Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Right, I think that's about all I have for you," Lestrade said glancing at the manila envelope on his desk holding all of the vital information (or as Sherlock calls it, the starter kit) for the most recent case of the yard. As though to finalize his statement, he placed his hands on his hips and looked expectantly at Sherlock who was staring intently at a photograph from the file.

John was looking around Sherlock's shoulder at the picture. It was a crime scene photo depicting the body, male, late twenties to early thirties, Caucasian, black hair, approximately 65 kilos and 175 centimeters, spread eagle on the floor of what looked to be a very nice sitting room. Blood soaked the carpet around the head, but there was very little splattering on the surrounding furniture. A point blank shot then… If there was one thing John was able to help with, it was gun shot wounds. He'd seen enough of them to last a lifetime… and then some. His mind flashed to an incident that had been and continued to be the source of many nightmares. Five bodies lined up in a row, their hands tied. They'd been made to kneel before the sick bastards had shot them point blank down the line, one at a time. John's unit had been on patrol and discovered the bodies almost a full day after the killing. The memory of the stench of the baked bodies in the hot Afghani sun still caused his throat to squeeze shut.

"John?" Sherlock's deep baritone pulled him out of the unpleasant memory.

"Sherlock?" John looked up to see Sherlock's blazing blue eyes staring intently at him. He'd grown used to it… kind of… being under that laser scrutiny. However it still caused him to shiver slightly. There was just something about that gaze that made John feel like he was under a microscope.

Sherlock assessed his flatmate for another second before turning back to Lestrade. "I'll look into it," he said letting the photo in his hand fall back on the manila envelope.

"You'll call then? Or text when you have something?"

"Of course," Sherlock waved him off and turned his scrutiny back on John.

"And you'll let me know before you go talk to someone or if you want to see the body?" Lestrade asked, but didn't receive an answer.

Sherlock had already tightened his scarf and was making for the door. John followed behind, the manila envelope in his hands. They made it back to 221B rather quickly, considering that it was rush hour. As soon as they were in the door, Sherlock spun on his heel and grabbed a surprised John by the shoulders. He leaned down and squinted a little as he perused John's face. John stood stock still, his back against the door and his spine stiff at the sudden closeness of his flatmate. For goodness sake, the man's nose was nearly brushing his own! It took a few seconds, but eventually John found his voice, "Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing?" he asked, but remained perfectly still.

"Wondering why you had a flashback to Afghanistan in Lestrade's office," he said quietly, straightening once more to his full height. He did not reduce the distance between them though.

John pressed back against the door a little more, his hand tightening on the manila envelope. "What makes you think –"

"While we were looking at the photograph, your pulse spiked, your posture tightened and grew defensive, you leaned more on your left leg (an indication that your psychosomatic limp was making an appearance again which it did on the walk out of the yard), and you rolled your left shoulder (the one you injured) away subconsciously seeking to protect it." Once more, John was utterly amazed at Sherlock's ability to pick up on the smallest of details. "I wish to know what triggered the flashback," Sherlock said, still not backing away.

"It was nothing…" John tried to shove his way past the tall, pale, dark haired man blocking him, but Sherlock raised a hand and pressed back on John's shoulder once more.

John grimaced as he was forced back a step, against the door once more. "John," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Why is it important? We have a case to solve, Sherlock." He gestured with the manila envelope.

Sherlock waved nonchalantly. "It was the sister."

"What?"

"Honestly, John," he said in an exasperated tone. "The sister…" He said again as though this would answer everything. When it was obvious, that John wasn't catching on, Sherlock let out a huff of air and let go of John's shoulder. "I'll explain later. The more pressing matter is why you had a flashback."

"I don't want to talk about it, Sherlock," John grumbled.

Sherlock crossed his arms and took a step back… finally. John took the opportunity to get out from between his flatmate and the door, hastily stepping around him and to the coat rack where he threw his black jacket on a peg and kept walking toward the kitchen, a cup of tea on his mind. "You were looking at the photograph when the flashback started, so we'll assume that it was something in the contents."

"Seriously, Sherlock, drop it," John said reaching for a clean teacup in the cupboard while the water came to a boil.

Sherlock ignored his flatmate though and began to walk slowly, his mind running back through what had happened at the yard. "The photo was an overhead shot of the body. It had little else in the frame except for the sofa and the coffee table. However you've seen dead bodies before and they haven't triggered a flashback, so what was different about this one?" Sherlock came to a standstill in the doorway of the kitchen, one hand crossed over his chest, the other resting on his arm and propping up his chin.

"Sherlock," John growled in warning, his hand shaking slightly as he poured the water for his tea.

Still Sherlock ignored him. "There wasn't much that was very different about the body…" he trailed off. A second later, his eyes lit up and John knew… he knew that Sherlock had figured it out. "The victim was shot point blank range. The same as many Afghani terrorists do to their victims."
He turned to stare at John who had his back against the counter. His hand, which was in the middle of stirring his tea, had frozen, and his other hand, the one holding the cup and saucer, was shaking. "Yes, congratulations," John sniped. "You figured it out, once again. Never mind that I asked you to stop, that I didn't want to talk about it. All that matters is that you figure out the puzzle. Well done, Sherlock."

John carefully set the cup of still steaming tea down on the counter, his throat had closed up again and he didn't feel like drinking it any more. Then he marched past Sherlock and straight up the stairs to his bedroom, the door slamming in his wake. Sherlock remained in the doorway of the kitchen, confused as to what he'd done wrong.

Upstairs, John paced angrily for a few minutes before flopping down on his bed and trying to relax using the breathing techniques that his therapist had taught him.

In…

Out… imagine all thought leaving with the exhale.

In…

Out…

In…

Out…

After several minutes of deep breathing, John was becoming drowsy. Perhaps a nap would be good. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night. It was shortly thereafter that John relaxed completely, his body going limp as it succumbed to sleep.

o O o O o O o

"Move, soldier!" his colonel shouted at him.

John jumped into action. They'd surrounded the house on the outskirts of Ghazni and now it was time to go in. A team of four other soldiers was in front of John's team. They split left and right, like a well-rehearsed dance. John's team moved in as well and with swift efficiency broke down the door to the already run down house. The smell that assaulted them was strong and pungent. John squinted through the gloom and could see bodies everywhere. It looked as though a mad man had taken a machine gun and sprayed the entire room.

Moving carefully through the bodies and into the room, the soldiers searched for survivors. There were none… John could already tell that there would be none. The smell was that of dead bodies that had been left to rot; there would be no survivors.

A mop of dark hair caught his eye against the far wall, and he made his way over towards it. The owner of the dark mop looked familiar, but John couldn't see his face. Once he'd reached the body, draped over a chair, John gently turned the head and gasped. No… this wasn't right. In front of him was the pale dead corpse of Sherlock Holmes. What was he doing here? He shouldn't even be in Afghanistan.

"Sherlock…" John muttered. It was impossible… Sherlock just couldn't be dead. John gently shook the corpse's shoulder. "Sherlock!" he said louder. "Please… just… please don't be dead."

"SHERLOCK!" John sat bolt upright in his bed, the light blanket that had been thrown over him flying back. His breaths came in sharp stabs as he tried to slow his racing heart.

"John," a gentle voice came from his left.

John jumped slightly and turned to stare at his flatmate who was sitting in a chair that had been pulled up from the kitchen. Two steaming cups of tea were resting on his nightstand next to the tall pale man and John furrowed his brow. "How… What are you doing in here, Sherlock?"

"You always have nightmares after a flashback. I'm merely trying to speed up the calming process afterwards." He gestured toward the tea.

John continued to stare at his flatmate for another minute before reaching out with one hand for the cup of tea closest to him. He took a sip… chamomile. He inhaled the sweet soothing scent, allowing it to infuse his body and convince himself that it was all just a dream. "Thank you," he murmured after his second sip of tea.

"Your welcome," Sherlock replied, taking a sip of his own tea.

John looked about as he sat sipping at his tea. It was dark, the room being lit only with the lamp on the nightstand. He'd been asleep for some time then. Absently, he brought his wrist up to eye level and glanced at his watch, quarter past three in the morning. He slowly lowered his hand back to his lap. It was quite unusual for Sherlock to be so concerned, but John was grateful all the same.

Sherlock sat quite still while John calmed. He sipped his tea slowly and studied his flatmate with, if John didn't know any better, concern. It was nice… and yet disconcerting. Nice that Sherlock had been thoughtful enough to bring John tea, but disconcerting as to his motives. Sherlock never did altruistic. Nearly everything he did had a motive and most of the time that motive was to gain more information. So now John was asking himself, what kind of information did Sherlock hope to gain off of him? John glanced over at his flatmate now. Sherlock was still studying him over the top of his teacup. "Sherlock," he addressed the pale man. "You don't have to stay. I – I'm calmed now, and you must be tired."

"I'm not," he said. "And I imagine that you'll most likely have another nightmare tonight yet. You usually do after a flashback."

John stared at him. How did he know? No… never mind… scratch that… he was Sherlock Bloody Holmes, that's how he knew. "Well I'll manage it on my own, thanks."

Sherlock studied him for a moment longer before shrugging elegantly and rising to his feet. He took both his and John's cups with him, but left the chair. Sighing, John relaxed back onto his bed. Sherlock was right; the nightmares didn't usually stop at one after a flashback like today… well, yesterday now. However he had to work tomorrow and he wasn't going to fall asleep on the job again. With that, he kicked off his jeans and settled back down under the covers.

o O o O o O o

Sherlock set his and John's teacups in the sink. It was starting to get full and John would have to do the dishes again. Of course, John would ask why Sherlock couldn't do them, but they both knew that if Sherlock waited long enough, John would just do them. Besides, dishes were boring. Turning back toward the living area, Sherlock dropped into his chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle and hands held in a position that could be described as praying. Before he got too comfortable though, he jumped back up and walked over to the mantle where his skull sat. Inside was a stack of nicotine patches; he fished out three of them. This was definitely going to be a three-patch problem. Actually, it bordered on being a four-patch problem, but John had scolded him thoroughly the last time he'd used four patches. Something about it not being healthy.

Sherlock resettled himself in his chair after applying the three patches to his forearm. It was going to be several hours until John woke up to get ready for work, but Sherlock was going to need all of that time to sort out his problem. He'd noticed the problem had started months ago, but had ignored it till recently. Recently, it had started to affect his decisions and thinking process. There had never been something that had affected his life to that degree, and it worried him. However here he was…

Going through in his mind palace, Sherlock tried to identify the first time he'd allowed his thoughts to be affected by John. It had been shortly after they'd moved in together and he'd gone out of his way to make John comfortable in their flat. He'd made concessions about experiment equipment and the subjects of his experiments. He'd even allowed John to designate areas of the kitchen as 'Experiment' and 'Food'.

Then had come the need to protect John. Scratch that… the need to protect John had been there since they'd first met with 'The Study In Pink' as John had labelled it in his blog. Then there'd been the incident with the Black Lotus gang. He'd made John stay with Su Lin not only to protect her, but to protect him as well. And of course there was the kidnappings and the bomb at the pool. That had really torn something inside of him. The moment he'd found out John was gone, something had clicked in Sherlock and he'd been driven to find his flatmate no matter what it took.

So what did that add up to? He was protective over his flatmate… something that hadn't been observed before with others, but wasn't unheard of in the scope of things. And he made concessions on John's behalf. This bit was a little more out of Sherlock's depth. He'd never felt the need to make someone else happy. Sure there were times when someone else being happy allowed Sherlock to gain leverage or information, but he'd never done something just so that the other person would like him a bit more. He'd never really cared what others thought until John. That seemed to be the end of all things now… until John.

Where did that leave him? Sherlock scoffed at himself. It left him with a flatmate who would most likely be getting annoyed with him more often because Sherlock would be hovering over him. John was a very independent man and judging by his methods, had never actually been taken care of or had someone willing to protect him at all costs. Well it made sense… judging by John's mannerisms, his army career, and the fact that he had not once called or made contact with his parents while back in London, they were either dead or on very bad terms with him. Sherlock shifted slightly in his mental palace to a different memory; he could recall John once talking about his parents with Harry and he'd referred to them in the present tense, which meant that of the two choices he was most likely on very bad terms with them. He'd at least called Harry once or twice, but those phone calls had always left him angry and defensive.

However Sherlock felt that he couldn't simply turn off his protective feelings for John. They were too strong, so he decided an experiment was in order. John had looked to be appreciative of his efforts at tea this morning, despite the fact that he'd kicked him out later, which indicated that he wasn't completely adverse to someone taking care of him. Sherlock had never taken care of someone before, but he found himself wanting to do so for John. While John was mostly self-sufficient, there were still things that he needed help with, chasing away nightmares for example… and reaching the teacups on the top shelf of the cupboard. Sherlock smirked to himself at that thought. The experiment would be to find out just how much John would let Sherlock care for him. If the results were positive then perhaps they could move onto a new stage in their relationship. Sherlock found himself not displeased by this idea. He'd thought many times that John would be an ideal mate. Especially since the alternative involved John finding another mate who would take him away from Sherlock. If a partner was what John was seeking, then Sherlock felt sure they could make a decent couple. They got on well and were able to work with each other splendidly… more so than any of the others Sherlock had tried out as an assistant. John was more than an assistant now though. He was Sherlock's blogger. He was the level head in Sherlock's world, the person he could go to to see how an average man would see the problem. Of course, John was anything but average, but still… he was able to see the problem in a very different way from Sherlock.

So it was decided! Sherlock would conduct an experiment on John to see just how responsive he was to being taken care of. The result of the experiment would determine where their relationship would go from here. Sherlock smiled to himself and glanced up at the clock. John would be waking soon to go to work. Time to start the experiment. Some toast and tea would do nicely for breakfast.

Chapter Text

It had been nearly a week since the flashback episode and John was really starting to worry about Sherlock. He'd been acting peculiar of late. For example, he'd made breakfast everyday for the past week (alright, it had been only tea and toast, but still). Something nearly unheard of! He didn't always eat with John, but there was always a plate of toast and a cup of tea waiting for him when John woke. John still had to do the growing pile of dishes in the sink. That bit certainly hadn't changed. However there were other things. Like when he'd tried to stretch up to get a teacup from the top shelf of the cupboard and suddenly Sherlock had been right behind him, pressed up against him, reaching for the cup and bringing it down for John. That event had left him breathless for a moment and frozen in a stretched out position until Sherlock had said his name and John had unfrozen, taken the proffered teacup, and gone about making tea, trying to keep his head from flying off at the memory of Sherlock pressed up against him. John shook his head a little at the memory. Sherlock was just trying to be nice. For what reason was yet to be determined.

"John! Are you coming?" Sherlock yelled up the stairs to 221B.

John let out a sigh and pulled his jacket on before walking down the stairs. Lestrade had called about ten minutes ago and asked if they could come in. Sherlock of course had said yes, not even bothering to check if John had anything going on. The fact that he didn't was beside the point. "Hang on, Sherlock," John called out as he locked the front door.

Sherlock was already on the curb, a taxi pulling up to him. John shook his head. He couldn't figure out how he did that. Every time John tried to hail a cab, it took several tries and a couple of choice words depending on the weather. Luckily, Sherlock had realized that John wasn't right behind him and held the door for John. The ride to New Scotland Yard was uneventful, unless you counted Sherlock trying to suppress the urge to tell the cabbie that his wife was sleeping with his son's piano instructor. John had firmly told him 'no, at least not until after we get out of the cab'. However Sherlock hadn't even told him then. Perhaps it was because they were finally at the yard and the new case had taken over his concentration.

"Ah, there you are!" Lestrade greeted them. He looked particularly relieved to see them. "I was starting to wonder…" he trailed off. "Doesn't matter. I asked you in because there's a witness being held here and we can't get her to say a word… about the case that is. She has plenty to say about… other things."

"What 'other things'?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck and John noticed that his cheeks were a dull red. "You'll see in a mo. I've arranged for you both to speak with her. Perhaps you can gain some information that we couldn't."

Sherlock hitched one eyebrow up questioningly, but didn't say anything as Lestrade led them to the interrogation room. The dull grey door shone dimly in the florescent lighting. Lestrade reached forward and pulled it open, gesturing for them to enter. The woman sitting at the table was petite, blonde, had a fake tan, and wore a shade of lipstick that was unbelievably red. She wore a short (John gulped at how short) black dress that dipped down indecently to her navel. Stiletto heels tapped against the floor impatiently. Upon their entry, she turned her blue eyes on them and a lascivious smile crept over her painted lips. "Hello, boys," she greeted them.

Sherlock moved farther into the room, but did not sit at the table. John followed, but chose to take a seat. He always felt better about talking to someone when they were on the same eye level. "So, they sent you in to see me then?" she asked. "I suppose the others weren't quite man enough to get the job done." She smirked and John felt his ears heating up. This woman hadn't said anything particularly suggestive, but the way she said it brought to mind images of hot sweaty bodies moving against each other with an urgency that made John suck in a deep breath.

He tried to ignore his body's reactions as he opened the conversation. "Can I ask your name, Miss?"

"Christina," she said in a whisper. Her silky dress made a slithering sound as it shifted over her skin when she reached across the table to draw a manicured fingernail down John's jaw line. "You can call me Chris though, luv."

John was frozen in place as she retracted her arm back across the table. In fact, he was so frozen in place, he didn't hear the growl behind him, but he did feel it when Sherlock pulled him up from his chair roughly and tugged him behind Sherlock's long lean form. Christina chuckled. "Oh, I didn't know you… and he?" She continued to laugh. "That's alright, luvs. I've got a big bed. We can all fit."

With that, Sherlock pushed John out the door, making sure to keep himself between Christina and John at all times. Lestrade was waiting for them out in the hallway. His cheeks were an even brighter red and it was obvious he'd been listening in. "She didn't do it," Sherlock growled at the Inspector. "She's clearly a nymphomaniac and it wouldn't suite her purposes to kill your victim. As to if she witnessed anything, I highly doubt it. She was most likely either asleep or with her next victim. Now if you'll excuse us."

With that, Sherlock wrapped his long fingers firmly around John's wrist and dragged him down the hall completely oblivious to the stares and murmurs they were causing. "Sherlock," John tried getting his attention once he'd cleared his head a little. Sherlock didn't answer, unless you counted a tightening around John's wrist. John recognized the look on Sherlock's face as one of determination. It was that look he got when he was in the middle of an experiment or really deep thinking and no amount of shouting, yelling, or hollering could reach him.

John allowed Sherlock to pull him along the hall, out the door, and into a cab. He felt confident that he could have broken the hold at any time, but there was obviously something going on here that he didn't know about and right here and now was not the time to talk about it. He'd wait until 221B. The ride back to Baker St. wasn't quite as uneventful as the trip to the Yard, but then John was preoccupied with how tightly Sherlock's grip was on his wrist. At one point he shifted slightly and Sherlock loosened his grasp fractionally, just enough that it wasn't quite so painful.

When they arrived at Baker St., Sherlock still didn't release John. They slid awkwardly out of the cab and John paid the fare before allowing Sherlock to pull him in the door, up the stairs, and into 221B. The second the door was shut, John opened his mouth to ask Sherlock what the bloody hell was going on, but he had barely uttered a syllable when Sherlock whipped around and pressed his mouth hard against John's. John fell back against the closed door; Sherlock followed, relentlessly plundering John's mouth the entire time. A low groan was heard, and John wasn't sure if it was him or Sherlock. However the moan that followed when Sherlock cupped the back of John's head with his free hand was definitely John.

A second later, Sherlock pulled away gasping. John could feel himself panting as well. He wasn't quite sure what had just happened, but kind of wanted it to happen again. "Sherlock…" he started.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock blurted out and stepped away from John, finally releasing his wrist.

"For what?" John asked. As far as he could see, Sherlock had just snogged him senseless and they'd both quite enjoyed it.

"I – I know you don't… you prefer women. I shouldn't have done that." He turned and began pulling his coat off.

John stood flabbergasted, still leaning heavily against the door. His brain was having a difficult time jumping tracks. It wanted to stay on the 'Give me some more of that!' track, but he needed to switch to the 'Explanations are important' track. "Sherlock," he started again. "What makes you think that I'm heterosexual?"

Sherlock didn't turn to face him as he hung his coat and scarf. "It's obvious, John, you've only ever had female companions here. Unless you've been meeting other men outside of the flat, which I doubt."

John pushed himself off of the door and took a step towards Sherlock who still refused to look at him. "You're right, Sherlock. I have only been with women since I've lived with you, but we've lived together for what? Just over a year now? That constitutes less than five percent of my life." Sherlock finally turned to look at John. He studied the man intently for a moment. "Look at me, really look at me, Sherlock, and tell me what you see."

Sherlock did just that. He took a full minute, about fifty seconds more than usual, to study John and every scrap of detail he could gain off of him. "You're bi-sexual," he said hesitantly after a moment.

"Right in one, as usual," John smirked. "Which means –"

"Which means you wouldn't object too terribly if I did this," Sherlock interrupted and finished his sentence by pulling John against him and slanting his mouth back over John's. Sherlock's hand once more came up to cup the back of John's head and he pressed his body close against the former army doctor. John murmured something unintelligible and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's lean torso. He was fairly sure that if the door weren't at his back once more that he'd have a difficult time staying upright.

After an indeterminate amount of time in which Sherlock snogged John until he couldn't remember his own name, they pulled away breathing heavily. John stood still in Sherlock's arms, supporting the detective as much as the door was helping him. Sherlock tugged at him then, pulling him away from the door and towards the sofa in the living area. They collapsed onto it, Sherlock pulling John onto his lap as he stretched out his legs along the length of the sofa. It took a bit of negotiating, but John finally found a comfortable position leaning against Sherlock's chest and the back of the sofa, Sherlock's arms wrapped around him. It felt… right. No one had ever held him so gently, so carefully as Sherlock did. He'd had his fair share of relationships, but John had always been the one to give comfort. This… whatever this was, he liked it… he liked it a lot and would do most anything for it to continue.

However that line of thought brought to mind questions, things that he had to know. He shifted slightly against Sherlock, tipping his head up to look at his flatmate who was staring down at him. "So what brought this on?" he asked.

Sherlock, who never showed emotion; Sherlock, who thought that caring was not an advantage; Sherlock, who was so pale and never gave outward sign of what he was thinking unless he wanted to, blushed a deep rose colour. John's eyebrows rose in surprise, but he waited for Sherlock to speak. "It was the last time you had a flashback," he mumbled, his baritone rumbling beneath John's ear pressed against Sherlock's chest. "I didn't want you to wake up alone and frightened, so I made tea and waited for you to wake." He paused for a moment. "After you kicked me out, I spent the rest of the night deducing my feelings for you and decided to conduct an experiment."

John pulled away slightly, a frown on his face. "Sherlock, you had better tell me that this isn't one of your experiments that you'll forget about a week later."

A perplexed look crossed Sherlock's face. It was the look that John had come to recognize as when Sherlock couldn't believe that they weren't on the same mental train. "John," he said in a serious tone. "I would never… my experiment ended approximately sixty minutes ago in the Yard."

John's face took on a confused look. "With that woman in the interrogation room? I was going to ask what happened with you in there?"

Once more, Sherlock's high cheekbones took on a rosy colour and he took a second to compose himself before answering. "It was how she was speaking to you. Something… I couldn't stand the way she spoke to you and the implications she was making. I am sorry if I caused you any harm," he said gently grasping John's wrist, and turned it to see that a bruise was starting to form. He raised John's wrist to his cupid bow lips and gently kissed the inside.

A shudder ran through John and Sherlock smirked at the reaction. He pressed his lips against John's wrist again, this time using his tongue to lightly lick at the bruises forming there. "Sherlock," John gasped out. He didn't know why this was so arousing, but it was and if Sherlock kept it up, he was going to have a problem.

Sherlock shifted and pulled John tighter against him, effectively caging him with his arms while his kisses shifted from John's wrist to his neck. In between kisses he was murmuring something in a deep rich voice, but John was far too preoccupied to listen. He shuddered as Sherlock bit down lightly on a particularly tender spot on John's neck and sucked at the flesh. "Oh – Oh God, Sherlock," John cried out. Sherlock stopped and instead nuzzled against what John was sure to be a fantastic love bite. Both were breathing heavily, John more so than Sherlock. "We… We need to slow down, Sherlock," John breathed out against his flatmate's chest.

"But I was just getting started, John," Sherlock whispered into John's ear.

Another chill shuddered its way through John's frame. God! That voice! he thought to himself. He was starting to wonder if he could get an erection just from Sherlock's voice when he felt a hand snaking its way down his torso towards his waist. "Sherlock!" he cried out in a higher pitched voice than normal. "Really, we need to take this slower."

Sherlock's hand stopped and he turned his face towards Johns, a full out pout on those beautiful cherubic features. "Why?" he asked petulantly as though he'd been denied something he really wanted.

"Because we need to make sure this isn't just some fling. If we're going to be together, Sherlock, then I want it to last."

"John," Sherlock said, his tone serious once more. "While I respect your desire to proceed at a slower pace, I wish to dispel this ridiculous notion that I would forget about you as soon as we've been intimate." John felt his ears turn a flaming shade of red, though he wasn't sure if it was because Sherlock had mentioned being intimate with him or if it was because that's exactly what he thought would happen. "This isn't exactly my area," Sherlock continued. "However I believe I know enough about relationships to know that there needs to be a certain amount of trust between the participants. Do you trust me, John?"

Without an ounce of hesitation, John answered, "Yes."

Sherlock smiled down at him. "Then believe me when I say that I would not run."

John nuzzled his way back under Sherlock's chin against his neck. "I trust you, Sherlock. I really do, but I'd still like to take this slowly."

"I could be persuaded to be amenable to that," Sherlock replied kissing the top of John's head.

It was shortly thereafter that they both fell asleep and were blissfully unaware when Mrs. Hudson entered the flat only to find them asleep and cuddled in each other's arms. She didn't say a word, but she did snap a photo on her mobile phone before quietly leaving again. Wait until Mrs. Turner next door saw this.

Chapter Text

"Can I just ask, what are we doing?" John asked Sherlock from his position crammed inside a small coat closet with the tall man.

"Shh! John, we're waiting for the suspect."

"I've gotten that much on my own thanks, but why are we in a coat closet?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. While John was usually inquisitive, he wasn't usually this dense. "We are in a coat closet because if the suspect sees us, he'll run and given that he's more familiar with his surroundings than we are, he'll most likely get away."

"Ah… okay," John settled back against the wall of the closet once more. They'd been waiting for what felt like hours, but was actually only around twenty minutes. The suspect they were after was guilty of a double homicide and the yard had turned to Sherlock once more to help them solve the case. Sherlock had taken it up reluctantly, but became more and more interested as the evidence mounted that the homicides had been preformed by a ghost. Of course, Sherlock had refused to believe that, and as a result had found the one small connection that had led to where they were now, squished inside a miniscule coat closet, waiting for the guilty party to enter the townhouse so that they could jump out and capture him.

John was about to ask another question when Sherlock suddenly placed his hand over John's mouth as the sound of the front door opening could be heard. A pair of heavy boots entered and clomped through the entry hall. Sherlock and John held perfectly still until the boots came to a standstill just past the coat closet. Carefully and slowly, Sherlock peered out through the crack between the door and the frame. "Perfect," he whispered before whipping open the door and jumping out behind the suspect. However the man had already turned and pulled out a gun before Sherlock could skid to a halt.

"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" he asked in a voice that was entirely too calm in John's opinion.

"I'm sure you already know the answer to that," Sherlock replied, now standing perfectly still with his hands up on either side of his head.

The suspect grinned as he took a step forward, the barrel of his pistol now touching Sherlock's chest. "And Dr. Watson can't be far behind," he said. "Do come out and join us, doctor."

John held still for a moment, wondering if the man would really shoot Sherlock. However the sight of Sherlock at the wrong end of a pistol was too much. They'd only just started a relationship not more than a couple of weeks ago; John wasn't about to have it end just yet, so he lifted his hands and placed them on top of his head before stepping out of the closet. "Ah, yes, there you are," the man said. "Gun on the floor please, and don't bother denying you have one, we all know otherwise."

John frowned as he used one hand to fish his gun out of the back of his trousers. He dropped it on the floor and kicked it over to the man at his prompting. "Wonderful, now we all know why you're here. However from what I've read of Dr. Watson's blog, I highly doubt anyone else does, or for that matter that you're here at all." He grinned again.

"How novel, a criminal who does his homework," Sherlock sneered. "I must applaud you, Mister… what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't, though I'm surprised you don't already know," the man growled.

"Oh I know what your alias is… and your alias' alias. Afraid I couldn't be bothered to find out your actual name though. I'm sure it will all be sorted when you're behind bars in New Scotland Yard."

"Very confident of yourself, Mr. Holmes. You're so sure that you'll be walking out of this building," he smirked. "As to the answer to your question, you can call me Thatcher."

"Another alias?"

"Of course. Now if you'll both be so kind as to get on your knees."

"Why should we? You're going to shoot us either way."

"True I suppose," Thatcher pondered this for a moment. "I suppose it really doesn't make a difference." He raised the gun so that it was pointing at Sherlock's forehead. "You can go first, Mr. Holmes seeing as your so snarky. That and I'm just dying to know Dr. Watson's facial reaction when he see's your head blown into a fine red mist."

"No!" John took a step forward, but was halted by a glare from Thatcher and the sound of the pistol cocking.

"Ah, ah, ah, Dr. Watson. You'll have your turn."

"John," Sherlock intoned. He didn't turn to look at his flatmate, but his tone conveyed everything. John held still, a glare fixed on his visage.

"On a tight leash, your doctor is, Mr. Holmes," Thatcher said smirking.

"Yes, you should see him with a gun."

"I think not, and I think this conversation has gone on for too long."

"I agree," Sherlock said, a wide grin on his face.

Thatcher hesitated for a moment at the grin, but that was all Sherlock needed. Both of his hands came together to form a fist above Thatcher before slamming down on his skull. Thatcher stumbled, the gun dropping from his now loose fingers. John jumped forward and caught it, gripping it tightly as it was turned on its original owner. He kicked his own pistol over to Sherlock who picked it up and had it pointing at Thatcher before the man could gain any semblance of normalcy. Thatcher stumbled to one knee, his balance compromised. However John's anxiousness rose when he heard a low chuckle issuing from the man's mouth. "And now what, boys?" Thatcher raised his head to look up at them both. "You have no evidence connecting me to those murders, and now you're both pointing a gun at an unarmed man in his own house." He grinned. "What will the police think when they get here?"

At that moment, they heard sirens approaching from a distance. Thatcher's smile grew larger. "The police trust me, Thatcher," Sherlock growled. "If I kill you here and now and tell them it was in self-defence, they'll believe me."

A worried gleam shone in Thatcher's eye as his grin faded. With nothing to lose, the man launched himself at the consulting detective, hitting him in the gut with his shoulder, and both went tumbling to the ground. Sherlock grunted from the impact, John's gun falling from his hand. John watched all of this happen as if in slow motion. He made to move forward, but it felt like his feet were mired down in thick mud. "Sherlock!" he yelled as Thatcher grabbed at John's gun and swung it around.

What happened next, John wasn't quite sure. It was all so fast and with instinct and adrenaline guiding his actions, it was a little fuzzy. What he did know was that there were two sharp cracks… two gun shots. One caused Thatcher to jerk forward, blood spurting from the new wound in his chest. The other… John didn't know about the other, but Sherlock was lying very still. So very still…

Before John knew it, he was kneeling next to Sherlock pushing Thatcher's limp form off of his… how did he define his relationship with Sherlock? Boyfriend just didn't seem right, even if that was what all of the lads at the Yard called them. Mrs. Hudson's photo of them from that first night had spread like wildfire and soon it seemed that everyone knew of them.

"Sherlock," John whimpered. His hands fluttered over the consulting detective, looking for wounds. A low groan met his hears as one hand brushed over Sherlock's side. John's fingers met something warm, wet, and sticky. "Sherlock, hang on," he muttered as he bent over the man who'd only that very morning told him for the first time that he loved him.

The blood was seeping forth from a wound along Sherlock's left side about halfway down his torso. John ripped open Sherlock's coat, suit jacket, and silk shirt. His hands smoothed along the pale skin until they found the wound. After a couple of seconds' assessment, John let out a long exhale. It was just a graze. A deep graze, that would most likely need stitches, but a graze nonetheless. John's body went limp with relief and he pressed quick kisses along Sherlock's lips. "You stupid, stupid man!" he whispered against Sherlock's jaw. "Never ever do that to me again."

Before Sherlock could answer, the front door burst open and a flood of police officers came rushing in, Detective Inspector Lestrade foremost among them. John pulled away from Sherlock's lips and put his attention back to putting pressure on the wound. "Get a medic team in here," Lestrade called out, and one of the officers disappeared immediately to do his bidding. He turned back to John, still hovering over a grimacing Sherlock on the floor. "How is he?"

"It's just a flesh wound, but he," he gestured to Thatcher on the floor next to them. "He's dead."

Lestrade nodded grimly. He would have preferred to take Thatcher in still alive for questioning, but obviously that wasn't going to happen now. "When you're done with Sherlock, we're going to have a talk about you shooting my suspects," Lestrade said seriously to John.

John gave him a weak grin. Lestrade still didn't know about his involvement in shooting the cabbie in his and Sherlock's first case. "Whatever you say, Lestrade."

At that moment, the medic team arrived. One faction split off to tend to Thatcher's body while the majority moved forward to take care of Sherlock. "I don't need a medic," Sherlock grumbled, but seeing as he was having a difficult time even sitting up without causing serious pain, he didn't put up too much of a fight when they moved him onto a stretcher. John moved with them, letting them know about Sherlock's wound as they loaded him into an ambulance.

The rest of the day was rather long and arduous, for Sherlock that is. After they'd stitched him up at the hospital, John had taken him home to 221B and insisted that he rest in bed for the remainder of the day. John had even gone so far as to bring him tea. However he hadn't been very pleased when he got back to see Sherlock out of bed and trying to locate his laptop. "Back in bed, Sherlock. I'm serious. You need to recuperate."

Sherlock had merely continued searching for his laptop, determined that if he had to be stuck in bed, then he might as well have something interesting to do. There was a new paper recently published on that he really wanted to read. He was just picking up a pair of trousers to look underneath when he felt a strong arm wrap around his waist and pull backwards insistently. "John!" he cried out as the strong arm continued to pull him back towards the bed.

"You need rest. I'll get whatever you want."

"But rest is boring!" Sherlock complained.

"Yes, but it's very healthy for someone in your condition I hear," John replied, tucking Sherlock under the covers.

"What condition? I have a scratch, John!"

"A scratch that had it gone three inches to the left would've killed you almost instantly!" John glared at him, his breathing heavier than usual and his fists clenching the duvet tightly.

Sherlock took all of this in and came to the conclusion that John was angry. He was surprised by John's reaction, when he asked why. John frowned, and the duvet dropped from his hands. He didn't speak as he sat down on the bed next to Sherlock; nor did he look at his flatmate. "I'm not angry with you, Sherlock," he replied looking down at his feet.

"That's not what I asked, John. I asked why you're angry."

John gave Sherlock a hesitant glance before taking a deep breath and moving closer to him. One hand came up to rest on Sherlock's thigh. "I'm angry because I almost lost you today. I'm angry because I should've acted sooner. I'm angry because it's my fault you got hurt."

Silence filled the room for a few long minutes and Sherlock took the opportunity to study his… boyfriend? partner? He still wasn't sure what to call John, and they hadn't really talked about it. It was very rare that John Watson was unsure of himself, but it appeared that right now was one of those times. "John," Sherlock intoned quietly. John looked up and Sherlock could see that there were unshed tears in his eyes. "John, there was no part of what happened today that was your fault. You couldn't have predicted what Thatcher did."

"But I should've known!" He squeezed Sherlock's thigh.

"How could you have possibly known if even I didn't," Sherlock replied calmly.

John looked up at Sherlock, the build-up of tears now sliding down his cheeks. "I don't know," he mumbled.

"I'm here now, John. I had a close call, but I'm here. Stop worrying about what might have been."

John nodded and lay down beside Sherlock, wrapping both arms around the taller man's middle, his face pressed into Sherlock's good side. Sherlock gently ran his fingers through John's short blond hair, soothing both John and himself. Suddenly rest didn't seem so boring.

o O o O o O o

It was very early the next morning that Sherlock woke up to a still sleeping John completely wrapped around him. He smiled at the smaller man and tried to extricate himself gently. With much grumbling from John, he managed to get free and vanished into the bathroom for a minute. When he got back, John was sitting up, blinking blearily. "Sherlock?" he muttered in a voice thick with sleep.

"Just had to use the loo," Sherlock replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

John yawned and sat up a bit straighter. "How're the stitches?"

"Fine."

John scooted closer to Sherlock and gently raised his nightshirt. "Mind if I check for myself?"

"Check away," Sherlock said indulgently.

John smiled as Sherlock lay back on the bed, making access to the wound easier. John's cool fingers skimmed over Sherlock's skin, leaving tingling trails of heat. Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of John's hands as they brushed along his stitches. The graze was healing nicely and John suspected the stitches could probably be removed within the week.

He was done inspecting the wound, but his hands couldn't stop touching Sherlock. His smooth skin was entrancing to John and he couldn't stop running his fingers along the contours of Sherlock's body. A shiver made its way down Sherlock's body and that seemed to change things, because Sherlock suddenly sat up, cupped the back of John's head, and kissed him. Sherlock's lips were possessive and demanding. John had a difficult time keeping up, but eventually he gave in and allowed Sherlock to lead. A gentle pressure against his shoulder led John to lie down, Sherlock's body half covering his. However John pulled away from Sherlock's mouth when he felt those wonderful lips form a grimace. "What is it? Did you pull a stitch?"

"No, just stretched the skin a bit."

"We should be more careful," John said gently running his hands along Sherlock's torso.

"If I promise not to rip out my stitches, will you shut up and let me kiss you?" Sherlock growled not in the mood to be mollycoddled.

John's eyebrows rose in surprise, and another part of him (much lower than his eyebrows) reacted to the growl. Sherlock smirked, shifted himself so that he wouldn't pull at his stitches, and swooped back down on John's lips. Sherlock's hands captured John's wrists and he pinned them above their heads while he aligned his body with John's so that they were touching from shoulder to toe. "Sherlock," John moaned. "What – what are we doing?"

"I'd think that'd be obvious John," he whispered into the blond man's ear while thrusting his hips forward.

John let out a low moan, his hips thrusting back unconsciously. "Do you remember – ohhh – remember when I said I wanted to go slow?" John asked while Sherlock nibbled at his ear. Sherlock made a noncommittal 'mhmm'. "I take it back, all of it!"

Sherlock paused in his nibbling to raise his head. A slow smile spread across his face and John felt his ears heat up at the implications of what he'd just said. He'd basically just okay'ed Sherlock to ravish him. Not that that sounded so bad at the moment. Within thirty seconds, Sherlock had wiggled his way down so that he was lying between John's legs, one hand still held John's pinned above their heads, the other was skimming along John's skin under his shirt, and John was writhing at the feelings eliciting from the tips of Sherlock's fingers and their hips rubbing together. Low moans and groans filled the room until Sherlock covered John's lips with his own, swallowing down the arousing sounds.

A minute later, John felt something hot and wet cover his erection. He wasn't even aware that Sherlock had moved down, let alone unzipped his pants. A strangled groan left his lips and from there it didn't take long at all before he came completely undone. Sherlock crawled back up John's limp body, lying down on it, and kissing at the underside of his jaw. "That was… wow, Sherlock," John muttered.

Sherlock chuckled. "I'm glad you approve."

"Did you need a hand with anything?" John asked, his eyes traveling down Sherlock's body.

"Now that you mention it," Sherlock grinned.

The rest of the morning was spent in bed until hunger drove them to the kitchen where beans and toast was sufficient enough for the time being… that and tea. John suggested they go for a walk in the park afterwards, but Sherlock had other ideas and the dishes were dropped in the sink rather less carefully than they should have been when John felt Sherlock's arms wrap around him from behind and his lips attacking the side of his neck.

They only made it to the couch this time where they later (much later and after gratuitous amounts of pleasure) fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms once more. Therefore they didn't hear the light knocking on the door, nor the slight squeak it made when it opened to emit Mrs. Hudson, or for that matter, the artificial shutter sound her mobile phone makes when taking a picture. Little did Mrs. Hudson know that this was the last time she would be taking a picture of her two favorite tenants because the next time she tried, there would most definitely be a chain lock on the door courtesy of Mycroft Holmes who strongly believed that elderly women should not be snapping photos of his younger brother and his partner and showing them to whoever wished to look. Mrs. Hudson would take this in stride, but her already tenuous relationship (or lack thereof) with Mycroft would be stretched even thinner… not that Mycroft cared very much. Luckily, Sherlock and John would remain in the dark, for the most part, and wouldn't think too much of it that Mrs. Hudson never came up when Mycroft came to visit.

Fin