. I wasn't sure if I would ever see another normal sleep cycle again.

"So you said 'bee keeping'." I said as a way of making small talk.

Sherlock chewed a piece of toast and nodded. "They're very orderly. Structured. Not thriving, though. I may need to consider a different strain of bee. Possibly a hybrid. Maybe something of my own."

"I just can't imagine you keeping bees. It sounds like the punchline to a bad joke."

"It's relaxing," he said, not sounding relaxed at all. "Besides, it's not like I plan to devote my life to it. It's just something I picked up to fill the empty hours."

There was another lull in the conversation. "So is it really over? Moriarty's network and all?"

"Yes." He paused. "Is your situation really over?"

"S—sorry?"

"Mary. Your girlfriend. The one you were – until six months ago – living with."

"Ah. Right. Forgot that you were spying on me while I thought you were dead."

"Sorry. Is this a touchy subject for you?" He wasn't sorry at all. He was deliberately needling me.

"Look, mate, your eye is still black. Unless you want me to do that to the other, drop it. Especially when you probably know better than I do why the relationship fell apart."

"On the contrary. I know you left her, but I don't understand why."

"It just wasn't working. We got on great. She's fun and bright and kind and funny and tidy, but we just couldn't live together. You can't go backward to just dating after you've lived with someone. It doesn't work."

"Interesting."

"Why?"

"You couldn't live with her, but you live with me."

"I used to live with you. I've got my own place now. I like not finding random heads in the fridge."

"If I promised to get a second fridge for experiments, will you move back to Baker Street?"

I laughed. "That would last about three days before you started leaving fingers in the crisper."

"A week, at least! I do have some restraint, you know."

It felt good to laugh.

It was a quiet evening in – something that never seemed to happen around Sherlock Holmes. We sat up talking, reading, not talking, and just existing in the house. I glanced at my mobile a few times, but there was never service.

Around four in the morning I decided to turn in – if only for a few hours – in an attempt to get back to a normal wake/sleep cycle. Unlike Sherlock, I don't function well without proper rest and eventually Mycroft would take me home and I would have to resume working.

As I passed Sherlock's chair he reached up and grabbed my wrist. Without looking up from his book he said "You'll move back in, won't you?"

"Yeah, I suppose so." Sharing rent was easier than doing on my own, and he was apparently the only person I could live with. "You know I lived with you longer than I have with any of my girlfriends?"

"Interesting," he murmured and released my wrist.

I napped for a few hours and woke to sunlight pouring into my room. A check of my phone said it was eight-thirty (and no service). I took a quick shower, shaved, and put on clean clothes so thoughtfully provided by Mycroft.

Sherlock was in the back garden, stretched out in a chair, eyes closed against the light. His nose and cheeks were turning pink from the sun.

"I made coffee," he proclaimed as I sat in the chair next to him. He used his foot to point at a carafe on a small table. "See?"

"Barista job?"

"Survival. It took me ages to figure how you fixed my coffee. Do you know people order horrible things? Half-caf, skinny, soy whip, triple-pump of chemical-tasting garbage, in coffee heated to temperatures so high that it destroys the true flavour? And why does decaf even exist, John? Why is that even a thing?"

"You might want to consider switching to it. You're wired."

"I'm bored."

"So call Mycroft. Have him get us out of here."

"Can't. No service. Mycroft thought it would do us both some good to 'get away for a bit'. Well I've been away for three bloody years. I want to go back to being me."

He launched himself from the chair and dropped to the ground. On his stomach, he plucked a few blades of grass. "I am literally watching grass grow."

I let him have his tantrum while I got some coffee. It wasn't bad.

Sherlock amused himself for a while by watching ants, occasionally knocking them off-course to see how long it took for them to resume their tasks. Then suddenly he was on his feet again, stalking toward the kitchen.

"Hungry, John?"

"A bit, yeah. Want me to – "

"I've got it." As he passed by my chair he paused and kissed me on the forehead.

He ... kissed me on the forehead? I touched the spot, and then studied my fingers as if there would be evidence of poison on them. I sniffed the coffee in my mug. I didn't seem to be drugged and hallucinating.

I followed Sherlock into the kitchen. "You just kissed my forehead."

"I thought kissing you on the mouth might be a bit too forward."

I nodded. "Well that makes sense. I can see why kissing me on the forehead would be a better option in a world where everything has gone completely mad."

"Would you let me kiss you?"

"What?"

"Would. You. Let. Me. Kiss. You."

"You have gone completely mad."

"You've been thinking about it since you punched me. Probably from the moment it happened, but certainly since I came to, which is when I was able to notice it. The whole time we've been here, when you think I'm not looking, you're staring at my mouth. Several times whilst staring you've licked your lips. Twice you've touched your fingers to your mouth. You are clearly telegraphing all the signs of someone who wants to kiss me, and I find myself wanting the same."

I folded my arms across my chest and lifted my chin. "Fine. Do it."

He stepped closer. "You do it."

"You started it!"

"You started it. You're practically holding up a flashing neon sign."

We got closer with each exchange. "You're the one who asked if you could kiss me."

"I. Already. Kissed you," he growled. There was almost no space between us now. I couldn't look at him because he was too close for me to focus.

"Foreheads don't count," I mumbled. And then I sort of lost track of who kissed who first. It was pleasant and warm and kind of like kissing a relative (if, as an adult, one makes a habit of kissing unshaven male relatives) until his hands moved from my shoulders to my face.

Sherlock's fingers prodded gently at my throat and jaw. I laughed through my nose and he pulled back.

"Can't you just enjoy it?"

"Can't I enjoy it and study it?"

"Oh for fuck's sake..." I grabbed his hands and kissed him again. This time I know for a fact that I started it. I was the one who introduced tongues into it. "Sherlock," I muttered against his mouth as I adjusted my hold on his hands, "stop trying to take my pulse."

So there was kissing. The rest of the morning was filled with kissing. Quick ones. Long, slow, lazy ones. Furious ones. Breathless. French (resulting in my tongue being bitten three times). Disastrous. Awkward. Upside-down. Sitting, standing, prone... Sherlock would get an idea and inflict it on me.

"Inflict" is probably a bit harsh, but after a while it did get a bit ridiculous. I was glad he'd never seen "Lady and the Tramp" because I was drawing the line at spaghetti.

By late afternoon I was tired and a little bit sick of the invasions of my personal space. "I'm going to have a lie-down. Wake me in about two hours, yeah?"

"Can I come?"

I felt the colour drain from my face, afraid of what he was asking. Then I realised he meant could he nap with me.

"You thought I meant something else, didn't you," he purred. I hated when he did that. He cocked his head to the side. "And now we're both thinking about it."

"Except it's not going to happen."

"Come on, John. It's just for fun. For bonding! You're military. You've been in combat. Surely you had a few tension-relieving trysts in Afghanistan? Or during medical school?" He was using that voice of his – hypnotic and low – and he was doing that thing where he moved closer and closer without me even seeing it.

I was pressed against the doorframe. Sherlock's hands on my face, his hip against my groin, and his tongue in my mouth."

"For science?"

I pushed him back. "Dammit, Sherlock! I'm not just a science experiment, you know. I'm a bloody human being and sex means something to me. I don't want to do it just so you can study the effects of arousal and orgasm. It's not going to happen. Not now. Not ever."

I disappeared into my room and hoped he hadn't noticed the fact that I was hard as a rock. I wasn't ready to admit that it would mean something to me, though I was certain Sherlock had already put that together.

This was confirmed a moment later when he called from the other side of the door. "I crossed a line, John. Implying that it was an experiment was wrong."

"You didn't 'imply' anything. You flat-out stated it."

"It was a joke. A poorly timed one."

"I'm having a nap."

No, I wasn't . I was having a wank. Masturbating to thoughts of Sherlock – his hands, his eyes, his mouth, his voice. Even after coming I slept fitfully, dreaming about it.

Sherlock was sitting outside again when I emerged from my room. Once again I took the chair next to him. "If it's going to happen, it'll happen on its own."

Sherlock said nothing.

The next few days passed without incident. We slept in our own rooms (well, I slept in mine. I assume Sherlock kept to his usual schedule of Not Sleeping), read books, chatted, and occasionally snogged.

And then it happened on its own. One moment we were sharing the sofa. Sherlock's head resting against my leg, both of us reading. Then we were kissing. Then, somehow, I ended up under Sherlock with my hands down his trousers.

He braced his hands on the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes. There was an almost imperceptible nod when I asked him if he was okay and a nearly inaudible "no" when I asked if I should stop.

Soon I'd undone his trousers and pulled them down. He wasn't wearing pants – he almost never did (I'd done his laundry enough to know that). I'd seen Sherlock naked before but this time it was different. Completely not clinical or necessary.

I stroked slowly, trying to watch his face for signs of what he liked or didn't like, but feedback was minimal. Just the quietest of noises and the occasional spasm in his stomach or hips. No change in body temperature. Very little eye movement. Hands never changing position. I tried variations in speed and pressure. Held his foreskin back with one hand and caressed the tip with the other. Nothing. He was unreadable.

After fifteen or so minutes he wrapped his hand around mine. "Stop. I need you to stop."

"Was that... not okay?"

"It was fantastic. I just didn't want you to get tired."

"I'm fine."

Sherlock chuckled and settled down against me, folding himself up to fit the length of the sofa. His trousers were still down his thighs, but he didn't seem to care.

"Are you sure that was okay? You didn't come."

"I don't often. It doesn't mean I don't enjoy it. It's just how it works."

I was still certain I'd done something wrong, or that he changed his mind halfway through. That he didn't actually want me (and why did that matter to me?), or that he needed something else (Oral? Dirty talk? Toys? Ropes? Riding crops?). When we got back to Baker Street, should I find him a woman? A pro?

Sherlock pressed his fingers against my forehead. "John. Do stop thinking. It's keeping me awake."