Sherlock destroyed the watches first. While John was in the shower, he gathered both and put John's in the microwave. The arcing was glorious. His own watch received a similar treatment, though at half power. He was pleased to note this did not affect the size of the arcs.

He waited until John stormed off in a huff after discovering that Sherlock had "ruined my bloody watch in another bloody experiment, you great git," before dismantling his remaining two cameras, still hidden in the telly and John's bookshelf. The remains were soaked in an acid bath, so as to be made unrecognisable (and to confirm the strength of the acid solution), and the components were separated; usable materials, such as copper, were placed in Sherlock's bedroom, and the rest disposed of in Mrs. Hudson's bins.

John's phone was purged the following day, when Sherlock demanded to use it to send a text, and John, as per usual, submitted without comment or complaint.

Sherlock hesitated, briefly, when faced with the prospect of deleting all the collected video footage from his laptop. If John ever found it, he would be furious, obviously. But Sherlock liked having access to John's face, even when John was gone from the flat.

That realisation was enough to convince him to delete everything.

xxxxx

The next few days were undeniably awkward. John, of course, was acting no differently, but Sherlock was now fully aware of the effect John had on him.

He'd briefly considered moving his experiments to his room, giving him an excuse to avoid John, but that seemed childish – the kind of thing Mycroft would gloat over.

Instead, he'd taken to playing the violin furiously when John was home, or pacing about frantically, or lying stretched out on the couch so there was no room for John to join him. None of these activities should arouse John's suspicion, Sherlock reasoned, since they were things Sherlock would do regardless.

So Sherlock had been caught off guard when John very calmly set down his mug, looked straight at Sherlock where he was pacing around the living room, and asked, "So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

Sherlock stopped mid-stride. "What?"

John tilted his head to one side, bemused (and why in God's name did that make Sherlock's heart flutter in his ribcage?). "You're my best friend, Sherlock. I know it's a strange concept, but I do actually care about you, and you've been on edge for the past three days."

"Well, I'm sorry I haven't been all sunshine and roses," Sherlock snapped.

John didn't say anything, just licked his lips – damn the man! – and looked at Sherlock, concern written on his face.

Sherlock was going mad. He was certain of it. He was in love with John. He couldn't stop thinking about the man. He could imagine better uses for that tongue of his...

Oh, God, now he was staring. This was Not Good.

"It's none of your business, and I'd rather you didn't hound me about it." Sherlock managed to keep his tone frosty and his gaze disdainful as he stomped off to his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

He couldn't get John out of his head. All the images conjured up when John licked his lips came flooding back. John sucking his neck. John's mouth on Sherlock's nipple, firm and wet. John's mouth on his cock, tongue sliding over sensitive skin, John's head bobbing up and down, cheeks hollowing as he sucked...

Well, Sherlock was fully hard now, and he couldn't come out of the bedroom in this state.

There was only one thing for it. Maybe indulging in a little fantasy would nip this thing in the bud. At worst, he would get an orgasm out of it.

Sherlock settled on the bed, shoulders and back still tense, and lay back on the pillows. He slowly unbuttoned his trousers and undid the zip, and let his hand snake down underneath his boxers.

There. His fingers curled lightly around his throbbing shaft, and he let himself think of someone else's fingers.

Sherlock pictured John smiling above him as he stroked himself slowly, increasing the pressure in increments, until it was just shy of too much. He shoved his trousers and pants down his hips and his cock sprang free.

He pictured John lowering his mouth, tongue swirling around the head, then enveloping him in soft, wet heat, his teeth barely skimming across flushed skin, applying gentle suction that suddenly became more intense–

There was a knock on the door, and Sherlock snapped out of his imaginings.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry I pried. Just... Come out, will you? I'll make you some tea." His voice was cajoling, but there was a hint of desperation underneath.

What Sherlock meant to say was, "Go away, John, I don't want tea."

What came out instead was a strangled and breathy "John..."

Oh.

John was silent for a long moment, and then Sherlock heard something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle being masked by a cough. "Sorry, I didn't – um. I'll come back later, yeah?"

Sherlock banged his head against the headboard behind him. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Not only did John now know exactly what Sherlock had been doing, the shock of being interrupted and caught with his pants down, so to speak, had a similar effect to being doused with ice water. There was no point in continuing.

Sherlock pulled up his boxers and trousers with a huff, and with as much dignity as he could muster, strode out the door to his room and headed straight to the front door to fetch his coat. "I'm going out," he said gruffly, avoiding John's gaze.

"Um," John replied. Sherlock thought he sounded embarrassed. But there was no time to analyse it. Sherlock needed distance. And for his heart to stop racing in his chest.

xxxxx

When Sherlock returned to the flat an hour later, he was no less agitated. Being apart from John hadn't prevented him from thinking of the man. It might have made it worse. He had the feeling he'd hurt John, and he desperately wanted to fix things, but he'd never been good at apologies. Perhaps he could just stay out of the flat, and by the time he came back, things would be fine.

He kept hearing John's voice as he left, imagining him running after Sherlock, smiling, telling him to come in out of the rain if he didn't want to catch a cold; or waiting for him when he got home, with tea and jammy dodgers, acting as though nothing had changed; or even gone when Sherlock got back, leaving no note, just missing from the flat and nothing left to remind Sherlock of what he'd lost, except memories. The last thought burned like a physical wound, and Sherlock absently wondered how it could have gotten like this without his knowing, noticing, seeing. Surely he should have seen this coming.

So after forty minutes of pointless wandering, he felt no better than when he had left, and the rain was making his coat damp.

When he got back to the flat, John was sitting on the sofa, watching a film. He'd changed into his pyjamas, and looked strangely vulnerable.

"Oh," he said, briefly glancing up at Sherlock as he entered the flat, "I thought you would be gone longer, so I put on Die Hard." He absently scooted over on the sofa so there was room for Sherlock to stretch out.

Sherlock settled stiffly into the sofa in the space John had made for him. When he glanced at the television, he saw an athletic man on screen, apparently covered in dirt, crawling through air ducts. The man reminded him a little of John. But then, everything seemed to remind him of John lately.

Sherlock was silent for a few moments, but he couldn't relax. John was so tantalizingly close, his body heat radiating towards Sherlock even without direct contact, the smell of sweat and aftershave wafting over, John's fingers idly drumming a random pattern on his thigh.

Clearly his initial assumption about John recognizing symptoms of limerence in himself was flawed. He may have been recognizing symptoms in Sherlock, that Sherlock hadn't even seen himself.

"How long have you known?" It came out softer than he'd expected.

John shifted to look at Sherlock and let out a long breath. "What do you mean, Sherlock?" He didn't look curious or confused, just expectant and a little anxious.

"It was when you read that article on limerence, wasn't it?"

John was silent and still for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he nodded, turning his attention away from Sherlock.

They were both silent then, Sherlock surveying John openly, no longer trying to hide his oft-ignored emotions. John was staring somewhere into space, resolutely avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

John finally broke the silence. "How long have you known, then?"

"Since Tuesday," Sherlock responded, hesitating only slightly.

John smiled, but it looked forced. "Strange, that I knew something before you did."

"You know I'm not good with emotion." Sherlock's chest constricted painfully when John finally turned to look at him.

"I can go to Harry's. If you need. I'd like to stay tonight, since I'm knackered, but I can pack up tomorrow morning."

"No!" Sherlock hadn't realised how close he'd gotten until John's startled blue eyes were staring wide into his. If he just leaned forward another two centimetres...

"Sorry," he mumbled, withdrawing quickly into the sofa cushions, and unfastening his fingers from where they had curled around John's bicep.

"So you don't want me to move out?"

Sherlock shook his head violently. "Stay. Please."

"It's just... It's going to be so much harder now."

"It doesn't have to be," Sherlock pleaded.

"For you, maybe," John snapped.

Sherlock flinched back against the sofa cushions as though he'd been scalded. The look in John's eyes terrified him. He looked angry, yes, but more than that, he looked in utter despair.

When John saw that he'd shocked Sherlock into silence, he sighed and ran a hand absent-mindedly through his hair. "Look, it's just... I can't just ignore this and pretend that it's nothing. I've tried. God, I really have tried, Sherlock, but – do you have any idea how hard this is for me? How uncomfortable I am when I'm alone with you? When you get into my personal space?"

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face. It felt like something cold and sharp was lodged in his chest, and he couldn't breathe.

"You send me these text messages, and they feel like flirting, and for a while, it's okay. I can pretend..." John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

Sherlock managed to speak past the shards of glass lodged in his throat. "Do you want to leave, then? Would it be easier?"

John hesitated for just a moment, but then the tension drained from his shoulders and he shook his head. "I'm not leaving unless you make me. You're still my best friend. It's just – don't pretend that this is somehow going to be okay, that I don't..." He was staring at the telly now, twisting his hands in his lap. "It was fine before. Before you knew. The past few days... I can't live like this, Sherlock. If we could just go back to the way we were before..." He finally looked at Sherlock now, beseeching, and Sherlock's heart stuttered.

He managed a sharp nod. Anything. He would do anything to keep John, even pretend that he wasn't in love with him. Maybe eventually John wouldn't be so… uncomfortable around him.

John let out a sharp exhale. "Right then. I think I need some sleep. It's been a long day."

Sherlock watched in silence as John wearily ascended the stairs before disappearing into his room.

xxxxx

It took an unacceptably long time for Sherlock to realise that there was a possibility he hadn't considered.

At three in the morning, in the middle of one of his favourite Vivaldi pieces, Sherlock's hand on the bow lowered as he reflected on their conversation.

There was something John had said that struck him as odd.

At the time, it had barely registered, but he'd had four hours to pore over their conversation, and while everything else John had said fit his hypothesis (John knew Sherlock was in love with him, John did not reciprocate, John wanted Sherlock to pretend he wasn't in love), one particular phrase kept popping up.

It could have been wishful thinking, of course, but Sherlock was hardly ever wrong.

You send me these text messages, and they feel like flirting, and for a while, it's okay. I can pretend...

The possibility that Sherlock hadn't considered (which was a gross oversight on his part, really, completely lacking in scientific rigour; Mummy would be appalled) was this:

Sherlock was in love with John. John was in love with Sherlock. Both of them were too blind to observe that their feelings were reciprocated.

Sherlock was not ordinarily a stupid man; but he had realised long ago that when it came to John Watson, Sherlock could be something of an idiot.

He reviewed the conversation using this insight, and nothing John had said contradicted his new hypothesis.

For good measure, he went over every conversation with John he'd had over the past few weeks. He never deleted any of his data on John.

By half five, Sherlock was quite pleased with his conclusions, and he settled onto the sofa, folded his hands underneath his chin, and waited for John to wake up.

xxxxx

Sherlock was bored.

John had been awake for a good forty minutes (after sleeping a ridiculous nine and a quarter hours) and he still hadn't come downstairs.

Clearly John was avoiding him. If Sherlock's hypothesis was proved correct, this was easily explainable behaviour; John was avoiding him in order to minimise awkwardness.

That didn't make it any less irritating.

Fine. Sherlock would simply have to resort to extreme measures.

He put the kettle on and slid two slices of bread into the toaster before turning back to his mould cultures, maturing in the bottom left-hand drawer of the fridge. He was pleased to note that they were progressing nicely.

He turned back to the counter to check on the kettle and found two slightly warm pieces of bread sticking out of the toaster. He turned up the setting and clicked down on the lever with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary.

By now, the kettle was boiling, so Sherlock poured two mugs of Earl Grey and left them to steep.

Sherlock pulled the marmalade from the fridge (still unopened, and therefore the most likely to be toe-free), slid a knife out of the drawer, retrieved a plate from the cupboard, and arranged them all on the kitchen table. A proper place setting. Mummy would be so proud.

John liked his tea with milk; Sherlock filled John's mug with the proper amount and set it next to the plate.

Now to inform the guest of honour.

Sherlock silently climbed the stairs up to John's room and paused on the threshold. John's stomach rumbled audibly from within. Sherlock never would understand the man's perpetual need for food.

He knocked on the door. "I made tea. Stop hiding." The faint rustle of sheets drifted through the closed door. "I expect you to be down before the toast gets cold."

He made his way back down the stairs, retrieved his mug of tea from the kitchen, and – oh. He'd burnt the toast. No matter. John would eat it anyway.

It took almost four and a half minutes for John to stumble out of his bedroom and down the stairs. By this time, Sherlock was settled comfortably on the sofa, reading a fascinating article on the deadly effects of a bite from the Hapalochlaena lunulata (Greater Blue-ringed Octopus). Perhaps he could get one as a pet for Mycroft.

John was still standing at the foot of the stairs, staring at Sherlock. "Toast is in the kitchen," Sherlock said, not bothering to look up from John's laptop screen.

John padded into the kitchen. "Um, thanks." He came back with the plate and mug and sat in his armchair with a soft thud. "Um. Why did you make me toast, exactly?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Bribe. I expect future favours."

John took a large bite and wrinkled his nose as he chewed. "You get an A for effort, I suppose."

Sherlock glanced over at John, eyes narrowing. "And you wonder why I don't do nice things."

"Kidding! It's lovely, really, I'm quite touched." John took a sip of the tea and blinked in apparent surprise.

Sherlock smirked. "I'm not entirely incompetent, then?"

John grimaced. "I do... appreciate this, but... It's just the tiniest bit suspicious, you know, making me tea and toast, right after suggesting I move out and treating me like shite for three days."

"Well, you didn't move out, did you?" Sherlock replied smoothly. "Perhaps I am simply trying to convey my gratitude."

John just snorted.

"Could you stop by the shops when you've finished?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed. "Are we out of milk?"

"Oh, yes, you should pick that up too."

"Well, what did you want me to get, then?" John asked, clearly irritated, but attempting to hide it under the guise of taking another mouthful of tea.

This next bit was important, but Sherlock couldn't be seen as too invested. He kept his eyes focused on John's laptop.

"Condoms."

John blinked. "Condoms?"

"So we can have sex."

John spat out his tea.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, leaping up and brushing the droplets off of his plum shirt. John's laptop fell onto the sofa cushions. "Do try to keep your tea in your mouth, would you?" He smiled crookedly at John. "Swallow, don't spit."

"Jesus! Sherlock, what?" John placed his tea and toast on the table. "Are you taking the piss? I don't-"

Sherlock scowled and reached to grasp John's mug, pale, slim fingers enclosing John's. "I would think it obvious, John. Even to you."

John just gaped.

Sherlock smirked and leaned closer... closer...

And John jerked away.

No, no, no. This was all wrong. This reaction did not fit with Sherlock's hypothesis. The confidence he'd been feeling dribbled away into irritation and gnawing worry.

"Perhaps my initial hypothesis was incorrect. Do you, or do you not, wish to engage in intercourse?"

John just stared.

"With me," Sherlock clarified.

John's mouth was hanging open. He was just... standing there. Silently. Not saying anything. With his mouth open.

"Never mind. It appears that my hypothesis has, once again, been disproved." Sherlock carefully schooled his expression and studied the carpet. He couldn't afford to look at John right now.

"I..." John coughed. "That wasn't a no."

Oh? Oh. Oh.

Head still bowed toward the carpet, Sherlock glanced back at John from under his eyelashes. "Oh?"

"Actually, that was more like a... Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Sherlock?"

Sherlock lifted his head and peered at John with amusement. "I don't have the faintest. Are you going to pick up some condoms, or not?"

"No," John responded immediately.

Oh. Right. Sherlock managed to keep his features from contorting into a frown, but he still felt as though his chest were being constricted. "Right."

"I have some upstairs," John said.

Suddenly, Sherlock could breathe again.

"Your room or mine?"

xxxxx

There was an awkward silence.

"Look, Sherlock, can we… I don't know, talk about this first? I mean."

Sherlock frowned. He knew he was probably pouting, but John was being unreasonable. "What's there to talk about?"

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that yesterday we were talking about me leaving the flat and now you're trying to get me into bed with you?"

Sherlock just blinked at John.

"Dear lord. For being a genius, how do you manage… No, look. I have no idea what you've been doing this morning but I suspect it involves some sort of drug, and I'm not going to just… leap under the covers, just because…"

Sherlock sighed and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not under the influence of any mind altering substance, John. You wound me. Do you really think I would need to be in an altered state to desire more intimate relations?"

"Yes!" John shouted, and Sherlock automatically flinched backwards in surprise. "You must be out of your mind, as there's no other reasonable explanation for your behaviour! I don't understand. I don't know why you've pulled a complete 180, and suddenly you want to have sex!"

Sherlock didn't understand why John was so puzzled by his behaviour. It was easily explained by his feelings for John. "I simply thought it would be the most efficient way to illustrate that I feel the same way about you as you do me."

"I do you?" John looked at Sherlock with a mix of horror and fascination. Sherlock was quite used to being the subject of that look, though not in this particular situation.

"Not yet, apparently. I was hoping to correct that." Sherlock felt a flush of pride at the innuendo. He was getting rather good at this whole double entendre business.

John frowned sternly. "Sherlock. Use your words. I'm an idiot, and I need to have things explained to me. So explain." The last word came out in almost a growl.

Really, John could be so dense sometimes. "I'm in love with you."

John blinked.

Sherlock cleared his throat, waiting for his sentiments to be returned. John wasn't getting the hint. "And I am assuming you feel similarly?"

John blinked. "What?"

"Do. You. Feel. The. Same." Sherlock tried his best not to grind his teeth. No need to hasten his next dentist visit.

John... blinked. "What? Oh! Yes."

"Yes?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I... ah. Yes. I'm fairly sure I'm in love with you."

"Would you like to have sex?"

"No."

"Why not?"

John hesitated. "Not yet."

"Ah."

"Yes."

There was another awkward pause.

"Is... there anything you would like to do? Now?"

"Yes."

Sherlock waited expectantly for a minute, before realising that John wasn't planning to elaborate.

"What?"

John grinned as he took Sherlock's face in his hands and pulled him forward.

When their lips met, the ground beneath them didn't shatter. Music didn't spontaneously erupt. It was slightly slimy, and their noses bumped uncomfortably. It certainly wasn't what Sherlock had imagined. But it was John. And that was all that mattered.

When they broke apart, Sherlock found himself leaning forward, trying to prolong the contact.

"So. What did you think?" John asked, a small smile gracing his features.

"Any proper experiment requires multiple iterations. It is only through repetition that we can validate our results."

"Oh?" John's tone was light, and his eyes were shining.

Sherlock smiled as his lips met John's once more.