John Watson was dozing in the armchair when the buzzing in his coat pocket jolted him from sleep. Adrenaline racing, the doctor fumbled with his phone.

At Gloucester and Melcombe. Come now. SH

4:56 pm

John was out the door.

Quickly. SH

4:57 pm

He jogged down the walk.

Forget the cab, John. SH

4:59 pm

He lowered his hand and quickened the pace.

Now, John. SH

5:00 pm

John cleared his mind and ran. There was the rhythm of his steps on the sidewalk, the whistle and rush of the air past his ears, and the breeze tugging at his coat as he wove between civilians, heads bowed, hurrying home while John raced to find the detective. Auto engines. Sharp scent of exhaust. Pale glare of evening between the flats. Air just cool enough to burn the lungs.

Now. SH

5:07 pm

Breath. Drive. Rhythm. Pace. Direction. Sherlock—

Left. SH

5:16 pm

John darted across the street and into the alley. Nothing.

"Not nothing, John." The detective pressed himself up the brick edifice, rising from where he had been enfolded in shadow.

"Sherlock, I-Sherlock, what have you done?"

There was a scarlet stain soaking through his shirt. He sighed. "It looks much more dramatic than it is."

But the doctor was already stripping off the detective's coat and insisting that Sherlock return to the up-ended crate.

"This is why I don't wear white."

"This is why you wait to take me with you!" John's fingers danced across the front of Sherlock's shirt until it found the entrance wound. "Bloody Hell, Sherlock—you said it would be simple! This is-"

"Glass, actually. Minor accident. And it was perfectly simple: the case is closed."

"Then why the bloody Hell didn't Lestrade call you an ambulance?"

"He was not aware of the wound. Come now, John—these details are really not that important. Just cover it up so we can hail a cab."

John stripped off his shirt and stole Sherlock's scarf to form a makeshift tourniquet, frowning. "Don't think I'm letting you off easy; I'll get the cab, but as soon as we get back to Baker Street, I'm interrogating you just as much as I'll be fixing—"

"Of course, John."

With a huff, the doctor returned Sherlock's coat and pressed his own over the prickling skin of his torso as it protested the air's chill. He pulled the zipper up to his chin. "Cab, John."

"Yes, I know."

They stepped out of the alley and John, a fraction too slow for the cab Sherlock had spotted, hailed the one behind it.

"221 Baker Street," the doctor instructed as he watched Sherlock fold into the seat beside him. The cabbie nodded and said nothing, Sherlock's wound effectively hidden beneath his overcoat. John did not bother puzzling over why the detective would not request ordinary medical attention when he actually needed it. "What happened?"

The detective closed his eyes languidly. "You said you were going to wait until we returned home."

"I lied. What happened?"

But Sherlock paid no heed, clever eyes lidded.

"No—none of this! I know you don't have any reason to retreat to your mind; you said yourself the case was cl-"

The crystalline eyes snapped open. "I don't retreat, John. You know better."

"Then tell me."

John's grey eyes were hot and unyielding, but Sherlock's were cool, unmoved. They were still cold enough to frost the doctor's determination when he replied:

"Glass. I traced him to a pharmacy that was used as a front for criminal activities. I miscalculated slightly, and passed too close to a table during the scuffle. What you saw was the result."

"But—" The detective had already returned to his meditative position.

John swallowed an irritated "fine, then" as they rounded the corner onto Baker Street; it did no good for both of them to behave like children. At any rate, John knew Sherlock would not have heard him if he had bothered to speak.

When they stopped in front of the flat, the doctor paid their fare before turning to nudge Sherlock out of the cab—but the detective was already on the steps, unlocking the door of 221B.

"Much more dramatic than it looks, indeed," John grumbled as the cab sped off. He followed the detective across the threshold and hurried up the steps to his room. "Take off your coat and lie down on the sofa, Sherlock. Actually, no—is your bed clear enough for me to tend to you?"

"John, you know I don't sleep. The only way to do that would be to move some delicate materials I need for—"

"Fine, fine! Take off your shirt and come up here."

The doctor leapt up the stairs and fetched his bag from its place in the closet, and laid out the materials he needed upon his desk. This accomplished, John proceeded by force of habit to the bathroom, where he scrubbed his hands and arms to the elbow. When he returned to call for his patient, he found Sherlock already stretched out upon the bed, John's torn shirt showing scarlet just under the edges, the blue scarf already removed, lying on the pillow beside him, only the slightest rusty stains clinging to the wool fibers.

"I can clean it."

"What?" The doctor tugged a sterile glove over each hand.

"Don't make me repeat myself, John. I've found a chemical mixture that will lift bloodstains from wool without the use of a bleaching agent."

"Oh." John removed the shredded shirt from Sherlock's chest carefully, placing the sad tatters in a plastic bag for later disposal. "Won't help m'shirt much."

"It's not designed for cotton, John."

"I meant—never mind."

The detective closed his eyes while the doctor's nimble fingers worked through the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. He peeled each of the flaps delicately away from the wound. "No longer bleeding heavily; that's good."

"I told you: it merely appears dramatic."

"Series of shallow, clean lacerations. A few shards of glass still clinging to the tissue. Most of the bleeding came from this one, just below the left pectoral—it'll need stitches, but that's the only one." He began cleaning away the lightly blood around the wounds, careful not to force the shards deeper, revealing little veins and ribbons of previous scars beneath the sticky, crimson fluid.

"No anesthetics, John."

"I know."

John selected a pair of single-use forceps and examined the packaging before opening them. "Why did you leave without me?"

"I told you. You couldn't return fast enough, and it was a disappointingly simple case."

"I came back here almost immediately." The doctor began painstakingly removing the slivers of glass nestled in Sherlock's torn, alabaster and scarlet skin.

"You couldn't have arrived until at least twenty minutes after I had already left, and time was of the essence, John." The muscles at the corner of his mouth twitched minutely as the doctor flicked his wrist to remove each splinter and shard.

"I could have helped you. You should have called me earlier." John's eyes never left the detective's chest, but a larger piece of crimson-stained glass exited the wound a little harder than was meant.

Sherlock, eyes closed, did not even allow a small hiss to escape his lips. "I don't need you to watch me like a child wherever I go."

"Oh, that's all I'm good for, am I? Babysitting?" John threw the forceps into a bag and tossed it onto the desk with more force than necessary. "Babysitting, and patching you up after you've gotten into a precarious—"

"John."

The doctor laid his needles and medical thread on the dresser and mechanically cleaned the newly re-opened punctures and cuts, carefully sterilizing the deepest laceration.

Sherlock fixed the doctor in his crystalline gaze. "John."

He was cleaning away fresh blood.

"John—"

The doctor met his eyes.

"John, I'm sorry."

He nodded. "It's all right, Sherlock. I know you don't need me to come along every time, but when you come back bleeding or—"

A dry smile graced the detective's lips. "Or with my skull apparently smashed in on the sidewalk?"

"—it seems silly for you to leave me behind." John was not nearly so amused. The detective's sharp gaze followed him as he selected a needle and sterilized the steel.

The doctor re-examined the wound, his eyes analyzing the tissue, the angle of the laceration, the length, the depth. He removed his needle from the solution and readied the thread.

"Sherlock, I'm going to start stitching up the wound. This is one of my smallest needles, and I'll do my best to make sure it'll be quick and comfortable, but without even local anesthesia—"

"You could never hurt me, John."

John smiled. "You might see things a little differently in a minute."

He laid one hand carefully over Sherlock's skin, and made the first stitch. If he had been less concerned with making the task as quick and his hand as steady as possible, and instead waited to gauge the detective's reaction, he would have noticed no visible change in Sherlock's expression or demeanor as the needle pierced his skin. John kept every stitch quick and even, his hand as steady with the needle as it was with a firearm.

"Last one."

"Mm." As though it were of no more concern than rubbish articles taking up newsprint that could be put to much better use.

"And—finished." John secured the final stitch, re-cleansed the area, pressed small dressings to the other lacerations, and set to cleaning his materials. "Thank you, Sherlock, for not squirming. Please don't do anything to tear the stitches, try not to get them wet until tomorrow, and for God's sake: don't touch them." He gathered the waste for the trip downstairs, where he would invariably need to remind Sherlock of the last rule on his way to the kitchen.

But when he turned to replace his bag in the closet, Sherlock had not yet moved from John's bed; he lay, reclining in precisely the same position, following the doctor with his usual scrutinizing gaze. "Oh—you can go now, if you'd like. I'll just take your shirt, since I doubt you'll be using it again."

"Very well; thank you, John." He sat up much too quickly for John's taste, and began peeling the now-stiff shirt from his body.

"No-! Let me help you. I can't have you straining my fresh stitches."

"You're a fine doctor, John. I'm sure the stitches are flexible enough to allow me to remove my own clothing."

"Yes, but you refused to go to a real hospital, so let's not take that chance, hm?"

Sherlock begrudgingly allowed John to shuffle behind him and help slide the rust-stained shirt from his shoulders. "Which begs the question, why didn't you just go to the hospital in the first place?"

"I have had the displeasure of becoming too familiar with the varying levels of competence in the staff."

"You could have gone to the hospital and told me to meet you there instead of having me come to you and treat you here." John put the detective's stained shirt with the remnants of his own.

"I would rather not have contact with the other members of the hospital staff, and my injury was not severe enough to warrant the discomfort of an ambulance."

"You're just lucky I didn't take you to the hospital myself." John shrugged and gathered the waste. "Would you like some tea?"

"Baker Street was much closer; you would never have insisted on transporting me further than necessary."

"Yes, fine; I wouldn't have. That doesn't mean I agree with your childish wish to avoid the hospital just because you don't like people." He sighed. "Tea?"

"If you observed, John, or even looked, you would know that my aversion to people is nothing compared to people's aversion to me."

The doctor stopped; replaced the bags in the corner. He leveled his eyes with the detective's. "All right, Sherlock—what's the real reason?"

"Don't play with me, John."

"I'm not. I'm asking you a question because I care about the answer."

"You don't want to play this game, John; you will lose."

"Sherlock, stop it. I'm not playing any games. You've given me only secondary reasons for avoiding the hospital, and since I'm the one who has to patch you up every time you decide real medical attention isn't necessary, I deserve to know why."

"No."

"No?"

"You're a doctor, John; observation of the human body is your industry. You do not 'deserve' to have me make an audible confession of what you have already seen."

"Sherlock, what have I seen?"

"I trusted you with this, John, but I owe you nothing in return. Leave it alone. "

John met the detective's heated gaze. "Sherlock, I don't know what the bloody Hell you're on about, but I'll leave this well enough alone. Do you want some tea or not?"

He neither moved from his position, nor blinked. Sighing, John gathered the bags again and headed downstairs; he would make enough tea for two, in any case.

"John, wait."

The doctor turned to find that Sherlock had not shifted, but remained still, keeping John under the cerulean scrutiny.

"Is there any chance you are that positively blind?"

He opened his mouth to reply. Blinked. Closed it. Repeated the phrase in his mind. Opened his mouth again: "I suppose I must be, Sherlock. I don't know what it is you think I'm missing, but I'm not going to argue it any further." He turned, and when he met no protest, proceeded downstairs to the kitchen.

John put the kettle on to boil after setting the waste aside for disposal at the surgery. He washed his hands and retrieved first Sherlock's usual mug, then his own. When the kettle whistled, he transferred the water to the new teapot—a replacement John had purchased when Sherlock smashed the one Mrs. Hudson had warned was their last.

"John."

He turned to see the detective standing on the threshold of the kitchen, alabaster skin and neat, even stitches bare to the cool air of the flat.

"Thank you."

The doctor studied Sherlock's expression carefully, but all traces of heat and mistrust had been removed from his features. "What for?"

"For being so wonderfully unobservant."

"Er… excuse me for not being more—receptive of the compliment, Sherlock, but…"

"Pour the tea, John, and I will explain."

The doctor obliged, fixing Sherlock's precisely as he preferred, with sugar, and his own with milk. John's first attempt to give the detective his tea was foiled by the man's uncanny ability to go from standing just feet away from the doctor to sitting comfortably on the sofa in a matter of seconds without even stirring the air. The second attempt was successful, and John took his place in the armchair. "Well? What is this all about, and what changed your mind?"

"First, John, I want to make it clear that I am telling you this, not because I owe you any explanation whatsoever, but because I trust you and you are worthy of the knowledge."

"Look, Sherlock… if it makes you uncomfortable and I don't really need to know, then you don't have to tell me."

"I wouldn't have begun the conversation if I did not think it would be beneficial for you to know."

"As long as you're sure-"

"I am always sure. As for what made me change my mind, John: you did." The detective was studying him with a fixed intensity, and John was, as ever, unsure if he would ever become fully accustomed to it. "Your reaction to my annoyance pointed to an honesty regarding your ignorance of the topic at hand, so much so that I was nearly willing to believe you without further observational proof to make a complete deduction—but I could not allow myself to simply trust what I heard. I followed you downstairs and silently observed you as you made a pot of tea. Not only did you make enough to share with me, John, though I was rude and never answered your inquiry, you retrieved my mug before you even contemplated retrieving your own—because your perception of me had been in no way altered, and because you did not understand my reaction enough to know the reason behind my behavior, therefore holding nothing against me. My theories were further proved unquestionably correct when I called your attention to my presence—I knew you would be caught off-guard and your reaction would be purely instinctual, unfiltered. When you noticed that I remained shirtless, your first instinct was to check over your work again, to make sure every stitch and dressing was in place. Your eye was not attracted to even a single scar, John—you were more concerned with my health than anything else."

"Of course, Sherlock; I couldn't just let you pull your stitches or—"

"That only leaves one question, John: are you aware, and it simply does not matter to you, or have you truly noticed nothing?"

"Sherlock, I still have no idea what…"

The detective's lips twitched very slightly, as though they could not decide whether to allow a rare smile or remain steadfast in a position of inquiry as he placed his cup on the side-table and straightened, perched on the very edge of the sofa cushion. "Look at the pattern of scars on my chest, John."

"Sherlock-"

"Please."

John obeyed that simple word with more loyalty and expedience than an issued command.

Thin, pale ribbons of raised tissue streamed and crossed Sherlock's torso, sporadic marble veins through the soft alabaster. A deep cut just below the ribs was knitted unevenly together, the twisted skin bearing signs that the stitches had been pulled during the healing process. There was an old puncture wound just higher—the reparation botched by a clumsy surgeon. John felt his temper flare, but he moved to fresher, pink slivers from a minor explosion just the week before; those were on their way to a perfect recovery. Then, the doctor's own stitches, done with a steady, even hand which, as long as Sherlock followed his instructions, would result in minimal scarring. And there, just above, perhaps an inch to the right, was an old scar, faded and even—from surgery. He sifted through every surgery in his memory that would require such an incision, yet for any that came immediately to mind, only an absolutely exceptional surgeon could have achieved such results. It left only—

"Yes, John." Sherlock followed the doctor's grey eyes as they matched it to an identical scar on his right.

"You don't want any of them to see you differently."

"Yes."

John frowned, clasping his tea tightly between both hands. "The location of your injuries today made it more likely for them to notice, and you couldn't risk it."

"Obvious."

"Which means—" His eyes fell on the uneven tissue of the puncture wound and the remnants of a previous laceration.

"Yes. I closed them myself."

"Sherlock, how could you do it?"

"It was either endure the temporary pain, or suffer continuous misidentification thereafter."

John studied Sherlock's unyielding gaze. "But—Anderson and Donovan already call you a psychopath and a…" His throat closed around the word.

"A freak, John?" The detective's gaze remained painfully neutral.

The confirmation stuck in his throat, and Sherlock continued as though he did not notice the word remained un-vocalized.

"Being called a freak and a psychopath—for I am neither—is far preferable to being called a woman."

"But you're not a woman."

Sherlock did not even open his mouth to reply; he just stared, eyes glinting, at the doctor, lips barely parted in an elongated 'o'.

"John… repeat that."

"What?"

"Repeat it."

"You're not a woman?"

"No. The way you said it before."

"But you're not a woman, Sherlock."

The detective closed his eyes; he bent his head over steepled fingers.

"I know…" The tender baritone almost escaped John's ear.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, I-"

"I spent so much time trying… memorizing… fighting—trying to allow people to see me. So many years, John, just to get them to look at me without the smallest bias, and you—presented with all the evidence, you question nothing."

He looked up, flame-blue eyes conflicted, more saturated and true, fuller than John had ever before seen them. He could find no reply. Sherlock was looking at him—intent, pained, hopeful, compassionate, grateful.

The silence was stretching into the air, thinner and thinner, until John could not help filling it with the first words to come to mind and find their way past his tongue: "Sherlock, you're no different than you were this morning. A little worse for wear, maybe, but no one different."

"John."

The doctor did not know how to reply to an intonation of his name that had never passed anyone's lips before. There were things in Sherlock's tone that John simply did not recognize, and had no tools, no knowledge of how he could open his mouth and let a simple word or phrase pass through into the air—so it remained thickly sealed as with hot wax, confused and ignorant.

The two finished their tea in silence, speaking not a word until John asked, rising from his chair, "Would you like some more?"

"Please.

He retrieved both mugs and tactfully retreated to the kitchen, taking his time in pouring two new servings. But when he turned around, Sherlock was there, watching him without a sound.

John's eyes were yet again attracted to the angry red skin pressed neatly with even stitches.

"Not as effective, John, but much better than expected."

The doctor knew his cheeks flushed slightly at his recollection of purposely avoiding the scarred areas of the detective's chest.

"Your reflex was the same, but you struggled particularly against letting your eyes roam anywhere."

"Yes—er—sorry… I…"

"Anyone else would have strayed first, and taken care only after to avert their gaze; it's reflexive. Uncontrollable."

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "It's just… rather rude…"

Sherlock's eyes had a particular glint to them as they studied the doctor's face, his stance. "It's…" He was choosing his words carefully, and John knew it was to attain accuracy over politeness or the censure prevalent in ordinary conversation. "…most intriguing, John."

The doctor sighed. "You repeated the experiment." He returned both mugs to the counter when Sherlock rejected the proffered tea. "You wanted to account for variables and compare my reaction to a new control."

A smirk tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips and eyes. "Very good, John. If you keep this up, you'll be finishing my sentences shortly."

"Good God, I hope not."

They had a fine chuckle over that, and returned to the living room with fresh tea. Sherlock donned his dressing gown, and the two sat in amiable silence, drinking, but before long, John found Sherlock studying him again.

"Yes, what now?"

"Do you have questions for me?"

The doctor's brow furrowed a moment. "No… should I?"

"Usually it's almost beyond my power to get people to shut up."

"Look, Sherlock—don't worry about it. All I care about is you, all right? As long as you're fine, that's enough for me."

"John, you're wonderful."

He couldn't quite wrap his mind around that. "What?"

"Don't make me repeat myself. I said, 'you are wonderful.' As in—someone or something that incites wonder, or is admirable. You, John, seem to be a cause of great wonder and more questions than most humans for me, and common people could learn many things by watching and emulating what you do. Therefore: wonderful. Don't make me regret saying it, John."

Sherlock immediately returned his attention to his tea, and finished it, lounging carelessly on the sofa as though nothing had occurred.

"I…" The doctor wrung his hands around his mug. "Are you sure you don't have me mixed up with you, Sherlock?"

The detective sighed, straightened, and pinned John under his gaze. "You are exceedingly patient, and are more loyal than any person I have yet met, Doctor Watson. You are… kind beyond my understanding, and act with considerations that I cannot quite fathom." He returned to reclining, and continued crisply: "Now, I have filled my quota of compliments for the next eighteen months. If you do not comprehend now, you are on your own; I will not explain further."

John grappled with finding a remotely intelligent or worthy response for quite some time. But, as with most responses to Sherlock's extraordinariness, only a simple phrase was capable of tumbling out of the poor doctor's mouth: "I love you."

"John, please. I gave you only honesty—do not return the favor with attempted flattery."

"But, Sherlock, it isn't—I don't—"

"Yes, I know, now please just stop before you—"

"But it is, Sherlock—it's true."

"John—" There was a fine, steel edge to the detective's voice.

"Sherlock, listen to me. I… it was something that I just never told you. I don't know why I haven't just let it slip before now, but you are the only person in my life I care that much about. Having you gone, at all—look—I care about you, Sherlock, your well-being, your life, your experiences, but I don't give a damn about what other people think about you or who they think you are. I know, and I care, and that's what matters."

Silence.

"Sherlock, please look at me."

The detective refused, his gaze fixed on a singular point ahead of him, statuesque.

"I don't know what to do with you."

"What?"

"I don't know what to do with you."

"You don't have to do anything, Sherlock." John frowned, brow furrowing, revealing the tired creases of his eyes.

"I know what people normally do, but I don't know what to do with you." Sherlock's pale eyes finally settled on the doctor again, retaining the razor edge his voice did not.

"Really, Sherlock, you don't have to do anything; you don't even have to say anything. I just—it was just something you should know."

"But I do. Something is necessary."

"Sherlock…"

The detective bowed his head over steepled fingers.

"John," he began, after some time, "I feel compelled to explain things to you. Things I believe I should never have to explain to anyone, under any circumstances."

"Sherlock, you don't—"

"No, I don't owe you anything."

"But, I want…" The detective appeared to neither have the words to express what it was he wanted, nor the means to pinpoint exactly what it was he desired.

John watched Sherlock as his eyes focused on something the doctor could not see, and examined it carefully, his lips parting slightly, then closing, almost hesitant to actually mouth a word or letter.

"I want to do something for you, as proof of my reciprocation of your sentiments."

John's mouth slowly shifted into a smile. "That's… really quite enough, Sherlock. Knowing. Knowing is good."

The detective's nose crinkled in disgust. "Just knowing might be all well and good for you, John, but practical application is better."

He chuckled. "Depends on the situation, I think."

Sherlock scoffed, but returned his attention to that invisible space. He almost immediately looked up to study the doctor again.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

The detective appeared to study his words carefully before replying. "May I try something? It will involve physical proximity that most find uncomfortable, especially coming from me."

"You don't normally seem to mind invading my space." It was all John could do not to give in to a good-humored smirk.

"Exactly when did you attempt a career as a humorist, doctor?"

"When we decided to have a nice, comfortable conversation about our feelings, actually."

"Oh, ha." The sharpened edge had returned to his voice. "Is it acceptable or not?"

"We've been in a variety of comfortable and uncomfortable situations, Sherlock, all with various levels of respect for personal space—I'm sure one more won't hurt anything."

The detective gave a short nod and rose immediately from the sofa. "Stand up, please."

John raised his eyebrows, but did as requested.

Sherlock crossed the short space, skirting the coffee table, only stopping when his chest was barely a finger's breadth from John's. He looked down at the doctor, studying every feature.

"See? Not bad at all."

"I'm not done yet."

John's breath caught in his throat at what sounded like a promise.

The doctor had failed to notice what had become of his breath and blood with the detective at such close proximity, but Sherlock did not. He continued cataloguing these facts when he bent down to press his lips to John's, moving them gently and tenderly in a chaste, lingering gesture. Sherlock straightened and studied John's eyes. "Good?"

"Yes—yes, good. Definitely. Your—uh, reciprocation, then—that was it, yeah? Yes—Very… good, actually. I rather liked that, yeah."

A true smile threatened to steal across Sherlock's features.

"In fact—erm—I wouldn't mind doing it again sometime… if you wanted, of course—only if you wanted."

The smile carried out its threat, bringing with it the air of almost dark glee that always accompanied one of Sherlock's true smiles. "Good."

He caught John's lips again—just to be sure, of course.

And the doctor reveled in it. A delicate, precise mouth pressing sensuously against his; John simply could not resist the smallest taste, just a flick of the tongue over Sherlock's lips—something he had picked up long ago and used many times since—yet he was unprepared for the light, brilliant sweetness of wind and city rain. He was absorbed in it, the gentleness and taste working, smoothing with and against each other in sensations the doctor had not quite thought possible, and was content in simply this; Sherlock, however, was quick to recognize simple acceptance, and with slow deliberation, glided his tongue over John's. The doctor thought if he didn't sink to the floor, he would float up through the ceiling and away over London. Sherlock caught his waist and pressed his full length and tongue close, eliciting a tense moan from John's throat.

John opened his eyes and the detective was standing at the foot of the stairs.

"Sherlock?" He could not recall if or when the detective actually relinquished him—nor certainly when he could have possibly stepped away.

"Yes. Thank you, John. That was… good. If you will excuse me, I have a shirt to retrieve, and you have some paperwork to make up, I'm sure."

"But…" The question clung in his throat. "I do, but—"

"No, you have done nothing wrong. I trust we can resume daily activities until later."

"Well—yes… I mean... I suppose, Sherlock, if that—"

"It is, thank you. I will see you for dinner."

John sighed and raked a hand through his hair. Of course he had work to do. The only thing standing in his way now was a racing pulse and bloody hell the flat was much too hot.

'See you for dinner,' of course, meant 'yes, I will see you at a time designated for consumption of food, and will agree to watch and converse as you partake in the ritual.' John had become accustomed to this peculiar definition of mealtime, but seldom accepted it quietly—and determined that today would be no exception. Mrs. Hudson had fixed a large meal the night before, and brought it over while Sherlock was gone this morning. John knew that if he boiled some potatoes and heated the stew to go along with it, Sherlock, now between cases, would at least be tempted. If the doctor could tempt Sherlock with butter-drenched potatoes, he was halfway to getting the detective to eat a full meal.

John stood over the stove, monitoring his plot's progress.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock was at his shoulder.

The corner of the doctor's mouth quirked into a smile. "Unheard of—I thought I'd have to call you."

"Hm. The potatoes and Mrs. Hudson's stew, I presume?"

"That's it, yeah. Ten more minutes, if you want to set the table."

"Not particularly."

"How are the stitches, then?"

"Holding up just fine, doctor."

"Good. Not scratching them, or—"

"No, John."

"Good." He sliced a stick of butter over the pot.

"How much longer?"

"Sherlock, it'll go faster if you set the table."

The detective gave an inarticulate grunt, but fetched two place settings. The doctor took note of Sherlock's uncommonly loose, blue button-down; being careful of the stitches after all, then.

"I'm hardly surprised that you don't take me at my word, doctor."

John refocused his attention to the stew he had been absent-mindedly stirring. "Sometimes it's hard to believe you could even remotely imitate good behavior, Sherlock; as your doctor, I have to double-check."

"Pshaw."

"Don't you 'pshaw' me." He dished a generous serving of stew and potatoes into each bowl, "You know I'm right."

"I'm sure I know no such thing."

The doctor helped himself to a spoonful of stew. "As you like it, Sherlock. Doesn't make me wrong."

"On the contrary, John, I find that I am an excellent gauge of accuracy."

"Says the man who can find a way to clean blood out of wool but doesn't know what to use to wash his own clothes."

"Irrelevant." Sherlock took a generous bite of potatoes.

"You don't deny it." At least he was eating.

"Only because I choose to."

Bloody hell.

For a moment, John was sure Sherlock was disguising a smirk with his spoon, but it passed much too quickly for that fancy. "Consider it an… apology for earlier."

He frowned. "Apology?"

"Don't just repeat words, doctor—I know you're much more capable than that."

"What is there to apologize for?"

"I left too abruptly for your comfort."

"Sherlock, if it was because you were uncomfortable, then I should be—"

"Don't apologize, John. The fault is not yours."

" 's not yours, either."

"Look at me, John."

The doctor's eyes drifted up from where his spoon rested on the dish. He met the detective's gaze.

"My… hesitation has nothing to do with your actions or with a lack of inspiration. On the contrary, I find you quite inspiring." John tried not to feel the touch of pride sneaking over him. "However…" Sherlock frowned, tasting the words. "…I am inexperienced." That one seemed a particularly bitter flavor. "I admit I have given little thought to the matter in the past—as little as possible, in fact. It makes me uncomfortable." The tang from this word curled his lips into a momentary sneer. "It may be unfair to you, John, but I cannot predict when I will be able to… hold physical presence for you. I will allow you to decide what that means in the further development of today's events, but be sure that you take it into consideration before you act."

"Sherlock?"

"I will not go into more detail; take it as you will."

Heavy lines wrinkled his brow. "You're leaving it all up to me, then? To decide what we do?"

"No, John. To decide what you do."

"About us."

"In the context of today's developments."

He ran his tongue between his lips in thought, frowning.

"Do not access the medical records, doctor." There was a serrated edge to the detective's tone.

But they both knew he had already found what he needed.

"Sherlock… we don't need to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

"Do not talk to me like a psychiatric patient, doctor—you will find you are rather out of your depth."

John's jaw tightened. "Sherlock, I'm serious."

"As am I." The stormy shadow promised in his voice had descended upon his features.

"Look, are we going to—"

"I don't know, doctor. Shall we talk about our feelings until you deem me stable enough to continue the process?"

"Sherlock—"

"I can parrot all of the proper answers and you can leave feeling much better about my mental state; you—"

"Sherlock—"

"—can sign all of my paperwork at the end of the session without a single ounce of guilt. Oh!"

"Sherlock—"

"Better, even—why don't you tell me the name they've put to it, doctor? Tell me what's wrong and how to fix it. It will make everything so much quick—"

"SHERLOCK!"

The detective's eyes were cold. "I'm so sorry—did you say something?"

"You know very well what I'm doing, Sherlock, now please stop."

"Tell me what you're thinking, John. Tell me what you're thinking right now. What did you find in your medical records, John? What suddenly made it all crystal clear?"

"Nothing is crystal clear, Sherlock."

"What made your sudden realization, then, John? Give me all the words, the terms they invented just so they could diagnose and treat all the little anomalies."

John's grey eyes, little coals simmering down from their ember smolder under a douse of water, could not leave the challenging set of Sherlock's jaw, and the cold accusation of his gaze. "It's just one. Dysphoria. I was looking for dysphoria."

"It falls so miserably short, doesn't it? I am quite happy with my body. Do you know that? I am perfectly happy with the way I am perceived; that gives me no trouble. No—it's not so mind-numbingly simple as dysphoria. Dysphoria is a catch-all. A blanket. There is no word for what this is, doctor. You will have to give me more than that."

"You weren't always so confident, Sherlock, and that meant you couldn't confide in anyone who might be interested, because that would mean they were interested for the wrong reasons. Sherlock, I know you're more than that; I know you're more than anyone says. You don't have to remind me, and what's more, you don't need to doubt me."

"Question everything," was the reflexive reply.

"Sherlock, I'm still here. I never stopped being here—I have always believed in you, Sherlock. When are you going to start believing in me?"

"You misunderstand, John. I believe in you. What I do not believe is my ability to satisfy your immediate needs."

"And what needs are those? You haven't even asked what I want! You said yourself you don't have—"

"One does not need experience to understand basic premises of human behavior. Observation works just as keenly, if not more so. People of your immediate needs have killed for and in defense of them."

"I'm not an animal," he growled.

"I'm sure Darwin would love to have a chat with you." All passion was removed from his voice, no trace of it left in his chilly, superior intonation.

"I don't bloody run on primal instinct or whatever you want to call it. I'm a decent human being, Sherlock, and if you'd give me half a chance, I might be able to show you that my 'immediate needs' really don't affect my actions the way you think they do. I'm not a beast, Sherlock—I'm not a spider. I'm your best mate, or aren't I?"

A dry chuckle escaped the detective's throat.

John rose from the table and scooped up his dish."There's no talking to you is there, Sherlock?"

The chuckling did not cease as he rinsed his dishes under the tap.

"Pardon me, John; your word choice was amusing. Understandable, but amusing."

"And what word choice would that be, mm? What—"

"You claimed to be above primal instinct and subsequently named yourself my best mate—meaning friend, of course, but following your argument, it rather seemed a declaration as the best selection I could make."

"And what if it was, Sherlock?" The doctor perched, leaning heavily on the back of the chair perpendicular. "What if it was? Would it make a bloody difference?"

Sherlock was silent.

"I don't want anything from you, Sherlock, especially nothing you have no interest in. I just want us to be comfortable here—me with you. We don't have to figure it out today. We don't have to figure it out this week. We don't need a plan. Just… do what we always do."

"With or without the parade of girlfriends?"

"Sherlock, I haven't had a date in months."

"Precisely."

"Sherlock, that's not what it's about; it's about us being comfortable."

"Answer the question."

"Of course not! You think I would tell you what I thought and then just run off as soon as you showed even the slightest hesitation? I know we're not going to establish anything immediately; I know that about you. And I would hope you know it about me that I wouldn't just jump into bed on the very first date!"

A smirk played on the edges of Sherlock's lips. "This is hardly the first date, John. As you say—we know one another quite well already."

John could not quite decide what the first date must have been by the detective's definition.

"Do try not to let your mouth hang open like that too long, doctor."

"What do you propose, then, Sherlock?"

"I meant it when I said I leave it to you." He held John's gaze.

"I can't decide on my own; it involves us both."

"I have already told you all that you need to know to consider my thoughts on the matter."

The doctor frowned. "No plans tonight, Sherlock… just let it be."

The detective dipped his head briefly. "It will be as you wish." He rose, migrating to the sofa, as he did every night. "Thank you, John." He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and curtained the world from his eyes.

The doctor put on the kettle with a sigh, as he did each night. He would move to the armchair for an hour or two, then depart upstairs to rest. "Thank you, Sherlock."

In the morning as John sat down for breakfast, Sherlock pressed a kiss to his forehead. The doctor, understandably, dropped the knife before any jam could reach his toast.

Sherlock's mouth twitched momentarily into a smirk.

"So it's like that, is it?"

"You said no plans, John—that meant I had to conduct some kind of test in order to get a proper answer." He poured a cup of tea from the kettle and seated himself across the table.

"And what answer did that give you?" The doctor finished cleaning the table and returned to the task of fixing his toast.

"Continued manifestations of a physical relationship would not be an issue for you." The smirk crept over his lips again. "Distracting, but not uncomfortable."

"Brilliant," John returned, over his toast.

"A note of sarcasm." Sherlock's eyes betrayed his amusement.

"Dead-on."

"Only at a crime scene, John."

They shared a short chuckle.

The doctor rose to take care of his dishes. "Care for some more?" he asked, gesturing to Sherlock's mug.

"No, thank you. There is something, however, that I would like to offer you."

John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Nothing like that, John, unless you're particularly interested at the moment?"

A flush colored his cheeks. "No—not at all! I just wondered—"

"Of course. It is… unusual to make an offer such as this one, I will admit—so, of course, you would not think of it. Yesterday you were quite considerate in your reply when I asked if you had any questions. I would like to offer you the opportunity to ask any questions you may have."

"Sherlock, I really—"

"John, I would not offer if my mind could be changed by a polite decline of my invitation."

"I know that, but it isn't—"

"No, it is not your place, but I have decided to designate a time and area for you to enter that position. Now, please try to remember that I would not do it without a reason."

"Thank you, Sherlock. But… I don't—"

"Yes, you do. You can take all the time you need to find and phrase them." He reclined, steepling his fingers.

John bit back a frustrated "bugger" as he rinsed his dishes beneath the tap and poured another cup of tea. He could think of no way to avoid this confrontation, and could not help the nagging feeling that the was another test, not a simple offer of the chance to sate curiosity and help—

"I have my own reasons for giving you this opportunity beyond my desire to perform a social experiment, John."

Caught again. He did not waste more time wondering how Sherlock's ability to deduce thought might affect their further relationship. He needed a question, quickly—something relatively harmless until much, much later…

"When—when did you first… erm…"

"Know?" Sherlock gave what the doctor had secretly termed the 'oh, funny little humans' laugh. "From my earliest memory. Come now—I know you have much more imagination than that. You know me better than anyone, John; you must have a real question."

That did give him a real question. The answer to which would probably explain all of the doctor's (non-professional) questions about the only other relationship John was aware the detective had: "Mycroft." But anything pertaining to the elder Holmes was potentially dangerous. "What does Mycroft… how does he… er… factor in for you? I mean… is he all right?"

The change was immediate, beginning with the icy glare in Sherlock's eyes. "Mycroft," he scoffed. "Mycroft."

John was already regretting the question.

Sherlock's face twisted into a snarl. " 'Oh, lovey, I just don't understand! I have feminine feelings sometimes, and I'm a boy—why can't you have masculine feelings and be a girl? It's all ok. Mother is strong and takes orders from no one, you know. She's a woman, too.' How could he understand? Mycroft was too busy trying to please father with society's rules and all the laws of government, and I never got a second glance! And when father died, he was absorbed in how he could use them all to his advantage and please mother, recipient of all her praise and absconder of all her smothering—of all the drowning in dresses and lace and rouge and the first verbal abuses."

The doctor's face softened. "Sherlock, I—"

"He told me later that he never treated me differently, that he would have done it all the same if I had been born in the proper body. But he's still treating me like something else. He watches over me like a hawk, using all the power father was so very proud of to prevent me from ever going unmonitored—until he underestimates, and I slip off too fast to follow. Why? Because he is 'worried about hateful reactions and possible social repercussions.' But, my dear brother doesn't realize that not only do I despise his pity, but it has been twenty years since that was even the slightest danger. My brother is a bastard and a lying bigot. At least those who ignorantly hate me will tell me loudly and to my face precisely what they think of me. Mycroft hides behind a mask of familial love and concern to conceal his prejudice."

There it was, laid out plainly. A little more than a simple feud.

The ice in the detective's gaze receded to a glimmer. John' s fingers were tight around his mug.

"Sherlock… I'm sorry I brought it up. I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes. "No, John. I told you: anything. It is… good. Please, if you have any questions about it, ask. I'm sure my little anecdote raised a few more than it actually answered."

The doctor hesitated, closing his mouth as soon as he had opened it.

"Ask. I will answer without annoyance or blame."

"You… mentioned verbal abuses."

"From my mother?"

"Yes." John's expression was pained; the detective's remained cool.

"What about them?"

"Just… why?"

"Why mention them?"

"No, Sherlock—how could your own mother…"

He shrugged. "You should take that up with her, though I doubt you would wish to do so."

"I could." Sherlock glanced up to find the doctor in his most resolute posture. "I could, you know."

The detective laughed. It was much warmer this time. "You don't even know what she did or said, John, nor where to find her, and you're willing to take my side so stridently?"

"I love you."

The corner of his mouth twitched into a little half-smile. "The second time in twenty-four hours; it must be true."

"Don't mock me, Sherlock."

He fixed John beneath his flame-blue gaze. "Don't mock you—you, rather than it, the phrase or sentiment, suggesting that you and the sentiment are so directly connected as to be inseparable."

"Sherlock, do you really need to reason it all out every time? Do you always run your deductive tests over emotions?"

A little, fond smile crept over the detective's features, a true smile. "It's in my nature John. If I did not, I would not be quite the same person as the one you esteem, would I?"

The doctor could not find it in his heart to remain frustrated.

Sherlock kissed him every morning on the forehead for the next week. On Wednesday, John came down to make some tea, and found the detective sitting on the sofa, back straight, eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin.

"G'morning, Sherlock."

No reply.

The doctor furrowed his brow, putting on the kettle. "Got a case today, then?"

Silence.

With a sigh, John started some toast; he would need to savor breakfast if Sherlock planned to drag him out this afternoon. Odds were against the next three meals if the detective was already this absorbed in whatever case Lestrade had given him.

The doctor had finished his toast and was nearly through two cups of tea by the time Sherlock launched himself off the sofa like a cork in the direction of his bedroom.

"Sherlock!"

"Ah, John. Good morning. I will be out for the next few hours—do not feel the need to wait up for dinner."

"But I'm not going in to the clinic today, Sherlock. If it's a case, I can come with you."

He proceeded to shuffle through his wardrobe, calling through the wall: "No matter! You can't come on this trip, I'm afraid. I'll be doing some undercover reconnaissance."

"Couldn't—"

"I will require your assistance later, but not now."

The detective returned in a crisp naval uniform.

"Good thing it's just for poking about." John smirked good-naturedly. "I'm not sure anyone would believe you've ever been at sea."

Sherlock barely took the time to roll his eyes. "Do leave that to me, John. Don't wait up. If I'm not back by morning, text me and await instruction." Without bothering for a reply, the detective all but dashed out of the flat.

No kiss.

The case lasted the rest of the week, in fact, and this trend continued. John might have noticed much earlier, if it were not for Sherlock's insistence of utilizing the doctor's skills for such hours that caused many missed meals and much lost sleep—not that he minded. By Sunday they had not yet caught the murderer, though the detective knew precisely who it was; all that remained was capturing the man when he returned to mainland in Devonport.

It was the sitting and waiting that began to get to John, because he had time to think. Sherlock was not yet restless, his mind effectively occupied with the chase and the well-laid trap, content to run as many calculations as necessary during the days they waited in their procured lodgings.

Utter lack of contact was starting to drive him mad. With all of this time to wait, watching the detective sit still, apparently content, for hours at a time, John could do little but examine precisely how much he missed the man's touch. Watching Sherlock simply be Sherlock made it all the worse, because he knew that he could not initiate contact—not now, not while the detective worked. The doctor knew that no matter what transpired, Sherlock was, in his own words, married to his craft. Perhaps John had added that part; the detective always considered it "work," no matter how much it thrilled him. It was the doctor, the transcriber of tales who recognized it as something beautiful, something cultivated. The science of deduction was more than simply work: it was the craft of Sherlock Holmes.

This thinking was much too romantic for the detective's taste; John doubted he would ever actually admit to Sherlock that it existed.

The first smile of the day touched his lips; he would not admit it to the detective directly, but there could be no complaints once the story of this venture was published. He doubted Sherlock actually read them all in their entirety, anyway.

John studied Sherlock as he sat in a small armchair, lanky frame exceeding the arms and cushion, midday shadows cast over his face from the window, highlighting his cheekbones and aquiline nose. The silhouette was comfortable, the detective's dark eyes giving the figure a fixed intensity. He transcribed these thoughts with the others, collected in a notebook, for his draft of the case. Victorian, was a good word for it. The whole scene was terribly Victorian; beautiful and dark and precise—it suited Sherlock.

It suddenly occurred to the doctor to wonder exactly what Sherlock thought of John's descriptions of him; the detective had never remarked upon them before. He always chose to harp on the impractical nature of the writings, how very un-scientific their structure, how unnecessarily mysterious when everything was always so obvious, if he bothered to comment at all. John slowly tucked his pencil away.

He wondered if, in his romantic tendencies, he had made the reflections too feminine for Sherlock's liking.

Unintentional! It would have been perfectly unintentional! Surely Sherlock would know that? What if…

The doctor hurriedly reread the notes from the past week. Most were details of the case, but the description of the scene at the window… No. John knew his perception of Sherlock had not been altered at all; many such descriptions had been included in previous entries—from the very first case to now. But—would John even notice the change, if such an alteration had happened within himself, subconsciously? Could he change it now, and would Sherlock know he was being extra careful? Surely Sherlock would dislike that even more.

Don't fret about it.

Yes, no use to fret about it now. But could he talk about it with Sherlock? Would he be open to discussion? Would it bother him? If he had a problem, would he not have al—

"John, I said don't fret about it. You are thinking too loud, and it is disrupting my concentration."

The doctor snapped to attention. "Yes—right. I apologize… what?"

Sherlock rubbed his temples with two fingers of each hand, elbows resting on the too-small arms of the chair. "To answer your question—no." He sighed and dropped his hands. "I am not bothered by anything you have written about me on your blog, John; quite the opposite, actually."

"How did—"

"Never mind that. I always read every word, no matter how much you let your Romanticism get in the way of the facts."

"Oh—"

"And it is, John, without a doubt, the best depiction I have ever seen or heard. You have a gift for seeing beyond the facts to the raw truth of the matter. Your descriptions, while flattering, illustrate an image that I have spent years trying to perfect. For seeing that, I am grateful to you."

"Thank you, Sherlock—I'm glad to hear it." Relieved would have been more accurate. "But what image do you mean?"

"The way you see me, is the image I mean. When you look at me, you see a man, a detective; you notice and write what I want you and all others to see."

"I'm… afraid I don't follow."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and folded rotated himself in the little chair to face John directly. "If anyone sees me, it is because I have allowed them to notice me. Anything anyone sees and interprets about me, is such because I wish it."

The doctor mulled over it for a moment. "But you said I can look through facts."

He allowed a short laugh. "What you see about my presentation, John, is what is actually there—it is the true part. The solution that the facts form, as it were."

"But why so… precise, Sherlock? Why not just…"

"Just 'be?'"

"Yeah, but not so… trite."

"Your Romanticism is showing again, John, but I'll endure it." He presented John with one of those tiny, rare smiles. "Every person's identity is much more complex than just 'being' the way one is comfortable or as he naturally occurs. In my case, I have always had a very particular image I wished everyone to see; this called for an equally particular presentation that you see even now. The image of the man, the detective you take pleasure in describing—strong, independent—is the one I have always wanted people to see when they look at me."

"You've been developing a persona since childhood?"

"Not a persona." Sherlock's eyes glinted as razor sharp as his tone. "I have been consciously developing myself."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock… I… if you don't—"

"No—it's fine. And yes, you may; my invitation does extend to this conversation."

"How did you go about your… development to… become yourself?"

"As a child, when I first was able to identify myself correctly, more than simply 'being' or 'becoming' myself and behaving the way I felt most comfortable, I knew I would have to educate myself on the gender roles and behaviors that permeate society. I would have to decide, as a young man, which I would accept, which I would reject, and which I would keep and use to my advantage. This meant ceaseless observation, and, if I could manage it, the acquisition of an older male who could instruct me—for Mycroft, as I'm sure you are aware, is not the best role-model."

John nearly snorted at the thought of Mycroft teaching a child anything. "Did you?"

"After a fashion, for a very short time. For the most part, I had to rely on my own keen sense of observation. I had to watch and imitate things that you would never need to think of, John, because you had the fortune of being raised and conditioned to your identified gender. For good or ill, it is no matter now; you are simply you, by—to indulge your Romantic language—both choice and fate."

The doctor's brow furrowed.

"It is never simply one or the other," he clarified. "For my part, I observed carefully people from my own family and strangers out in public. I collected and compared my data: balance, center of gravity, posture, degree of hip movement, intonation, sentence structure, word choice in large groups versus small groups versus majority men and majority women. Everything was stored and examined in my memory, and I learned how to walk, to carry myself, to speak—how to pass as a male in our binary society even before I was able to take any medical action. By now, I can present myself any way I please, but I prefer what you see now, what you translate into your tales. I prefer what suits me best, and conveys my sense of self to others."

John was as unsure how to respond as ever.

Another smile teased the corners of Sherlock's lips. "And I do trust all parts of this conversation will remain confidential, and will not somehow slip into your retelling of our case, as irrevocable as your Romantic streak may be."

"Of course, Sherlock. You don't even have to ask."

"I know." He stood in one fluid motion, and planted a kiss on John's forehead. "It's not because I have forgotten; it is because my focus is completely absorbed. Don't expect anything more until the case is finished; you know I cannot afford to be distracted." But there was a softness to his tone, and the harsh glint had momentarily fled the detective's gaze.

The end of the case was simple enough, not requiring John's medical skills, for which he was thankful; he had no desire to repair Sherlock's torso yet again, when all but the deepest of the lacerations had healed neatly. On the train back to London, the doctor expected Sherlock's pleasure with the finished case to result in perhaps one small kiss—but he was rather disappointed. Though amiable, the detective kept a careful distance from John; a single touch on the shoulder as they departed was the only physical contact he received.

The cab ride to the flat was much the same: comfortable conversation and equally comfortable silences, at a respectable distance.

John asked, as the auto pulled up to 221B, "Would you like to eat out tonight, to celebrate?"

"That sounds agreeable."

They entered the house together, Sherlock sweeping into the hall first. The doctor closed the door, beginning to shrug out of his coat. "Great; where would you like to—"

Sherlock's mouth pressed to John's; the doctor's arms hung useless as he stood, jacket half-off, gripped about the shoulders by his flat-mate—and pressed against the front door, by the feel of it.

If John was in any coherent mental state, he might have been able to deduce the reason for the detective's behavior on their return journey, but he was much too occupied with the simple fact of the act to be concerned with the reasons behind it, and returned the kiss eagerly.

Sherlock's deft hands relieved the doctor's arms of the jacket, the material rustling softly as it slid down the door and crumpled against the floor. Thick, dark curls whispered through John's fingers, and Sherlock uttered a soft hum, deep in his throat. The detective molded his full length to the other, pinning him to the door, hips fitted snugly over his, Sherlock's head bowed in a graceful arc that met upturned lips—the sound, the sensation, and the taste bringing John to the edge of ecstatic collapse.

This brought a pleased smirk to Sherlock's mouth, and he proceeded to test methods for pushing John even further, to find that one extra touch or flavor that would send the doctor careening over—just for him.

Increasing the pressure on John's hips proved quite effective in increasing both heart rate and respiration, but did not completely achieve the desired results.

An attempt to slide his tongue delicately over the roof of John's mouth produced a most pleasing sound, but was not quite enough.

A combination of methods was clearly the answer.

Sherlock slid a hand down John's thigh, graceful, precise fingers reaching, calculated, around the taut muscle to glide sensually up as he pressed his hips twice more—hard, full—pulling John up to him with one hand, and invigorated the kiss.

Most satisfactory.

John did not seem to know quite how to react, and this pleased Sherlock to no end; it provided a little time to move the doctor away from the door and into the main room.

The doctor, dimly aware of moving out of the hall, brushed it off as a good decision, and chose to concentrate on kissing Sherlock with all of the affection and energy from the sorely missed contact over the last several days. The flavor on his lips was just reminiscent of metal and tea and rain; enrapturing. Thus occupied, John was almost surprised to suddenly find himself in a position similar to the door—horizontal now, on an altogether pleasanter surface. Sherlock was settled comfortably over him, and seemed to have turned his attention to carefully examining John's face for just a moment, intently focused in a way that transformed the detective's features to give them an uncanny resemblance to the expression he wore in the throes of a complex experiment.

And then, his lips explored John's neck, pressing and tasting, gently and attentively. He found the doctor's jugular artery and pressed his tongue to it; he meticulously counted each beat of John's heart as the blood passed through, so close beneath his skin. He moved lower, drew the skin between his lips and sucked, reveling in the tiny, desperate sounds that started low in John's throat and grew to escape his lips. His mouth met John's again, and the doctor took the opportunity to explore Sherlock's mouth further, pressing along his tongue and gliding over the roof of his mouth; his fingers found the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

The detective bolted upright. John's hands fell away.

"Sherlock—I'm sorry. Would you rather—"

"It's all right; I apologize. It was just unexpected."

John struggled to sit up, but Sherlock placed a hand lightly on his chest. "No." He guided the doctor back down. "Please." John gazed up; his fingers twitched once, hesitant. "Continue."

Sherlock took the doctor's hands and brought them back to the clasps of his shirt, and helped him undo the first button. John gauged the detective's expression as he continued the motion, all the way down to the hem, and pushed the light material from his shoulders.

"You may touch it, as you like."

John checked last week's injuries first. The smallest lacerations were now nothing more than pink lines of raised flesh on a sea of white. He lightly traced the tip of his fingers over each. The stitches in the largest were nearly dissolved, with only a minor danger of re-injury; he traced his fingers gently over this one, too, feeling as the smooth, alabaster skin shifted in consistency to become a thicker, more malleable pink.

A smile was tempting Sherlock's lips.

The doctor pressed a kiss to the still-healing wound; he moved to the others, caressing each gently with his lips. Sherlock hummed with pleasure—but only until these ministrations proved a poor distraction.

He moved John's hands to cover each pectoral. "Stop drawing attention by deliberate avoidance. If I tell you what is acceptable, trust it."

So the doctor did. He traced sensitive fingertips lightly over each nipple, rolled them gently between, and felt great relief at the soft, sharp inhalations he received in response. He flicked his tongue across the tip and was pleased by a soft growl.

Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips to John's, tasting freely, as the doctor ran one hand through his dark curls. John pressed the other to the detective's back, admiring the soft skin and angled contours beneath his fingers.

The doctor moaned when Sherlock's hands found his waist. His long fingers rubbed little circles alongside his hipbone as the detective deftly undid the button on his trousers. Sherlock's tongue traced the roof of John's mouth, taking note of the sharp, soft sounds it elicited. The detective shifted his position, and, now straddling the doctor's lap, began tugging down his trousers. A startled "Sherlock" or "Sherlock, are you sure?" died in his throat when the detective pressed his hips directly over the doctor's.

Sherlock tested a small, circular rotation of his hips, and this proved quite effective, for John's fingers found themselves tangled in the detective's hair. He moaned against Sherlock's mouth, hips shifting forward to meet his.

Sherlock leaned down, catching John's mouth with his, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss. The doctor made a soft sound, deep in his throat, hands searching Sherlock's back, moving to caress his cheeks—but the detective pressed John's hands back to his sides. The doctor left them as they were placed; Sherlock rewarded him by rolling his hips and deepening the kiss. John moaned, eagerly pressing his tongue with the detective's.

Sherlock bit his neck and sucked, spurned by John's various sounds until the doctor began tugging at his trousers. The detective batted his hands away, sinking his teeth into John's shoulder, and pressed a hand over his remaining undergarments.

John gasped. "Sher—"

But the detective was already pressing and stroking through the thin layer of cotton, and John's phrase disintegrated into a series of moans and unintelligible sounds. Sherlock trailed little bites across the doctor's chest and over his neck.

"Sh—Sherlock… Sherlock, maybe—" He was silenced by Sherlock's mouth as his hand slipped beneath the fabric.

John groaned as Sherlock played his fingers across his most sensitive flesh. The detective could not help but be pleased; John's rationality was slipping away with every slide of Sherlock's clever fingers.

"Maybe—"

"If you don't stop interrupting, I may change my mind, indeed, John. But not now, if you please." His fingers flicked across the tip.

If any part of the doctor's mind was fit for such conscious though, he resolved to trust Sherlock's desire; any remaining words became nothing more than a breathless moan.

Sherlock removed the last of John's clothing, and the doctor ached to again feel his touch—but was not disappointed for long. Sherlock's cool fingers enfolded him again, the skin of their chests pressed hot together. John helplessly pushed his hips into his lover's long-fingered hand, teeth sinking into an alabaster shoulder. Sherlock hissed at the sensation, burying his nose in the doctor's hair. John tugged at Sherlock's remaining garment, inquiring, and he obliged so that they lay, skin bare, kissing and biting every available area.

Sherlock moved his hand to clasp John's shoulder and fitted their hips together. Both gasped at the contact, their lengths pressed slick, hot together, tingling with sensation. John kissed Sherlock's mouth, burying a hand in his hair. His other hand moved smoothly down to caress the detective's length, pressing his fingers up and down, much as Sherlock had done for the doctor mere moments ago. The sounds from Sherlock's lips were the greatest reward John could ask: hungry and surprised, desperate and pleasured, ecstatic…

"John, John, JohnJohnJohn…" Sherlock clutched at the doctor's shoulders, his hair, anywhere he could gain immediate access.

John pressed kisses to his lips, his forehead, as well as he could while pinned beneath the detective, focusing so intently on the movements of his hand—back and forth, flicking his thumb just over the tip, testing different pressures.

And then he was finished, sinking into an abyss of color and scent akin to those he had tried to forget when he gave up the cocaine solution—but these colors were brilliant and textured and smelled sweetly of John. Sherlock collapsed, burying his nose in the doctor's shoulder, lying with a slight tremble in all his limbs that John would simply fail to mention in their discussion later.

For now, the doctor tried to relax, running a hand through Sherlock's dark curls, kissing his forehead tenderly. He had just a little trouble breathing with a detective on his chest, but found he didn't mind, comfortable and warm.

Sherlock, halfway between wake and dream, mumbled something that may or may not have been "I love you" before drifting to sleep.

John is surprised to find Sherlock with him in the morning, more surprised than he'd been at midnight when the detective had accepted the invitation to his bed when the sofa seemed too small for a proper night's rest. The doctor gazes at that sleeping form, wondering at how free his mind and body appear—creases gone from his forehead, tightness gone from his jaw. John knows the detective could not have slept through the insufferable sunlight streaming through the window—he must have awoken earlier and, for whatever reason, elected to stay.

The thought brings a smile to his lips. He chooses to savor the gift, moving closer to rest his head on Sherlock's chest, inhaling his sharp scent, reaching one hand to run his fingers through his lover's dark curls. He feels Sherlock chuckle.

"You were already awake."

"I'm afraid so, John."

The doctor raises his head to met Sherlock's smiling eyes. "You just wanted to see what I would do."

"Of course. But you were trying to guess what I had done and why, so both our curiosities are fairly satisfied."

"It's not fair at all—I still don't know why you did it, even though I'm sure you already know why I did."

A smile graces Sherlock's lips. "I have a theory."

John props himself on his elbows. "Well?"

Sherlock closes his eyes languidly, resting his head back on the pillow. "Well, what?"

"Well, why did you stay and wait for me to react?"

"Only if you prove or disprove my theory first."

"How can I do that when I don't even know what it is?"

"Simple: give me your reason, and I will decide if my theory is proven or not."

"You're insufferable, you know that?"

Sherlock's eyes remain closed. "And yet you curled up on my chest like a cat."

"I am not a cat!"

"I can see that, John; I said your actions were akin to those of a cat."

"Insufferable."

"You didn't find me insufferable eight minutes ago." The smugness in his tone tugs at the corner of the detective's lips. "Either that is untrue, or you have an extremely fickle mind, doctor."

John frowns at Sherlock's eyelids. Bastard. "And have you considered that I could feel two ways at once?"

"I am aware of that option; I have considered them all."

"And this one?"

Sherlock chuckles as John's lips leave his, eyes still comfortably closed. "Yes, even that one."

The doctor shakes his head.

"Now, then." Sherlock stands and retrieves his dressing gown from the door, slipping it over his shoulders and belting it around his waist.

"Wait, you—"

"Yes, I did. I knew you would not notice, and it therefore would not affect the experiment."

"Well, could you at least come back? I don't think I'm quite ready to face the world yet, thank you."

Sherlock fixes him in a deductive gaze; John finds he does not mind. "I could be convinced. Are you afraid they'll talk?"

"They already do." John shakes his head, finding his humor oddly unshaken by the reminder.

The smallest hesitance overtakes Sherlock's features; he seems exposed, and it pierces John's heart. "And you're not bothered?"

"Bothered by what?" John knows.

Sherlock's eyes remain fixed on him.

"Nothing to be bothered about, Sherlock."

The softest expression John has ever seen passes across Sherlock's angular features, and seems almost as though it does not belong there. It doesn't; it's meant for him, not the world, and it passes just as quickly as it came.

"Come back to bed?"

He does, and not a word about it is spoken as they settle together.

"You never told me why you stayed."

John can hear the amusement in the detective's voice: "No, I didn't."

"Care to?"

"You have all the pieces available to you, John; I'm sure you can see it."

"That's not a clear answer."

"You didn't give me one, either."

John opens his mouth to reply, but Sherlock's phone buzzes on the nightstand. Quick fingers do not snap out to grab the object as it teeters dangerously on the edge.

The detective answers the question in his lover's grey eyes: "No, John; not today."

He smiles, capturing Sherlock's lips in his own, straddling the detective's hips.

A gentle hand presses him back, but a smile lingers on his clever lips.

John nods; he settles down to bury his face in Sherlock's neck, his head resting comfortably on one shoulder. "I love you, you know."

The smile creeps a little wider; a kiss planted on John's forehead. "I do." And as Sherlock closes his eyes, he buries his nose in his Boswell's hair.