Archive of Our Own ^omega

Sherlock's been back for four days when his phone rings, John's name on the screen. They've had the uncomfortable, strange reunion, the epic fight, the day of silence, and they're just starting to get back to normal. John has moved back to 221B and Sherlock is recreating his laboratory, piece by piece. He tries to be angry at Mrs Hudson for getting rid of it but he finds it difficult when she is so pleased to see him back, and she'd only slapped him twice.

So, normal would be Sherlock ignoring the call in favour of the books he is currently cataloguing, but they're not there yet and the psychology book on trust and betrayal he read last month tells him that John will find even the smallest of reasons to be angry with him for a while yet, because they're added to that big reason, the one about faking his own death for almost a year. Sherlock doesn't see why it should be cumulative, but apparently it is, so he answers the phone.

"They haven't got any broccoli."

Sherlock takes a moment, before he replies, to bask in the warm knowledge that John is still capable of being surprising.

"Who haven't?"

"The - Asda. They're all out. What do you want instead?"

"Some new slides would be excellent."

John sighs sharply through his nose, but it doesn't sound angry, just resigned. That's normal. "I mean, to eat, Sherlock. I can't put broccoli with this pie, so, would you rather have kale? Cabbage?"

"I'll eat anything you cook," Sherlock says, and that surprises him as well as John, but it's true. It's not so much to do with the quality of John's cooking, he thinks, though John's not bad at it, more to do with the fact that John has done it - is willing to do it.

There is a long pause before John says, "All right then. Cabbage it is," and Sherlock doesn't mind. It doesn't feel like a waste of time.

Sherlock breathes in and out once and says, "Bye," and waits for John's reply in kind before he ends the call.

"I want to examine you," John says a couple of days later, apropos of nothing. It's evening and Sherlock is playing the violin, some pieces he'd composed in his head while he was away but hadn't had the chance till now to actually play.

John looks faintly surprised he's said it, but he's John Watson, so he doesn't take it back or apologise or leave the room like other people often do when they surprise themselves. Sherlock pauses and regards him. "The feeling is mutual," he says.

"Yes," John says slowly, inclining his head, "but I want to examine you like you're a living breathing human, not as a cadaver."

Sherlock contemplates this. "I wouldn't kill you just to examine you," he tells John, truthfully.

"That's comforting, thank you," John says, sounding amused. His face sobers almost immediately. "Can I?"

Sherlock places the violin back in its case and begins to undress as John leaves, presumably to get his medical bag. When John returns he's down to his underwear, removing his socks. "Will this do?" he asks, looking up.

John stops in the doorway, taking a long intake of breath and letting it out slowly, carefully, measured. Sherlock doesn't know why. John nods, faintly. "Yes," he says, almost imperceptibly, then clears his throat and says it again, louder. "That's fine. Will you, um…" he gestures to the arm of the sofa, so Sherlock sits on it, and John comes towards him then, eyes raking up and down his body. He looks worried, and Sherlock doesn't like that.

He knows he's acquired a few new scrapes and scars in the time he's been gone. There were a couple of close shaves with some of Moriarty's men or others he'd been associated with, times when afterwards he had thought that if John had been there they wouldn't have got nearly so close. But overall he doesn't think he looks too bad. The most recent injury, a vicious slash just below his left collarbone, is still healing but he'd dressed it properly, in readiness for coming home where he knew John would comment if he hadn't taken care of it.

John examines him thoroughly and without talking much, all the while with his brow pulled down and his lips tight together. His hands are warm, so Sherlock offers the joke that he can't be a real doctor. John gives a tight smile and nothing more. Sherlock's reflexes are fine. He's pale, but no more so than usual. The scythe wound - John simply raised his eyebrows when Sherlock explained that's what it was - is healing well, and John cleans it and redresses it carefully, probably for the last time. Sherlock has no broken bones any more - his toe had healed finally a couple of weeks ago, having been broken since almost as soon as he'd left - and his hearing and eyesight are fine, though John doesn't really check those.

Finally John steps back from him and just shakes his head. Sherlock is confused.

"You look terrible," John says, very quietly.

Sherlock frowns. "You've never cared about what I look like before," he says, purposefully remembering and dismissing the times when John accused him of trying to look cool because he knows that's not what they're talking about, even if he doesn't understand exactly what they are.

"You look like a walking skeleton," John says, and he understands.

"Oh," Sherlock says, because there isn't much more to say. "Yes, I lost some weight." It's unnecessary, but sometimes John likes him to say unnecessary things. From the look on John's face, this isn't one of those times. "But I'm still perfectly fine," he adds.

"No," John says, shaking his head. "No, you're really not." He reaches a hand out and picks up Sherlock's right arm, looking at it again, holding it up and examining underneath like he's expecting to find something new. He doesn't. He places the arm back down but keeps his hand on it. "You're alive, but I don't know how," he says. "I'm not living with you like this." For a moment, Sherlock feels his heart seize - which is ridiculous, because why on earth would the organ pumping blood around his body be interested in his feelings? Yet it is - but the look must show on his face, because John's changes and then he says, "No, I don't - get dressed. I'm making some pasta right now," despite the fact that they only ate dinner an hour and a half ago, and Sherlock's heart starts beating normally again.

He finds that he doesn't want to get dressed because it feels strange now, but he does because John has told him to, and then he eats pasta until he physically can't any more. John looks a little happier.

He's underneath a bridge one afternoon with Lestrade and a dead body. There are other people there, too, including several hundred inconvenienced motorists as the dead body's location is currently blocking traffic in both directions, but Sherlock doesn't consider himself to be with them. Lestrade is practically in his coat pocket, which is supremely irritating but apparently something to do with the fact that the Met still don't really trust Sherlock as they should, despite the fact that all the cases he worked on turned out to be true - no con-artist could get that many people to pretend to be murderers, admitting to the crime and doing the time - and by association, they don't trust Lestrade enough either.

They trust them both enough to let Lestrade bring Sherlock in on cases - because the solved rate for the team while Sherlock was dead and Lestrade suspended was frankly shocking, and it didn't improve to anywhere near earlier standards even when Lestrade was reinstated - but Lestrade still has to report every single movement Sherlock makes: every piece of evidence he touches, every file he opens, every witness he so much as looks at. It's tedious for the both of them, but Lestrade has pointed out that if Sherlock doesn't cooperate, he'll have to work twice as hard to follow him just to keep his job, at which point it will barely be worth it, so he might as well not let him in.

Sherlock is calmer since he came back, for the moment his mind bafflingly content with thinking about John, and sometimes Mrs Hudson, but mostly John. They watch trivial game shows together on TV and he doesn't need to work out all the different people in the presenter's life he could pin their murder on if he were to execute it, just to stay sane like he did before. But he still needs work, he's not banal by any stretch of the imagination, so he pretends Lestrade with his notebook is John, asking questions which are intelligent instead of pedestrian.

John, for his part, is currently at work. He'd managed to get himself another dull job in another dull surgery a few months after Sherlock left, out of financial necessity. With the cases he and Sherlock had solved together, especially some of the more high-profile ones, they'd made a substantial sum of money, but most of it was in Sherlock's accounts and John had refused to touch it. Sherlock had been entirely unsurprised to hear of Mycroft turning up at John's new flat with a cheque and John tearing it up on the doorstep before warning him that if he saw him again, John would kill him, even though he knew it would mean dying in the process.

Sherlock's phone rings as he's running the fingers of his left hand across the back of the victim's skull - or what's left of it - and comparing the blood there with the substance on the fingers of his right hand, which is from the victim's supposed knife wound to the stomach.

"Damn. Get that for me?" He's not looking at Lestrade as he speaks, still examining his fingers. What's on his right hand is not the victim's blood.

"What?" Lestrade says.

"Hm?" Sherlock's distracted by the question. "Oh. My phone, obviously. Can you get it, please?" The 'please' is a habit, not a marker of politeness, as they both know full well.

"Where is it?" The phone's still ringing, and Sherlock sighs impatiently.

"In my trousers."

There's a pause, and when Sherlock registers it he turns around to finally look at Lestrade, who's raising an eyebrow. "Well?"

"No," Lestrade says, taking a step back. "Put your hands in your own trousers."

Sherlock would argue the point, but the phone's still ringing, so instead he strips off his gloves and hands them to a sergeant who's standing nearby. He fishes his phone out and answers it without looking at the screen.

There's a slight pause before the caller answers. "Can you remember what the name of the main character was in that film we saw last night?"

"Ebony Wavers," Sherlock says immediately, taking a few steps away from the body and ignoring Lestrade's half-shout after him. "It was fairly memorable."

He hears the smile in John's voice, or perhaps he just knows it would be there because he knows John. He doesn't ever hear smiles in anyone else's voices, even when he can see them smiling. Not that people smile that often around him. "I knew it was something ridiculous," John says. "I just couldn't remember what exactly. I was telling Anika about it - she loves that sort of rubbish - but I went blank on the name."

"Is it your lunchtime yet?" Sherlock asks. Perhaps if it is John could join him in the search of the victim's flat; it's only a few minutes away from John's surgery.

"It's - no, it's half past four, Sherlock," John says. "Have you eaten today yet?"

"Yes," Sherlock says immediately, and there's a long pause while Sherlock pictures John's disapproving look. "No," he amends, "but I've been busy. I will."

"Yes," John emphasises, "because if you haven't by the time I get home, whether you're there or not, you're going to hear the lecture about nutrition and what it does to your body to spend a year living on practically nothing again."

As much as Sherlock hates repetition, he wouldn't actually mind the lecture as much as John thinks he would. John always puts something new into it. Regardless, he knows John would rather he ate something, so he agrees again that he will, makes a mental reminder, and then John has to end the call because he's technically supposed to be writing up notes between patients right now, not calling Sherlock.

Sherlock puts his phone away, pulls a fresh pair of gloves on, confirms his theory about the substance on the victim's stomach being somebody else's blood mixed with paint, and hands the second pair of gloves to the sergeant before informing Lestrade that he'll be back once he's visited Greggs.

Lestrade is momentarily confused over the name, then thinks he's making some sort of joke, and eventually seems to assume that visiting a bakery is somehow in connection with the case. Sherlock lets him.

Sherlock feels strange. It feels like something is missing, but he can't pinpoint what. It's not a physical thing, because he can ascertain within minutes the location of absolutely everything in the flat, just by working out what's been disturbed, if he needs to. John and Mrs Hudson think it's chaos, but he puts everything onto his mental map whenever it enters the flat, alters it when necessary, and while John says it doesn't make sense to keep a fishing rod in the downstairs bathroom, he maintains it doesn't need to make sense because the point is he knows where it is.

"When did I eat?" he asks John, who's sitting with his laptop, probably reading the news - or what passes for it online. He asks because John remembers these things. Sherlock could work it out if he needed to, but when John's right there it makes no sense to bother. And besides which, talking to John, even when John's talking complete rubbish, helps him to work things out.

John checks his watch. "About…half an hour ago? Scrambled egg sandwich, liberally coated with pepper. Almost literally coated; the bloody thing looked black."

It's not hunger, then. "Drink?"

John points to the cup of tea on the table in front of Sherlock. The cup's half full and when Sherlock touches it, it's warm. Evidently he's still drinking, so, not thirst.

"Urinate?"

John's mouth twists a little and his eyebrows draw in. "Do I need to start keeping a record of that, too?" he asks. "Because I can do a lot, Sherlock, but toilet training you is a step too far."

"Don't be absurd, John. I've been toilet trained since I was five." Sherlock works it out and thinks he probably last visited the toilet an hour or so ago. He presses down on his lower abdomen where his bladder is and it's not painful, so it doesn't seem to be that.

"Five?" John repeats in an incredulous tone, and then after a moment during which Sherlock isn't thinking about him, "Right. That explains…some things." He shakes his head and turns his attention back to the laptop.

Soon, Sherlock has eliminated all of the obvious and mundane needs. None of them seems pressing; none of them fit the strange sort of itching under his skin, the occasional missed heartbeat. He adopts what John has dubbed his 'thinking pose', hands in prayer position under his chin, though he's still sat upright; usually he'll lie down.

He's not sure how much later it is when he registers John speaking, then rewinds his mental soundtrack to hear what he'd said. John is getting up from his chair and has asked to check the burn that Sherlock obtained yesterday, when Mrs Hudson interrupted him in the middle of a delicate operation involving a Bunsen burner and the whiskers of several different rats.

He doesn't notice it at first. John starts to unwind the bandage from around his left hand, kneeling on the floor next to him, the living room's medical kit open on the table (John had insisted almost all the rooms contain their own kits a couple of months after he moved in, which seemed ridiculous at the time but has proven to be occasionally useful). The feeling creeps into him by degrees, as John holds Sherlock's hand in his and moves the fingers about to inspect the damage.

Inasmuch as it's a feeling creeping in, a warm one taking residence in his hand and somewhere in his chest, and then suffusing slowly outwards towards the rest of his body, it's also the nagging sensation leaving, the itch having been soothed. His heart quiets to something less noticeable. Sherlock feels…content?

"Should be fine in a day or two," John says, preparing to drop the hand and pack the kit away, having rewrapped the injury, but Sherlock sees it coming and doesn't let him, squeezing his hand tightly as John's body begins its move backwards. John stops, raising his eyebrows.

"I need to test something," Sherlock says, which is partly a lie, but tests are always useful in the long run. "Don't let go of my hand." John stays there, kneeling in front of the sofa, watching as Sherlock shrugs out of the right arm of his dressing gown and then struggles to undo all the buttons on his shirt with one hand. Finally he can slip that off too, and then he pushes both articles of clothing behind him, bunching them down to where he and John meet but not allowing John to let go so he can take them off. John is still looking surprised, but he's permitting it, and this is why Sherlock calls John his friend. He trusts Sherlock even when he doesn't understand him, which is quite a lot of the time, and that is…marvellous. Addictive.

"Give me your hand," Sherlock says, gesturing to John's left, and when John brings it hesitantly towards him he takes it at the wrist, then moves it so that John's hand is splayed somewhere in the middle of Sherlock's chest. He sees John frown; his ribs are still obvious, but he knows John won't lecture him when he has been eating, and that's not the point now anyway. The warm feeling is spreading again from where John's left hand lies, inching outwards and mixing with the rest so that Sherlock feels even better. It is very, very strange, and very, very nice.

"Care to fill me in, sometime?" John asks, clearing the frown away and glancing between his hands, and Sherlock wishes he didn't have to. Obviously from John's reaction, this isn't normal, which means he's going to have to justify it and then John will want a good reason to continue.

"I feel," Sherlock begins, "warm." John waits patiently for more. Sherlock sighs through his nose. "When you touch me, it's nice."

John's face goes through its customary movements which mean he's trying to speak before he knows what to say, and Sherlock takes a moment to be amused by that. "Er…nice in…what way?"

It takes a couple of moments and a pointed glance from John at Sherlock's crotch for him to realise what John's implying. "Oh! No, don't be ridiculous. It's not sexual."

"How do you know?" John asks, and Sherlock almost lets him go, because that particular wound is still a little tender. If it had been almost anyone else it would have been an insult, something to dig at him and remind him that he can be the world's greatest detective but that is a puzzle that will always baffle him. But it's John, so Sherlock looks at him carefully, and he's not goading. He's just asking, genuinely.

"I'm experiencing none of the symptoms of sexual arousal," Sherlock replies. "Even I had the occasional erection as a teenager but this is nothing like that, either."

John nods slowly. "All right." He seems to be thinking. "Did you just work this out? I mean, have you felt like this for a while, or…?"

Sherlock considers this. "I'm not sure," he concludes eventually and annoyingly. "Nobody touches me very often. I think…since I have returned, you have…and this…pleasure has increased."

"Right." John frowns a little, just thinking, looking away from Sherlock but his hands are still in place. Sherlock wants more of him.

"Would you -" he begins, and then stops because he doesn't know how to say it so that the answer is yes. All the permutations of the sentence he can think of are likely to result in John retreating in disgust or horror or laughter or confusion or other negative things and Sherlock can't risk that, not when he's just found this, but - he still needs to ask.

He struggles with this for a few moments, unconsciously gripping John's hands tighter as he thinks, but then it's John who breaks the silence. "This is mad, you realise?" he asks, looking up at Sherlock with a look that says it's not a rhetorical question; he needs Sherlock to confirm he does know that it is, in fact, mad. Or at least what John means by mad, which is 'not normal'.

Sherlock nods.

John opens his mouth, pauses, then sighs, looking away from Sherlock again. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he mutters, then looks back, steeling himself for whatever it is because he's John Watson and he doesn't back down from himself. "Let me - ?" He tugs gently, and Sherlock lets his hands go, unwilling but for the look on John's face which asks him to trust that the result will be worth it. He trusts.

John clears his throat, then pulls the dressing gown and the shirt from Sherlock's arm, so his upper body is totally bare now. Next he begins to undo his own shirt, collar downwards, paying careful attention to the buttons, and Sherlock's heart begins to lose beats again but this time he knows it's anticipation. John takes the shirt off when he's done, lays it carefully on the coffee table, and pauses for a second. Sherlock doesn't dare breathe. Collected, John says, "Stand up," and Sherlock does, moving out of the way for John to take his place on the sofa. John lies down, though, taking the time to make himself comfortable on his side.

Finally he looks up and raises his upper arm. He opens his mouth but before he can speak Sherlock has understood him and is crawling onto the sofa in front of him, pressing his body against John's and winding his arms around him. Their bare chests press together and just the initial feeling of it is enough to shock Sherlock for a moment, pausing him in his settling.

John's arms come to wrap lightly around him, too. He looks a little surprised, Sherlock can see, but he's not moving or saying anything. Sherlock tries to tuck his head into the tiny space between John's head and the sofa, but it won't fit and John grunts in complaint, so he settles for pressing their foreheads together instead. John huffs out a breath at that and angles his head back a bit so that their lips aren't quite so close, but Sherlock can't bring himself to complain about that because this, the rest of it, all of this, is just glorious. He is warmer than any hot bath has ever made him and this isn't making him sweaty as well.

Sherlock has no idea how long they lie there, squashed together on the sofa. Everything else quiets and his attention draws in to the humming through his body, the feel of John's heartbeat and the sound of his slow breaths. Occasionally John will clear his throat or shuffle a bit, but that doesn't disturb Sherlock.

"You know this is what mothers do with newborn babies," John says, some time. "When they're first born, they place them on their chest. Skin-to-skin contact. Supposed to help with bonding."

Sherlock hmms noncommittally.

"You know it's absolutely mental for two grown men to be doing the same."

"Hm," says Sherlock again, pressing each of the pads of his fingers in turn just a touch harder into John's back, and John sighs and goes quiet again.

When they start touching more often, John rings him less. They still keep up a steady stream of communication when they're apart, but John seems to be able to go for longer without just checking on Sherlock when they connect well. Sherlock thinks this is illogical because he's no more or less likely to be shot or hit or run over just because John gave him a neck massage three hours earlier, but he keeps this thought to himself, because the phone calls were just starting to get irritating.

They don't fawn all over one another, like he's seen some people do, intruding into each other's personal space at every opportunity and annoying everyone else into the bargain. Sherlock just comes to John when he needs or wants that warmth, that contentedness, and sometimes John sighs and tells him to pick a better time than the last episode of whatever mundane series he's watching at the time, but he rarely says no.

John, in turn, seeks Sherlock out, but on his part touching serves less to make him content and more to make him relieved. He is still overanxious about what might happen - really, about what did happen - and placing a warm hand on the back of Sherlock's neck helps to calm that. He has not asked Sherlock to promise not to pretend to die again, as Sherlock had feared he might. Moriarty might be dead but Sherlock couldn't promise. Perhaps John knows this and that is why he hasn't asked.

"If I lay next to you it might stop your nightmares," Sherlock proposes one four am, as he moves fingernails from one beaker into another and John sits at the kitchen table, hand clenched hard around the handle of the yellow mug - the one that is unequivocally, no questions asked, no excuses made, for beverages alone - and his jaw still clenched.

He moves three more fingernails before John replies, raising the mug to his lips as he does so, "I might just kill you in my sleep instead."

It's not a joke. Sherlock understands, in moments like this - emotionally and not just intellectually - why John hates Moriarty, hates him still even though he's dead.

Sherlock even hates him too, sometimes.

John is in his bedroom. It's just past seven in the evening and he's just had a shower. His body is mostly dry now, but his hair's still damp. He's lying on the bed, fully relaxed and stroking himself almost absently.

John knows some people have a routine with regards to masturbation. Some are 'first thing in the morning' types, others 'last thing before bed' types. He knew intimately the routines of most of the men he served closely with, as did everybody else. Some people didn't have a routine; they got off when they felt the inclination, or just when they had some time to kill. Sometimes there could be a lot of time to kill and there was something a bit weird about sharing a space with several other guys, wanking, knowing at least one of the others was doing the same. But the only other option was impersonating a monk, and John had always felt a bit of awkwardness was preferable to a lot of frustration.

He'd been in a loose routine of his own when serving, usually knocking one out once every day or two (when things weren't hectic) some time mid-morning, if he wasn't on duty till later, or mid-afternoon if he'd been on duty early. There were less people around then and it felt less like some odd sort of communal effort, all boys pulling together, quite literally. He knew some people did it in the showers because there was ostensibly more privacy there, but often it seemed like it was much more obvious when someone was wanking in the cubicle next to you rather than in the bed. There were only so many noises anyone tended to make in the shower while showering, and moaning wasn't one of them. In bed you could write anything off as someone talking in their sleep or dreaming badly.

Since he'd been living with Sherlock, though, he'd started to vary things up a little. This was partly due to the complete unpredictability of their lives, when he could be treating a child's cough at two pm and getting a burglar into a headlock at half three, and partly due to a subconscious sense of self-preservation. When a man knows absolutely everything about you so easily, it seems prudent to at least try to keep some things private. If John got into a routine Sherlock would know, and he wouldn't think twice about mentioning it if he felt it relevant in front of the Yarders or Molly or anyone else. "No, of course John didn't watch that, Mrs Hudson. Between 9pm and 9:30pm is his masturbation time."

He hadn't needed to keep it up when Sherlock was 'dead', of course, but he'd spent much of that time not feeling the desire to get off at all, anyway, so it was hardly relevant. Now things are waking up a little, life is being lived in colour again instead of black and white, John's libido is making itself known again, so he listens, but he keeps things random.

So tonight he's taking care of himself, not because he's particularly horny, just because it's nice. He's drifting between one of his most recent fantasies, involving the woman in the paper shop a couple of streets away mixed with some frankly probably impossible light bondage, and general thoughts about what he's got on tomorrow and the likelihood that the plans he's made will be shot to shit. If he just wanted to crack one off and get on with things, go to sleep or something, he'd be keeping himself more on task, but as it is he's not in any hurry. It's nice, having some time to just relax and get himself to orgasm slowly.

That is, it's nice and relaxing until he suddenly feels the inexplicable need to open his eyes, which have drifted shut, and he finds himself facing Sherlock, who's standing in the now open doorway, watching him.

John reacts before he can think about it, which later comes as a bit of a surprise because he hadn't thought he was that bothered about being 'caught', but perhaps it's just because it's one of the few remaining boundaries he has with Sherlock being destroyed. "Get OUT!" he roars, taking his hands off himself and using them instead to push himself into a sitting position on the bed, not bothering to cover his erection.

Sherlock looks a little shocked, but he's still there. "Why?" he asks, genuinely sounding bemused, because the social nuances he doesn't ignore, he just doesn't get.

"Because it's private!" John responds, gone from zero to exasperated in a matter of moments. If he were honest about it he'd know this is why he likes Sherlock, really - the man makes him feel, even if a lot of the time those feelings are negative ones. However, this isn't the time for those sorts of ruminations.

Sherlock considers this for a second, then speaks as John's about to shout again. "I thought -"

He leaves a gap and John pounces. "Well you thought wrong. Get out!" He reaches blindly for something to throw, finds a pillow behind him and lobs it at the doorway. It hits the frame as Sherlock is turning away and flops harmlessly to the floor.

John spends a couple of minutes revelling in his righteous indignation. His inner monologue consists mostly of, "How bloody dare he?" and, "How can even he think that's normal?" but really, this isn't anything particularly bad. It's much harder to stay irritated when Sherlock genuinely doesn't recognise he's done anything that John thinks is wrong - because John is, for all intents and purposes, Sherlock's moral compass: his superego, if either of them believed in Freudian analysis - and it's probably more due to the unexpectedness than anything else that John got so annoyed.

He calms down fairly quickly, having thought through all his irritation. Some of it he'll relay to Sherlock later but he'll have to put it across logically rather than emotionally - as far as you can with feelings - otherwise Sherlock will just entirely dismiss it. He's had a lot of practice at this. He sighs and dresses, out of the mood now to continue, and goes downstairs to find Sherlock.

He's sat in his armchair, laptop on his knees, reading something. John leans on the back of his own armchair and waits to see if Sherlock will acknowledge him, but he doesn't.

"I'm sorry," John says. "I shouldn't have shouted at you."

"It's fine," Sherlock says, very clearly pretending to still be engrossed in what he's doing but obviously not annoyed enough himself to risk starting an argument if he doesn't reply.

"No it isn't," John refutes that easily, because Sherlock ignores even his own feelings by habit and it's not healthy. "I shouldn't have done it."

Sherlock looks up then, and he takes a breath and offers tea before preparing to settle in for a while of explaining why it isn't okay to walk in on somebody else masturbating and stare at them. It's a fairly average night at 221B.

"Have you boys got any pepper I could borrow?" Mrs Hudson asks, walking through the open door to their living room. Sherlock and John can be seen easily from the door; John's slouched down at one end of the sofa, facing the TV, and Sherlock's lying down, his head pillowed on John's lap, facing the ceiling but with his eyes closed. John's right hand is clasped in Sherlock's left on top of Sherlock's chest, and every now and then there's an absent squeezing of fingers as Sherlock makes some mental connection. They're warm, and they're comfortable, and they're them, but…

"Top shelf furthest to the left," John says, resolutely not taking his eyes off the television as he speaks. "Not the jar marked pepper though, the one with a violin drawn on it." Mrs Hudson nods and smiles, continuing into the kitchen, but Sherlock opens his eyes.

He turns his head in a way which looks to John like it ought to be uncomfortable, and keeps his eyes on John throughout Mrs Hudson's pepper search and subsequent exit, calling a thanks to them as she goes. It's only when she's past the mid-landing that John meets his eyes.

"What?" John asks, feeling defensive already because Sherlock's got the face on which means he's currently reading John's soul, or something equally disturbing but also quite possible. Never discount something just because it seemed impossible, as Sherlock would say.

"You were uncomfortable when Mrs Hudson entered. Why?"

Well, John considers, even if there are downsides to Sherlock, at least he doesn't pussyfoot around an issue.

"I wasn't uncomfortable," John lies, pointlessly, wondering even as he does so why he's doing it.

"You didn't look at her once," Sherlock responds, naturally with a list of observations. "Usually you at least meet her gaze when she enters even if you don't engage in prolonged eye contact, but this time you kept your gaze fixed firmly on the television even though minutes previously you weren't even watching it at all, you were commenting on the state of the table. You tensed ever-so-slightly, particularly the muscles in your hands. And you've just denied the discomfort, which is usually a good sign that someone is uncomfortable."

"How the hell did you know I didn't look at her when you had your eyes closed the entire time?" John queries.

"From the angle you're sitting at you would have had to turn your head to meet her eye when she entered, which you didn't - I would have felt the shift minutely through the rest of your body. She then turned to enter the kitchen via the hallway door, after which point you wouldn't have been able to see her without moving somewhat as she was in the furthest corner of the room."

"Right," John says, because he is simply delaying the inevitable.

"So I repeat," Sherlock says, emphasising 'repeat' a little to convey his irritation at having to do so, "Why were you uncomfortable?"

John searches for a long while before he comes up with an answer that Sherlock can't logic away, like emotion's that easy to deal with. "I'm just getting used to this," he says eventually.

"Elaborate."

John sighs through his nose. "I mean, it's just - this, us, like this - will always raise questions the first two or three or thirteen times someone sees it. I've got no doubt she's on the phone to Mrs Turner right now. Probably the only reason she didn't say anything is because she thinks we've been doing it from day one."

"What questions are there to ask?" Sherlock asks, sounding confused.

"Oh, you know," John says, but he knows Sherlock doesn't know, because if he did they wouldn't be having this conversation. "How long have you two been together? Finally decided to give in to the sexual tension? Marriage on the cards? Who's the top? All that bollocks."

Sherlock takes a few moments to sort through these ideas, and John uses that time to consider how to clarify…well, essentially human nature itself, to someone who half the time might as well be from an entirely different species.

"People read the signs and assume we are together," Sherlock surmises, and John agrees. "And assume we are having sex - marrying?" He sounds baffled.

"It's…look, things look one way and people expect them to follow a logical path," John says. "Relationships go from dating to serious to marriage to children, essentially, unless someone mentions specifically that they don't do marriage or kids or something."

"I…understand that to be the case," Sherlock says slowly, and John raises an eyebrow. "When I entered your bedroom on Thursday night, I didn't expect there to be a problem because a sexual element is usually expected, if not desired, once people become close."

"No…" John starts to say, because that sounds wrong, but Sherlock interrupts him.

"As close as we are," he clarifies, and John nods slowly.

"So you decided to come to watch me wanking because you felt by now we ought to be having sex?" he asks, just to check. They'd gone over this on the night in question, but it was good to be sure, especially when none of this really followed any pattern of any relationship John had ever had before.

"Yes," Sherlock says, "Though I don't desire it."

"Neither do I," John says, relieved. "No offence, but…you've just got the wrong bits."

Sherlock gives him a look which makes very clear what he thinks of John's immature language. John smiles back at him and swipes his thumb along Sherlock's hand.

"We can dispense with the conventional activities, then," Sherlock says, and John appreciates that saying it out loud means for him he knows John wants to be able to agree too, as opposed to Sherlock just deciding for the both of them and then informing John after the fact.

"I think we've probably already covered disposal of convention, Sherlock," John says, amusement in his tone.

Sherlock nods slightly, and then settles himself back onto John's lap, almost like he's trying to burrow in. This new sense of comfort lasts for less than a minute before his closed eyes spring open again and he takes a breath. He doesn't bother to turn to look at John this time.

"If we're not engaging in sexual intercourse," he says, "Are you my boyfriend?"

John does not have the brain power required for this tangled mess at this time of night. "I think," he says, going back to the place he always ends up when he thinks about this himself, "that there probably isn't a word for what we are."

And this makes sense, because most of the time there isn't a word for Sherlock either.

Sherlock contemplates this, and John feels the moment when he accepts it because he goes almost boneless again. John smiles to himself and holds Sherlock's hand, and they are them.

When he looks back on it, he can't actually remember doing anything particularly out of the ordinary - that is, anything he wouldn't have done before he and Sherlock began this thing between them. Sherlock certainly hadn't done anything odd, completely entranced as he was by the mystery of how an entire family had been living in a house with several decaying bodies stashed in it and had never even suspected this for a moment, despite the house smelling positively rancid now.

Sherlock has gone back inside by the time Donovan makes her comment; everyone else, including John, is staying firmly outdoors unless they absolutely have to go in. He had not needed to see those bodies to confirm that they were dead - though naturally Sherlock had insisted he did, anyway.

"So. You two, then?" is all Donovan says, with a little smirk and then a vague nod in Sherlock's direction. He can be seen from the front garden, inspecting the underside of the fireplace. John does admit, to be fair to her, it's not one of her more malevolent smirks. It's mostly amused.

The question still gets his hackles up, because she is smirking. It's not a congratulations.

"No, we're not…" John trails off, looking for the words. He'd never been able to convince anyone even when they weren't doing this, so he didn't have a cat in hell's chance now. "We're not what you think we are. But we're not anything else either."

She frowns. "What does that mean?"

"It means -" and then John catches sight of Sherlock, behind her, gesturing at him through the window to come inside and looking disturbingly excited. "Actually, it means mind your own business."

And with that he holds his breath and follows Sherlock, because it might be crazy but that's what they do. Some people wouldn't understand it even if John could describe it perfectly, and he can't, so he's not going to bother trying.

It's about a month after Donovan's comment when Lestrade walks in on them being them, at home, John sat in his chair reading the paper with Sherlock bracketed between his knees, on the floor, right hand turning the pages of a book and making notes and left hand curled around John's ankle.

Lestrade enters just at the moment when John has found something he thinks Sherlock might find interesting, so he's lifted the paper over Sherlock's head and is bent over him, pointing to the article in question. John knows exactly how intimate it looks, but they heard him coming up the stairs.

"Guys, did you - oh, sorry." Lestrade stops, a step into the room, suddenly wrong-footed.

Sherlock ignores him and takes the paper from John, who sits back up and turns to give Greg a very well-practised casual smile. "All right?"

Lestrade seems frozen for a moment before he replies. "Yes, fine thanks, I just, uh…sorry, I didn't mean to…"

It's slightly painful to watch, so John helps him out. "Why are you apologising?"

Greg shrugs awkwardly. "I thought you didn't want anyone to know."

John thinks about this for a moment. It's a fair assumption, given that they haven't actually said anything and he has been examining his own behaviour to make sure nothing different shows. Not that he's sure it's been working, but it seemed appropriate to try.

"No," John says eventually, shaking his head. "That's just - Donovan and that lot. They only want to know so they can take the piss. You're a mate."

Lestrade nods, looking slightly pleased. "Does this mean I'm not expected to take the piss?" he asks, with an exaggerated frown, and laughs when John does. They both laugh longer when Sherlock huffs an irritated sigh.

Yeah, John's pretty sure Greg knows well enough to understand without needing a definition.

John might have moved past needing a definition, but this doesn't mean his body has caught up with what's going on. His sex drive goes down again, not to anywhere near when-Sherlock-was-dead levels, but lower than usual, when things are relatively stress-free.

This is actually fairly welcome, because John had no idea what he would have done if it had stayed the same. Despite that, he still feels the need to get off.

"You haven't had sex with someone in months," Sherlock observes one evening, as he's lying with his head in John's lap, texting, and John's got the fingers of his right hand tangled in Sherlock's hair while he's texting with his left hand.

John pauses mid-word. He is briefly reminded of the game they play sometimes where he composes a text to someone they both know and Sherlock has to guess what it says only going by the key tones, but he puts that thought aside. "Is there a reason for this observation?" he asks.

"They were talking about frequency of mating in the adult badger," Sherlock replies, still texting. "It reminded me," and it takes John a second or two to realise he's referring to the television, which is showing some sort of nature documentary instead of the panel show it had been on when they sat down.

"Well, thanks for pointing that out," John says, aware that he is probably not going to finish his conversation with Helen from the surgery about Tuesday's conference.

Sherlock looks at him then. "It's unusual," he says, and then when John merely raises his eyebrows at him, his own draw in and he adds, "Why?"

"Why haven't I had sex with a woman in months?"

Sherlock looks impatient, which means John is expected to know he is being obtuse. Naturally, asking for clarification is the mark of an imbecile, as opposed to the caution of a man who lives with someone who is frequently described as an alien, a robot and mentally unstable, and not always as an insult.

"It…doesn't seem like the right thing to do," John says, guessing at his own reasoning.

"Why?"

John sighs. "There is no logic to this, Sherlock," he begins by admitting, because it speeds these sorts of conversations up. "I know there's no rulebook for this," he waves his hand vaguely over the two of them, "but it just seems like it would be wrong."

Sherlock tries to understand this, and John can see the moment on his face when he fails. He gives him points for trying. "Do you want to have sex with a woman?"

John considers this. "I'm not sure," he answers eventually. "I mean, in my fantasies, definitely, that still works. I'm just not sure if in real life it would feel too awkward."

"You might as well try it, then," Sherlock suggests casually, going back to his phone even as he speaks, because for him it's just that easy. "Then if it doesn't work for you for your weird, illogical reasons, don't do it again. But don't do it on Saturday, we're going to Brighton."

"We are?" This is the first John's heard of it.

"Case." Of course. "Pack bin bags, we might need them for the journey." Naturally.

It is actually on Saturday that he tries it, not as a way to thumb his nose at Sherlock but because they've wrapped up the mystery by two o clock ("It's always the quiet ones," John had said, and immediately regretted it when Sherlock replied, "That's demonstrably untrue, John,") and yet they've still got a night booked at a B&B, and John fancies a night out somewhere different.

It's only much later, when Greg ribs him about it, that John realises how ridiculous it is to go to Brighton - of all places - with your almost-boyfriend and pick up a woman. At the time, John is much more concerned with the fact that there is a woman interested in him and the conversation with Sherlock is still on his mind.

Sherlock's off somewhere, cataloguing paint or something equally fascinating, while John's been wandering between a few pubs, having some mildly interesting conversations. He's been chatted up by a couple of men, too, and found something ridiculously funny in being able to say, "Sorry, but I'm here with my boyfriend." One had asked to see a picture, and when he brought up Sherlock on his phone, a photo actually taken at a crime scene just to prove to Lestrade that they were at the victim's house as they said they'd be and not at the house of the suspect who'd just phoned up the Met screaming abuse, the man had taken a long intake of breath.

John knows why. He might not fancy men but even he can see how striking Sherlock looks in it, cheekbones going full throttle - as much as cheekbones can - and an intense look of concentration on his face. He smiles when the man says, "Right, I get it now - there's no way I can compete with that!" and leaves with a friendly pat to the shoulder.

It's some time after that that the woman appears, though, and it's been so long that John's actually been out on his own, enjoying himself, that it seems easy to slip into the casual flirting, without thinking about the weirdness of what he has with Sherlock.

That lasts for quite a while, until they're in bed at her house, and he's in the middle of proceedings and after a moment of two of feeling like he's forgotten something, he realises it's Sherlock. These days it's unusual for them to go so long without contact of some kind, even if it's just a text, unless John's banned it for a particular reason like something to do with work. Evidently Sherlock is currently happy with his paint samples and up till now John was happy here, but once he's thought of Sherlock his mind doesn't want to leave the subject.

He continues because it would be rude not to; makes Jas happy, he thinks, and both of them come. She seems quite content afterwards, lying there and mourning the fact that she gave up smoking three months ago. Yet he doesn't stop thinking about Sherlock through it, almost worrying about him, which doesn't even make any sense. He knows Sherlock is fine right now, and it was Sherlock's idea that he try this. He knows Sherlock doesn't care if he sleeps with women as long as it has no bearings on their time together (i.e. if Sherlock wants him now, he'd better be there).

And yet…it wasn't a comfortable endeavour. John didn't get what he wanted from it. When John gets back to the hotel room Sherlock's already back, and after he showers he sits on Sherlock's bed instead of his own. Already he feels fine again, but his mind's still churned up. This was never covered at uni, not even during the psychology elements.

John keeps thinking it over in the next few days. Sherlock asks him how it went, but he just says that he can't explain it, because he can't, and Sherlock gives him his signature 'you humans are baffling' look but seems to be content that he's tried it.

He comes to the conclusion one evening, slightly tipsy - which probably has a bearing on this - that he ought to try things the other way around. Having sex with a woman only made him think of Sherlock, so perhaps he should try sex with Sherlock and see if that makes him think of women?

Naturally this course of action isn't going to work just like that, because neither Sherlock nor John have any desire to have sex with one another - not even in the interests of science. But John can do the next best thing. Sherlock's at Bart's, dissecting pig livers only because they don't have the space to store them at home (Mrs Hudson was slightly confused when John asked her to store all of her frozen food in their freezer for a week or two, but obliged) so John's spent the evening with his laptop and the TV and, for the heck of it, the whisky Mycroft gave him Christmas before last. John is and was one hundred per cent sure this was entirely to piss Sherlock off, so he only gets it out when Sherlock's not there.

So John makes his way upstairs, whisky still in hand because he might need a bit more just to get the courage for this, and then he settles himself on his bed, unzips his trousers, reaches a hand into his pants, and starts to stroke himself.

As he does so, he thinks of Sherlock. Sherlock, his maddening, genius, sort-of-boyfriend, who admittedly is quite attractive if you look at him objectively and he shuts up long enough so you get the full effect of those cheekbones. Sherlock, dressed in expensive and perfectly tailored suits, when he's not just as elegant in a silk dressing gown (ignoring the inside-out cotton t-shirt underneath). Sherlock with a sheet wrapped around him, naked underneath, the sheet perhaps slipping to reveal-

It is not working.

Aside from the mild fizzle of arousal John's inciting by touching himself, and being quite marvellously relaxed, nothing else is going on. Thinking about Sherlock doesn't turn him on in the slightest - in fact, it feels a bit creepy, but that's probably just because Sherlock's going to know exactly what he's been doing when he comes home and there is just something very odd about imagining someone naked and getting nothing from it and them knowing that you have imagined them naked and also getting nothing from it.

Just to be sure, John decides to try the usual, and then his mind provides him with the sense memories of Jas. And that works fine - better than fine - and when he's done, John is unable to revel in the post-orgasmic bliss for any length of time because he is overtaken almost immediately with a huge wave of annoyance.

How the fuck can it be fair that when he's with a woman he can't enjoy it properly because he's thinking about Sherlock, and then when he's alone he can enjoy it with no problem whatsoever?

The world, John concludes, is taking the piss.

But at least now he knows there's no point closing the bathroom door on it.

"Do you resent this?" Sherlock asks John one afternoon a couple of weeks after the failed masturbation experiment. John is filling the kettle, making a post-wank cup of tea. This time he has not bothered to think about Sherlock, and not had to bother worrying about him. It's been nice.

"Resent what?" John asks, glancing at Sherlock, who's no longer studying the blood under his microscope but is instead looking at John. Well, studying John, to be precise.

"Us. Our thing."

John pauses to consider that, and ignores the kettle when it clicks off. He likes that he can consider it, not have to immediately answer with bullshit to calm someone's feelings. "I do, yeah," he says eventually, frowning, but continues without looking for Sherlock's reaction, "I do resent it - but I don't resent you, Sherlock."

Sherlock is silent as John searches for the right words. "I resent…that it can't be put easily into words, that nobody can easily explain what I want or what we're doing…because I'm dull, and I'm ordinary, and I like to label things - well, I like to label myself…and this is confusing.

"But I don't resent you, Sherlock," he repeats, looking at the other man now, who's listening carefully. "I love that you're not easily labelled." He pauses again, and then thinks to hell with it. "I love you."

"You are exceptionally ordinary, John," Sherlock agrees, and John can't help but smile, "but I wouldn't say you were always dull." He goes back to his blood, curiosity clearly satisfied, and John returns to his tea-making. They are them, and they like it that way.