"Arthur, no," Merlin forced Arthur back with much effort. "Arthur, we can't do this."

"Hmmm," Arthur whimpered going back in for Merlin's neck.

"Nooo, Arthur!" Merlin got up swiftly and let him fall to the chair. "What has gotten into you?"

"I know we're friends but this," he gestured to the gap, "can't happen."

The King sighed and ambulated the room without a word.

"Listen, Merlin," he gestured resigned.

"No, I don't want to hear it. I care about you but we have to get back." Merlin fidgeted with the buttons on Sherlock's suit.

"Merlin that has nothing to do with this," Arthur gestured this time.

"Yes it does Arthur, we will be back eventually and what happens then? You're the King of Camelot. And there's Gwen ? You can't do this to her," Merlin said feeling guilty about forgetting Guinevere.

"Merlin," Arthur was speechless. Merlin was right. But somehow Arthur couldn't bring himself to acknowledge the slight tickle in his gut every time he was near Merlin. He could just ignore it and blame it on his responsibilities any more. It was time to address the fact that the feelings he had for Merlin were no longer platonic. He didn't know how it had boiled down to it, or why, but the strange feeling of his limbs turning into jelly when he saw Merlin first thing in the morning or felt his fingertips on his bare shoulders as he dressed him for the day couldn't be ignored anymore. The ache to just reach out for him and pull him close was overwhelming. He'd already betrayed his word to keep his hands to himself by reaching for Merlin and ravaging his neck. He was the King of Camelot. Merlin had all right to say this couldn't work out. And then there was Gwen. Sweet, innocent Guinevere. He couldn't keep using her. He loved Gwen, but he wasn't in love with her. It hadn't been until after he'd found himself comparing her touches to Merlin's when he'd realized what had happened. He wasn't in love with her, but he still felt the tender need to protect her after all she'd been through. If anybody were worthy enough to share the throne with him, it was Guinevere. He couldn't just turn his back on her. What kind of man would he be if he didn't keep his word? He'd betrayed himself, that was enough to soil his conscience. He was the King. He had sworn to the duty of protecting the people of Camelot; hiding away in the future with Merlin wasn't even an option to consider. They had to get back, and he had to abide his reign. He had to follow through with his destiny, even if it meant giving up the one he loved.

"Arthur, are you alright?" Merlin set his hand lightly on Arthur's shoulder who flinched at the contact.

"You're right Merlin. I am sorry for loosing control; for my actions. Perhaps it would be better if we went our separate ways when we get back," Arthur said emotionless. It pained him to no end to try and set Merlin aside.

"You don't want me to serve you anymore," it wasn't a question.

Arthur quickly weighed the two options he had. He could watch Merlin go and forget about him. He'd pass his days on miserably wondering what he was doing, how he was. It would hurt. It would hurt to not see him, it would hurt just not knowing. Or he could let him stay and swallow the pain of knowing that there was no possibility of anything happening. At least if Merlin was by his side he would know where he was, and if he was in any sort of danger he could quickly rescue him.

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin. Of course you will still be my, servant. But we shouldn't be friends," he said ignoring the ache in his chest. How had this gangly, boyish idiot furrowed so deep into his heart?

"I understand," Merlin stared blankly at the ground. "I'll ask John if I can sleep elsewhere."

"No," Arthur refused quickly. "You don't have to do that. Besides I said when we got back. And, just because we shouldn't be friends doesn't mean I'll stop caring about you the way I do."

"You care about me?" Merlin hid a smile.

"Of course I care about you," Arthur jumped across the room and pulled his head under his arm and ruffled the dark hair on Merlin's head. The warlock struggled to get out of his grip. He tickled Arthur's stomach and they both fell to the bed giggling.

"You dollop head," Merlin tickled Arthur ferociously. Arthur laughed maniacally and flipped Merlin on his back.

"You're such a girl," he chuckled, catching a hold of Merlin's writs and pinning them over his head on the bed.

Arthur licked his lips and fought the urge to plunge down and seize Merlin. A door slammed down stairs, scaring him off.

Merlin stood up and pressed his ear to the door. Arthur motioned for him to get back on the bed but he refused. Arthur rolled his eyes and joined Merlin at the door. His hips a little too close to Merlin's back.

There was some rustling down stairs and then complete silence fell over the flat.

Arthur tugged on Merlin's elbow and pulled him away.

"What do you think happened?" he asked Arthur.

"I don't know," Arthur admitted. "Let them work it out. They can't be fighting if they expect to help us. "

"You're right, plus I'm exhausted." Merlin yawned.

"I'm a bit tired too," he yawned as well. "We should sleep. It's been a long day."

"Good idea," Merlin awkwardly slipped out of Sherlock's suit.

Arthur joined in and took off John's soft sweater. They both laid still under the covers and looked up at the ceiling.

"We'll goodnight," Merlin smiled.

"Goodnight Merlin," Arthur said and turned his back away from him.

He waited until Merlin was snoring quietly to turn to him and slip an arm over his shoulders.

John?" Sherlock looked up to see that John had actually left.

He sighed and sulked like an angry child. Not good, he told himself as he ruffled the abundance of curls on his head. He had to do something.

"Mind palace, my mind palace," he muttered to himself and rested his hands under his chin.

There is no reason for him to be upset. It's his own fault I kissed him. He made it obvious that he wanted the same thing. He was practically inviting me. He didn't even pull back when he knew about my intended actions. Clearly he's also keen that we crossed the boundary of flat mates long ago otherwise he wouldn't even be having internal arguments about being gay. He wouldn't even be doubting himself if he wasn't interested in another male, and clearly it isn't Lestrade or Anderson. It's me, obviously. And he kissed back, in fact he was a little more than pleased judging by the hip gripping and the sudden rush of blood flow to his penis. His subconscious already decided for him when he didn't agree to go out with that hideous ex-girlfriend of his from Tesco. I didn't do anything for him to be upset. I made it clear that he's mi…

"An experiment," he muttered angrily.

Of course, I called him an experiment. Oh stupid, stupid! Now he's under the impression that he's jut a phase to me. I see no reason as to why he should think that. I've made it quite obvious that he isn't. I do remember telling him that I'm married to my work, and now he's part of it. How much more obvious could I be? Surely he knows he's mine now… He's not as idiotic as the others, he should know by now... But he hasn't. Why?

He couldn't sit there and let John feel used. That's not what Sherlock had intended when he'd kissed him. He just wanted to show John that it was all fine. That he didn't want him, he needed him. Needed his presence, needed his warmth, needed him to make tea, and commend his intelligence, to stay human. He needed John. He wasn't just the bloke who helped pay the rent anymore, he wasn't temporary. He was his partner, his blogger, his everything. He had become an essential part of his life, of his work. Sherlock couldn't just sit there and risk loosing his John to something as insidious as a misinterpreted kiss. He couldn't. He wouldn't allow it; he was going to fix it because he was Sherlock Holmes the only Consulting Detective in the world. He had the answer to everything. He was a genius and if there was one case he needed to solve, it was this one. He had to fix this. His brain did back flips as to what he was supposed to do. He'd never found himself in any situation like this before John Hamish Watson had showed up. What was he supposed to do now?

He has all the clues to the puzzle, what more could he possibly need? It has to deal with sentiment otherwise he would have put them all together by this point. Sentiment, sincere and raw, that would make him realize. That must be what he needs...

Oh. Surely he can't assume that I'm going to apologize for his mistake. No of course not! I shouldn't have to. But if I don't he'll still think he's a phase…

"I have to Apologize," he opened his bright blue eyes having lost track of time. It could be morning for all he knew but he had to find John. He just had to apologize, it couldn't be that hard. Could it? No of course it's not; just say sorry and things will mend themselves right up.

He slid into his blue robe and cocked his neck back. Just apologize. He paced nervously behind his door. Apologize.

John ignored the steam rising profusely from his cup and gulped down his tea in one go. It scorched his tongue numb and left his throat aching. He poured himself some more, this time pausing to acknowledge his reflection in the honey coloured liquid. His fine hair frizzed up in all directions where Sherlock had run his hand and the shade of his face was close to a beets. He didn't bother fixing it; instead he leaned back further into his chair, legs crossed, stomach still fluttering. He refused to believe that Sherlock had actually kissed him. And you snogged back, his damn brain reminded him. He ran his thumb across his bottom lip at the memory; how Sherlock had spontaneously reached a hand up to his face and pulled him down; the feel of his hip through the thin silk of his pajama pants, the taste of his sweet tongue crushing against the roof of his mouth.

An experiment, his voice rang, snapping John out of it.

He didn't want to comprehend why the entire situation bothered him so much. He didn't want to be one of Sherlock's experiments nor did he want to end up as catalogued data in a dusty journal inside one of the many boxes cluttering up their flat. He couldn't just be temporary entertainment to the man. He needed him. He needed Sherlock. He could feel the rage building up in his chest and pushing against his ribcage because he knew why he was so angry which enraged him even more. He just didn't want to accept the fact that he had fallen for his flat mate. He couldn't. He couldn't risk loosing Sherlock if he didn't feel the same. Not to mention that the idea of people gossiping about him frightened his soul to an abyss of embarrassment. He knew what it was like to be judged. He'd seen it with Harry; he didn't want to be in her shoes. He couldn't. He shuddered at the involuntary memory of the night Harriet had come out.

It was the 24th of December and the majority of the Watson family was sitting around the table for Christmas Eve dinner, waiting for a 20 year old Harry experiencing the wonders of alcohol with her friends to get home. She'd arrived late reeking of vodka and vomit smeared on her light blue shirt. She'd made scene, apologizing for having some actual fun.

"Harriet, please!" her mother had scoffed.

"Oh and mum, I'm a lesbian!" she'd slurred drunkenly in response.

His mother's face had made no movement apart from the slight quiver in her left brow before half pushing, half dragging his older sister upstairs. Everyone in the dining hall had suddenly gone quiet and awkwardly looked down at their plates, nudging the peas around as if there were a grand prize to whomever did it more discretely.

"Erm, John," Sherlock whispered behind him, sending his heart racing into a frenzy.

"What do you want Sherlock?" he asked gruffly.

"Can, uh, let's discuss this," Sherlock hesitated and John could swear he heard the slightest tinge of nervousness in that deep voice.

"There's nothing to discuss, Sherlock," John pushed passed him and headed towards the kitchen for his third cup of tea.

"John," he followed closely. "I forgive you."

The image of a massive rock falling from a cliff into a violent river that washed it away like the hopes of ameliorating the situation flooded Sherlock's mind. That really hadn't come out how he had intended it to…

John broke out in a heart filled laughter. "You forgive me?" he mocked. "What could you possibly be forgiving me for, Sherlock?"

"For making it quite obvious that you wanted me," Sherlock let out casually, having no option but to go with it.

John almost chocked on his tea. Wanted?

"Want," Sherlock corrected as if John had spoken out loud.

John gripped the cup fiercely in his tiny hands and let the warmth seep into his palms. He doubted for the first time since they'd met, that he could look Sherlock in the eye without actually dissolving into a huge puddle of Strawberry Jam. His face drowned into an alarming shade of red.

"Erm, John, it's fine," Sherlock repeated like the second time John had complemented his deduction skills while they hovered over Jennifer Wilson's lifeless body.

"Umm, Sherlock," John looked up at the ceiling as if it were a fascinating work by Michael Angelo himself.

"I uh, I am… sorry that I called you an experiment," Sherlock choked out awkwardly.

"What?" John looked at Sherlock for the first time.

"You heard me perfectly, I'm not saying it again," Sherlock cocked sternly.

John pursed his lips and glanced around not quite believing what he was hearing. Was Sherlock Holmes actually apologizing to him?

"You're not," why is this so fucking difficult? "You're not just, data to me, John. You're… more. A lot more."

John starred deeply into those raw turquoise pools and instantly understood what Sherlock was getting at. His confused puppy dog face finally made sense to John, who couldn't help but smile at the feel of tender fervor pulsing through his veins.

"You're an idiot," John's smile seemed to glow at Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked, cupping his hands to John's cheeks before leaning in to place a soft kiss on his forehead that sent pulses of electricity about John's goosebumps.

He pushed up on his toes and pulled Sherlock by the neck into a passionate kiss. John's hands tugged at Sherlock's curls when he felt the detective's hands slip from his face to his lower back.

"This doesn't mean I'm gay," he clarified and pulled back to look up Sherlock.

"Of course not," Sherlock agreed and leaned back in to taste that sweet chamomile tongue against his own.