John Watson had always deemed himself an average guy. The two of his attributes that weren't common, were his height and his admittedly strong taste for danger. And because of his self-perception most people saw exactly that. Except for Sherlock, of course. John wasn't quite sure what the Consulting Detective knew about him that he himself didn't, but he had no doubt that it was something of value for his work or (hopefully) his sanity.

Partly due to his parent's dysfunctional marriage and early death in a gruesome fire, but mostly because of the separation from his sister at the age of ten, when both of them had been adopted by different families, John's childhood had ended early. He never talked about the long time in which he hadn't seen Harry. He knew that even this minor family drama wasn't something special, though. (Even though the only things he could remember about his parents were alcohol induced arguments that still made him cringe with fear.) His only happy childhood memory was the small stream behind their cottage, where he had tried to catch tiddlers with his hands, while his sister sat laughing in the grass watching him.

He had never asked Harry about the catalyst for her alcohol addiction, but he was relatively certain that she hadn't been as lucky as him regarding their foster families. John felt an uproar of protectiveness every time he thought about all the things that might have happened to her. A sour feeling in his guts that latched out now and then to send hot pressure surging through his veins, and that could only be calmed with many deep breaths and strong tea.

Harry found him through the student register at Bart's when he was 19 and she had been 21. Her already existing addiction only reinforced his decision to join the army. Since the day his parents died and all he managed to do was taking his sister and flee the house, having no power to protect his family, John had felt useless and helpless.

In Afghanistan, he gradually developed a feeling of self-worth and control and when it ended, it seemed as if some kind of deity had kicked John back into the preposterous, average existence he so loathed.

He was ready to give up.

But then Sherlock came along and with him excitement, danger and, for the first time, belonging.

It started shortly after John had moved in into 221b. He had locked his door and drew the curtains closed before he settled in the middle of his bed and slowly began to unbutton his trousers. A soft sigh escaped him when he first touched his flaccid member. He hadn't touched himself in two weeks and his cock immediately started to thicken in his hand. Patiently, he began to stroke at an unhurried pace, but the urgency to come was rising in him with every passing second.

With his eyes closed, he began imagining a tall, pale woman eagerly licking the tip of his cock. Her dark curls were falling over her lust-clouded grey eyes.

John's pace quickened and with it, his respiration. All of a sudden, John stopped dead. His eyes shot open. In shock, he looked down at his rapidly deflating erection. His thumb was resting on a small unevenness right at the root of his penis. John could clearly see and feel it. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest and his brain was working frantically. The bump was clearly getting smaller while his erection died down. John's hand fell to his side, resting on the blanket unmoving. John stared blankly, searching his brain for some medical explanation. He found none.

John didn't touch himself for four days.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, his sole focus on a small sample under his microscope when John sneaked up the stairs.

Quietly, he locked his door and stripped out of his pants. He was still anxious because of the events of his last attempt at self-pleasure but he just had to relief himself after this hiatus.

It took him longer than usual to relax enough to start with his ritual. He let his hand lay on his prick for a few minutes, just feeling the fabric of his pants between his hand and the skin of his cock. Trying to calm himself, John took a few deep breaths before he slipped his hand into his pants, and began to caress the shaft. He felt it gradually swell under his treatment, and closed his hand around the root. Again, he felt the small bump under his fingers.

John closed his eyes, concentrating to feel size and texture of the anomaly. He estimated a size of at least one square centimeter. Definitely bigger than the last time. Cautiously, John pressed the bulge a bit firmer. It didn't hurt. It felt…good. Wonderful, in fact. A strong shiver ran down John's stomach and thighs, making his muscles clench and his breath quicken.

He knew he should be worried, but it just felt too good. He felt too desperate. Too on edge to stop from lightly stroking himself. Every few strokes, he pressed the root of his cock and felt that same shiver again. Only it was growing in its intensity by the minute.

Pushing his head back into the pillow, John groaned when he felt his climax approach. He was working his cock furiously, imagining plush lips on his skin and long dexterous fingers caressing the inside of his thighs. With one final down stroke, he gripped the root of his cock as firm as possible and came, moaning loudly with his forceful relief. He felt his semen splatter on his chest and belly, his torso bow-taught by the strongest orgasm of his life.

Agonizingly slow, the tension crept out of John's body and he sank back onto the bed. He didn't even manage a fast clean-up before he fell asleep.

Although he tried very hard not to, John constantly worried about the bulge. Two days after his last strangely exciting observation, he went to his urologist. Being a doctor himself, he already knew that it was a far from common problem. He had ruled out the obvious diagnoses on his own. He was sure that it was neither a STD nor some kind of wart. John thought a tumor to be highly unlikely but didn't feel certain enough to judge it on his own.

When he entered the examination room, John felt extremely nervous. Doctor Rosen gave him a reassuring look that John knew too well from all the times he himself had used it on his patients.

"How can I help you Dr. Watson?"

Taking a seat on the chair in front of the doctor's desk, John recited the speech he had been repeating in his head over and over again.

"Hello. I have a medical problem that seems to be very rare and I thought it better to talk to someone that is specialized on this very topic."

Rosen made a noncommittal sound and gestured for him to go on.

"Well…" John cleared his throat to buy some time. "The last couple of times I…masturbated…there was this small, round swelling at the root of my…penis. It seemed to grow or deflate in proportion to my…erection."

The doctor's brows sat a little higher on his face now and John let his gaze wander through the room while he attempted to sound as professional as possible in spite of his embarrassment.

"Naturally, I tried to figure out what it was. I managed to rule out STD's or a simple wart but I am no urologist, so…"

"So, what you are telling me, Doctor Watson, is that the bulge isn't visible if your penis is flaccid. Am I right?" Doctor Rosen asked, calmly.

John nodded, emphatically.

"Probably it means there is a small anaplasmosis that becomes visible when you are in a state of arousal. When did you notice it for the first time?"

"A week ago. Precisely." John answered with no little worry in his voice.

"Good that you seek help so soon. Most men don't." Rosen took a deep breath before he spoke on. "Well, Dr. Watson, as you might have suspected, I need to see the bulge and, as you said, I might not be able to recognize it while your penis is flaccid. My plan is to look at it in both states."

John swallowed hard before he nodded again.

"Please, take off your trousers and underwear and lie down on the examination table. I will have a look at your member first, and then I will give you some private time before I come back and look at your erect penis. "

Unhurriedly, John got up from his chair and walked towards the examination table. With forced casualty, he chucked his clothes and lay down.

Doctor Rosen bent over his middle and stared intensely before he examined it closer with hands that were far too cold. John looked at the ceiling, counting the small cracks and few spider webs to distract himself.

"You are right. Right now, I can't see anything alarming or unusual." The doctor said, straightening up again.

"I will go out for 5 minutes now. Please make sure to have an erection when I come back." With that, Rosen left the room.

It was very difficult to sustain an erection under these circumstances. John pictured a few of his best experiences in a huge mix, adding a few isolated features like long legs and soft pale skin while he tugged uncomfortably on his cock. Just in time for the doctor's return, he felt his prick swell under his ministration. And he already knew what he would see. Nothing. There was no bump. Not even a slight bulge.

"I am sorry. The last two times…" He stammered but Rosen interrupted him.

"Don't worry, Dr Watson. Probably, it's not a problem that turns up every time." John rolled his eyes inwardly at the unintentional pun.

"The good thing is, from what I seen, everything seems to be healthy and functional. You can get up and dress now. If it happens again, come to me and we will take a closer look at possible reasons."

"OK. Thank you, Doctor." John said while he hastily dressed.

"No problem. It's always better to be sure and get things solved."

When John left the room, he avoided the obligatory handshake. He knew where Doctor Rosen's hands had been. That shouldn't be a problem. At least not for him, but John had had enough physical contact with Rosen for one day.

Sherlock and John were standing in their hallway after they had wrapped up their last case by running after the perpetrator for 40 long minutes.

Laughing and sweating profoundly, they were leaning against the wall and each other while they tried to relish the satisfaction of a good chase.

"That was a good one. I will have to thank Lestrade for it." Sherlock said with a voice full of excitement.

"Just thank him by keeping quiet when you are bored tomorrow." John answered, teasingly.

"I might try." Sherlock replied, not even attempting to sound convincing. He lay one hand on John's shoulder and made to stand in front of him.

"But probably not." He added, looking serious for a few seconds before he started to laugh again.

All of a sudden, John felt a familiar stirring in his groin. He forced a false yawn from his mouth and began walking up the stairs.

"God, I am knackered. Well, see you tomorrow." Looking back at Sherlock, he saw a troubled expression cross his flatmate's face.

He only got a distracted Hmmm as answer when he moved up to his room but he hadn't time to think about it. He could already feel his trousers growing tighter.

John had come so hard that evening, he didn't fall asleep. He passed out. And although it had been the strongest orgasm of his life, he couldn't enjoy the experience or the memory of it. The bulge had never been this big. Alarmingly big.

(And had never felt so good.)

In the following week, John visited five different urologists. Two of them immediately dismissed his worries as imagined. The other three were a disappointing replay of his visit at Doctor Rosen's practice. The bulge never showed.

He was fairly certain that the last urologist thought him to be an exhibitionist who got off on wanking in front of him. That was when John gave up searching for medical advice.

There was obviously a pattern to the swelling's appearance. It only showed when he was relaxed, in his own bed and at home. He would have to ask Sherlock the next time it happened. A genius would be a good enough amateur-urologist and even if Sherlock wouldn't immediately have an answer, he would be eager to solve the medical puzzle.

Weeks went by without John asking Sherlock for help. Not that he didn't wank. No. He was fairly certain that he was onto the best way to destroy every last brain cell with his abnormal frequency. He just hadn't found the bravery to approach Sherlock with his hard cock in one hand and his mind in the gutter.

John supposed that the Consulting Detective already knew what he was doing half of the time.

Sherlock had been ridiculously bad tempered for 5 long days now. Agitated, he paced up and down the living room, muttering to himself while constantly scratching his lower back. When John attempted to start a conversation, Sherlock immediately began throwing insults at him, stepping so close they were almost touching. Only a millimeter separating them in those situations. A mere millimeter that somehow accomplished to grate on John's nerves, made his skin tingle and his fingers itch.

Bloody millimeter.

"Sherlock!"

"Sherlock, would you please come up to me?"

"No!" Sherlock's voice rang through the hallway, dripping with petulance.

"Please Sherlock, I need your help! It is something… medical." He put all his worry in the last word, counting on the strong friendship that had built between them during their short time together.

John listened to Sherlock's steps in the living room as he crossed to the stairs. Out of modesty, he lay fully clothed on his bed with open curtains and an additional lighted lamp beside his bed.

"Oh, and I thought you were the doctor!" The petulance came closer and closer, being carried up the stairs by a deliberately noisy Consulting Detective.

John noticed, with more than a little surprise, that he didn't have a problem at all to sustain a rather impressive erection and (just as he had hoped) the obvious bulge. Now he would get his answer, of that he was sure. If he could just focus on the problem at hand, and not the one that tried to will its way into the foreground.

John was stroking himself when he heard Sherlock hovering in the doorway. His eyes shot open in embarrassment but his hand didn't even hesitate in its movement.

"John?" There was irritation and something else. (That John was clearly mistaking for arousal, because of the sudden hoarseness of Sherlock's voice.)

"Sherlock, I…there is something on my….It's worrying me. Would you please just…take a look?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, taking in John's expression and every nuance of his voice before he made to walk over to him. Cautiously, he bent over his groin and gazed down.

The widening of Sherlock's eyes. The surprised huff of breath. A pale, long finger worrying two plush lips. It all told John that Sherlock had recognized the small bulge.

A wave of relief flooded his body but it was instantly pushed aside by a shudder along his spine as he watched his flatmate fall to his knees beside the bed, staring at his face in astonishment.

"John." His name was barely a breath from Sherlock's lips.

"What is it, Sherlock? You know. Tell me." John fought the urge to come on the spot when Sherlock leaned over his dripping cock and took a deep breath of his scent.

"Oh, John. I knew you were one in a million but…Not literally." Sherlock's breath blew over John's erection with every word and elicited a whimper from his throat.

"Fuck!" John swore, quietly. He didn't have the strength to stop his hand from stroking. The close proximity of Sherlock's lips and breath and tongue and…

He watched with rapt attention as Sherlock pushed himself up from his knees and, closing his eyes, swallowed visibly. John's skin was tingling and his pace quickened when Sherlock spoke again.

"That's…rare, John. Very, very rare. I should have known. I felt so…" Sherlock trailed off before John could understand what he meant to say. "Not important, right now. I have a book about this. People like…you." While he spoke, Sherlock's gaze was fixed determinately on John's face but it seemed to be quite difficult for him. John suspected that he wasn't as unaffected as he tried to appear when he saw the outline of Sherlock's engorged prick pressed against the inside of his tight, black trousers.

It was the last thing he noticed before he came hard all over his hand.

When he opened his eyes, John was alone in his room. Exhausted and ashamed, he rolled on his side and fell asleep.

The living room was deserted when John came down in the evening. With clean clothes and a towel in his arms, he went to the shower. He still felt on edge and the feeling that he had crossed an important border made his movements uncertain and hesitant.

The water was cool and soothing on his itchy skin. John positioned himself under the spray in a way that made the water run down his body in thick streams, caressing his back and thighs. His thoughts were spinning with confusion and anxiety. He tried to calm down, telling himself that he and Sherlock were both men. Men understood the male urge to achieve satisfaction. John had to believe that even Sherlock would have felt it at least once in his life. It would be enough to get a certain amount of absolution from his flatmate. It had to be.

When he left the bathroom, there still was no sign of Sherlock. Trying his best on the observational skills he had so often witnessed, John took in his surroundings. The room was packed with various case files, as always. There was Sherlock's blue dressing gown lying on the floor in front of the couch. The book shelves were dusty and overflowing with enough reading material for at least a century. The skull was watching him with disinterest and Sherlock's chair was completely invisible under a huge pile of dirty laundry. John's chair, on the contrary, was empty but for one book lying in it.

John held it up to read the fractural scripture on the cover.

It was called "The Alpha: One half of a whole".

Settling down into his chair, John instantly began to read.

John didn't understand it all. He didn't know what an Omega was. There was no description of his so called Other Half, only that its smell would clearly mark it. The book said that if an Alpha, let's call him John, gets exposed to an Omega's scent over a long time, he would begin to feel tense, protective and, finally, aroused most of the time. The biological response would only show if the Alpha engaged in sexual activities with said Other Half. Then, a so-called knot would form at the root of his penis which would later ensure that the connection to the, hopefully fertile, Omega was held up long enough to ensure impregnation.

John was slightly taken aback by this new medical revelation. How come he never even heard of this concept of sexuality? Why the hack did a knot form on his cock without the necessary Omega? He had been alone. On. His. Own.

"It's the scent, John. It's all over this flat." Sherlock was standing in the doorway of the living room, his dark coat heavy with rain. A puddle of water had already formed at his feet.

"0.2 per cent of the world's population are Alpha-born. 3 per cent Omega. At least, that's what my figures say."

"How do you know?" John said with incredulity. The book lay forgotten in his lap while he watched as Sherlock removed his coat and sat down on the couch.

"I got this book when I turned fourteen. It was a gift from my mother. She was an Omega and she wanted her son to know what would await him if he ever managed to find his other half." Sherlock said, calmly.

John's brows furrowed. "So you are…"

"An Omega, yes."

John's mind was trying to process all the new data. It failed. Miserably.

"Is there another one about Omegas?" He asked with forced casualty before he passed Sherlock the book.

"There is." Sherlock nodded. "And there is also another one, called 'The Bond'. I'd advise you to read them both." John had been stumbling over the phrase bonded Alphas while he read but instead of an explanation there had been a reference to "The Bond".

"You are probably right."

A few minutes later, Sherlock left him with the two books.

"I'll be in my room. You are going to have questions. Please don't bother me every time. Write them down and I'll answer every single one when you are finished reading." John didn't fall for his false arrogance but he didn't tease Sherlock for his nervousness either.

"The Bond" had been a warm, loving description of a shared lifetime. It had read like a love story and made John think about the wonderful possibilities his newly revealed biology could offer him. It almost sounded too good to be true. John still had his doubts about the whole concept, especially after he had read "The Omega" with a constant blush on his face. The contradictions between the two books were irritating and made John wonder about the personal opinions of the authors. "The Omega" was a disdainful recitation of biological urges and symptoms. As impressive as the descriptions were when it came to the chapters Heat and Male Pregnancy, they were just adding to his doubts.

In astonishment, he noticed that both books had been written by the same person and he supposed the third one was by that author as well. Gwenore Holmes.

Another issue for the already long list of questions he wanted to ask Sherlock.

"Sherlock! I am done." John shouted with no little trepidation. Silence answered him.

After waiting for any sign of movement behind Sherlock's closed door, John decided to place the list on the living room floor in front of the Omega's room and go upstairs. It was already late at night and though John didn't expect to find any sleep soon, he would just lie down and think about what he'd just read.

Sherlock seemed to need some space and so did John.

The next morning, John got awoken by a soft knock on his door. Before he was able to answer, Sherlock cautiously looked inside.

"Don't worry. Occasionally, I don't wank when I am in bed." John said when he noticed the slight blush that was rising on Sherlock's cheekbones.

"Thank god! I was already worrying that your next limp might not be psychosomatic." Sherlock teased him in obvious relief.

John grinned before he looked at the alarm clock beside his bed and started to feel annoyed. "Sherlock, it's 7 am! Why did you wake me?" He emphasized his point with a huge yawn.

Awkwardly, Sherlock fidgeted in the door way, glancing at a sheet of paper in his hands. Oh.

"I made tea and if you go buy them, we could eat scones and have breakfast while I answer your questions. If you still want me to, that is." Sherlock replied with faked confidence.

John shrugged and, sitting up, pushed the blanket aside. "Sure, give me a minute." He felt like it was his duty to calm Sherlock, make him feel normal and relaxed. Well, as much as that was possible with Sherlock.

"Downstairs." Was the only thing John understood when the Consulting Detective closed the door and left.

For some reason, John chose his best jeans and least hideous jumper for their shared breakfast. He knew why, when he saw Sherlock smile at him.

"If you get the scones we can start." Rolling his eyes, John decided to get some scones for breakfast.

"So, your mom actually wrote those books for you?" John asked amazed.

"Well, not especially for me. She wrote them when she was 23, in the hope that they would aid her future children. She was very happy when she met my father but she had always hoped to meet her Alpha. Although, people like us have always been rare, there were a few more in her time. When she married him, she knew she would never experience the bond between Alpha and Omega, but she trusted that one of her children would." Sherlock explained with a loving expression on his face.

They had been talking for a while now, both of them avoiding the topic of Omega-Heat. John didn't know how to ask for something that was obviously a precarious subject to Sherlock but what he had read about it had made him curious, uncomfortable and aroused in equal measures.

"She must have been very happy when you were born." John said lamely. "What about Mycroft?"

"He is a beta. Normal, if you want." Sherlock answered narrowing his eyes before he flung himself backwards on the couch he'd been sitting on.

"Sherlock, can I ask you something about Omega-Heat?" John eventually tried after some seconds of silence.

"If you must. Clearly, you do. You've been thinking about it since the minute we started." Sherlock's voice was dripping with disgust.

"I am sorry, I don't want to...um...embarrass you." John quietly intervened.

"Then don't! You'll see soon enough." The words were muffled by the sofa cushion as Sherlock rolled on his front.

John's eyes widened in shock. His mouth hung open and his heart was hammering in his chest.

Without looking at him, Sherlock made an annoyed sound. "What, John? Did you really think that I don't get affected by our close proximity?"

"What will happen?" John asked intimidated.

"I don't know anymore about it then you do. I've never been in heat. All I know is what mother wrote in her book and as you might have noticed, she didn't seem too fond of it."

"But why is that? She never met her Alpha. Did the heat come anyway?"

"No, she never experienced it herself but she saw her father when he was in the middle of it. It disgusted her to see him so week and needy. So reduced to baser needs. At least that's what she told me." Sherlock sat up, taking another scone.

"Why did I never even hear about this whole Alpha-Omega-thing?"

"Is there a crack in your doctor-pride, John?" Sherlock asked teasingly before he answered.

"We are few, as I said, and it seems that they have been living in small, hidden communities before there weren't even enough left of us in every country to form such a community. Additionally, there is the fact that most Omegas are men."

"Oh." John remembered a passage in the book saying that 90 percent of male Omegas weren't fertile. "We are dying out."

Sherlock nodded in affirmation.

"Have you ever considered getting pregnant just to ensure that we don't?"

"I belong to those 90 per cent but I wouldn't want a child, anyway. Extinction is our destiny, it seems." Sherlock said coolly.

"One last question, please." John's voice carried a trace of fondness that made Sherlock curious. With a nod, he signaled him to go on.

"How likely was it for you to meet an Alpha."

"All but impossible." Sherlock answered, smiling at John.

They talked until noon, both avoiding everything that had to do with Sherlock's upcoming heat but the earlier tension quickly died away. As always, they had no difficulties to talk to each other about everything that came to their minds. From assassination to zoophilia.

At one point, John took a seat on the couch beside Sherlock. Somehow it had felt wrong to keep a distance. They were probably the last of their kind. And if John enjoyed Sherlock's enticing smell, it was just a fortunate coincidence.

That evening had been a quiet one. Sherlock had fallen asleep on John's shoulder at midnight after he had eaten three quarters of the Indian take away they had ordered. John didn't mind it. He had been happy to see Sherlock eat, for once. When Sherlock had leaned against him and closed his eyes, John didn't stop him. He just watched as Sherlock slowly fell asleep.

He had remained sitting on the couch for an hour before he covered the Omega with a blanket and went up to sleep.

"John?"

"John!"

"JOO-OOHN!"

John walked down the stairs, muttering to himself while clenching and unclenching his hands in frustration. "What?"

"Aren't there any leftovers from yesterday?" Sherlock's voice resounded from the inside of their fridge when John entered the living room.

"Wow, you are hungry aga…." Sherlock was standing naked in the kitchen, bent low to peer into the vegetable cooler. A choked "God!" fell from John's lips.

"Sherlock?"

"Are there now some leftovers or are there not?" Sherlock asked, turning around to face John who was gaping at him and fighting the urge to open his jeans to relief some tension.

"No. No leftovers. Sherlock? Why are you naked?" John tried to will the arousal out of his voice.

"My clothes were itching and it's way too hot in here. The furnace is turned off but… Do we have anything edible?" Sherlock was looking at John expectantly.

John swallowed and took a deep breath. "I'll order some take away. Please, put something on!"

"Why? It feels good to be naked. Does it make you uncomfortable?" Sherlock asked incredulous.

"A bit." John admitted.

"Don't worry. It is okay for an Omega to be naked around his Alpha." Sherlock assured him.

"Why do you think that I am your Alpha?" Although he tried very hard, John wasn't able to appear scandalized. His heart was doing strange things, like jumping up and down, in his chest. It was distracting.

"Will you spend my heat with me?" There was only one logical answer to Sherlock's furrowed brows, tight lips and slightly trembling voice.

"Yes, of course."

"Then you are mine and I am yours, at least until my heat is over." Sherlock said happily before he walked over to the drawer with the take away leaflets.

"At least." John repeated quietly and watched Sherlock's pale skin stretch over his shoulders while he picked up the phone to order.

When the doorbell rang, John barely managed to stop Sherlock from opening the door in his birthday suit. He actually forbade him to leave his room until John would have closed the door again. Surprisingly, Sherlock only said "Yes, John." and patiently waited until John called him back into the living room. He even had the modesty to wear boxer shorts while they ate.

They were almost finished when the doorbell rang again. John opened the door to see Lestrade, looking like he had been running all the way from Scotland Yard.

"Greg. Come in. How can we help you?" John asked, gesticulating for Lestrade to take a seat.

Lestrade glanced over John's shoulder, letting a curious gaze wander over Sherlock's bare torso. John's throat constricted and a deep growl emerged. Shocked, Lestrade threw his head around and regarded him with wide eyes.

"What the hell is going on with you both?" He asked irritated.

"Is there a case, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked as if he hadn't spoken.

"Yes, there is…." He entered the room to talk to Sherlock but John quickly put himself in his way, blocking his line of sight. Furrowing his brows, Lestrade took a step backwards.

"Is it important or can it wait?" John asked, his eyes shining with barely suppressed rage.

"I….I wouldn't be here if it could wait. John? Are you alright?" John took a step closer, now standing right in front of him, fixing him with a violent gaze.

"Lestrade, I would advise you to leave now! As you see, we aren't in the condition to work. In two weeks, we should be available again. Goodbye." Sherlock drawled the last word cheerfully and took a forkful of his takeaway before he began to eat the rest of John's.

John walked around the DI and opened the door looking at him, demanding and resolute.

"Bye, Greg." There was no friendliness in his voice.

Cautiously, Lestrade walked to the door, taking care to keep a healthy distance to the furious doctor. He just opened his mouth to say something else, when John closed the door with another growl.

"It's O.K., John. He is gone. Come here and stop me from eating the plate." Sherlock said calmly. Somehow, it helped to sooth John. Sherlock was there, in the same room, Lestrade was gone and they were alone again.

John closed his eyes, concentrating on his respiration.

"Fuck, I almost punched him for looking at you." He said when he walked to the couch and sat down beside Sherlock. Sherlock, who looked kind of happy and just a little bit flattered.

"I know."