BBCSH 'Progress'

John would later think of it as a progressional chart, the way Sherlock would. A flow, a vivid set of yellow paint arrows pointing always, always to what's left after 'impossible'

The first was a garage. He barely knew him.

[They had tea and toast together and Sherlock kissed him on the brow as he sat in his chair. His chair. Sherlock said it was, carelessly.]

The second—or was it later? The Woman was so bewildering; made his head spin. Speedy's. Coffee, needed: sleep dep, staying up with Sherlock. Mycroft, making sweet.

[John knew Sherlock wasn't pining; he was full and well aware he was sleeping with a Pirate. He enjoyed it, ta. He'd a twinge or two over the bloody sodding mobile but the man kept an index. John could (somehow manage to) understand that.]

Criterion Club and John's snug in the fastnesses of Holmesdom, relatively unmolested. Invited.

[They've been an item for months now. There's love or something like. Whatever this feeling is, he can't get enough and Sherlock looks at him. Just looks and looks and John knows…what he knows. Whatever that is. He knows it. No one will ever convince him otherwise.]

He's in Mycroft's office, reading Mycroft's files, and he may as well be family and be seated round the table at Christmas. He's already there, really, in spirit. He's so in. In like Flynn.

[And he'd die for Sherlock, and he'd believe, for Sherlock. And he can't believe—can't believe—will believe in miracles.]

And the next is—

The next is—

[John believes and the next is. Coming. Soon.

Soon.]