Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Can we talk?” Sarah touched me on the shoulder with a hesitant smile, but somehow I felt as if I were about to be arrested.

I tried for a return smile anyway, “Sure, what’s up?”

She glanced round with one eye toward the nurse’s station where the receptionist was openly eavesdropping, “Let me buy you a coffee.”

I put down my clipboard, “All right, I was about to take a break anyway.”

Sarah and I walked to the little cafe next door and she bought me a tea and a croissant, then chose a little table next to the window.

As we took our seats, Sarah gave me a bracing sort of look, and it made me nervous.

I sipped my tea, “Thanks for this.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome. Erm. John,” she cocked her head sort of consideringly, “When I asked if you’ve got a girlfriend-”

“Which I don’t,” I assured her.

“Right, but I didn’t mean. Erm. I suppose a modern girl wouldn’t mind going out with someone who’s already got a boyfriend, but I-”

“I haven’t got a boyfriend either,” I interrupted.

Sarah creased her forehead, “Er. Sorry, who was that man you brought along on our date?”

I tore a bit off my croissant, “That. I didn’t bring him; he just turned up.”

“And then you talked to him the entire time.”

“We’re just flatmates!”

Sarah’s eyebrows went up, “And you live with him.”

“We share the rent! That’s all.”

“Well,” Sarah pressed her lips together doubtfully, “what I’m really getting at is that it’s a bit. Complicated. For me to try and go out with a subordinate who’s already going out with someone else.”

I’d been expecting that when the conversation started, but it still stung, “Oh. Okay. I get it.”

“Sorry,” Sarah grimaced apologetically. “I’ve just. Got to be professional.”

I nodded, “Yeah, of course. No hard feelings.”

Sarah smiled and stood up, “Thanks, John. Finish up here, and I’ll see you back there, all right?”

“Sure, yeah of course.”

…

Thinking of picking up dinner. In the mood for anything?

-SH

No, but if you try and make me eat any more pasta, I may have to tip it over your head.

Noted. See you soon.

-SH

…

I got in from work cold and stiff with an ache in my shoulder and feeling rather cross and impatient. Being chucked by your boss on your morning tea break doesn’t exactly make the next six hours soar by on silver wings.

But my mood lifted as soon as I walked into the flat. There was a fire burning in the fireplace that I crossed to as soon as I’d hung my jacket on the hook. The tightness in my shoulders loosened as I let its warmth wash over me. Soft instrumental music played, and I had to look round for where it was coming from. I’d never noticed the sound system before. The air was full of a delicious savoury aroma, and I sniffed appreciatively.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown with the sleeves turned up and holding out a wooden spoonful of something red and creamy looking, “Taste this.”

I stepped forward obediently, my mouth watering, “What is it? Not an experiment?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Blood sacrifice. No, of course it isn’t an experiment, John. I do other things apart from science. It’s a tomato bisque. Found the recipe on the internet earlier. So I suppose it’s a bit of an experiment, but the sort you can eat, not the sort that makes you lose a Wednesday if you get the dosage wrong.”

I raised an eyebrow, “That was very specific.”

“It was before I met you. I’m much more responsible now; it’s your good influence,” Sherlock waggled the spoon at me.

“All right, then,” I opened my mouth, and Sherlock popped the spoon in. The bisque was heavenly, “Oh my god.”

Sherlock beamed, “I know. Cheese toasties coming out of the oven in two minutes. And I baked the bread.”

I took the spoon from him to give it more thorough attention, “You baked, too? All this and I thought you were picking up takeaway.”

Sherlock shrugged, “I changed my mind. It was cold, and I didn’t want to leave the flat. Raided Mrs Hudson’s fridge and pantry for ingredients. She’s already had her share.”

“Well, it’s delicious, and I can’t wait to eat more than my share.” I gave the spoon a last lick, “Is there anything you can’t do?”

Sherlock puffed up his cheeks and blew out a thoughtful breath, “I’ll have to get back to you on that. Come and wash the tube off you and help me plate.”

I followed Sherlock into the kitchen and washed my hands. He took the cheese toasties out of the oven.

“Where do you want me?” I held up my clean, slightly pink hands like a surgeon waiting to be gloved.

“Dishes,” Sherlock set the pan on the stove next to the soup pot, “And wine if you want it.”

“Right,” I got down bowls and glasses from the cabinet. “What sort of wine goes with tomato soup?”

“Chianti,” Sherlock answered at once. “But all we’ve got is bordeaux.”

I laughed and poured, “I’m sure that’ll do me. How did I not know you cook? What else are you holding out on me?” I offered Sherlock a glass, and he set down the ladle to sip before handing the glass back to me for momentary safekeeping. “Oh are you not going to tell me?”

Sherlock winked and handed me a bowl, “Don’t you think it’ll be more fun if you work it out as we go along?”

Warmth, unrelated to the soup, flared in my chest, and I smiled down at the bowl, “Yeah, maybe it will.”

…

“You should quit,” Sherlock remarked, leaning toward me from his chair as I nursed my ill advised third glass of wine.

“Quit?” I frowned down at my glass dumbly.

Sherlock smiled, “Your job. You hate it. You’re practically choking on your own boredom, and it makes you feel guilty and miserable missing so much the army bit of the army doctor.”

I prickled with the newly familiar discomfort of being too well seen and gulped from my glass, “Aren’t we a show off.”

“Yes,” Sherlock bounced an eyebrow at me. “But that’s why you like me. More to the point, we’ve had that cheque from Sebastian’s firm. If you recall, it was. Considerable. We don’t need whatever pittance you’re getting from a job that makes you miserable.”

I shook my head, “You can’t just give-”

“You helped, John. It isn’t giving; it’s your share.”

I set my glass down on a side table, “I helped a bit!”

Sherlock shrugged carelessly, “Consider it a kidnapping premium, then.”

I snorted and looked away, “You’re suggesting something completely insane. You do know that.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea.”

“For me to give up my job as a doctor, which y’know. I did seven years training for. And become. What? Your tea boy? Your PA?”

Sherlock tossed his head, “Is that really what you think of what you do for me?”

I folded my arms, “And what exactly is it that I do for you?”

Sherlock shook his head and smiled sweetly, “Think instead about what I could do for you. Get you out of that stuffy surgery and those stuffy noses. Find you something real to do.”

I let out a helpless little laugh, “Something real.”

Sherlock dragged his chair toward mine and leaned forward even more, reaching out to clutch the arm of my chair, “Something vital, John. Something. Heart pounding.”

“Jesus.” I shifted my hips in my seat. We were nearly nose to nose, “We’re still. Talking about work, are we?”

Sherlock smiled, smug like he’d already won, “Think it over, John. I’m not going anywhere. I think you know where to find me.” He stood before I could reply and went over to the sitting room window.

“How long have you been planning that speech?” I called after him.

Sherlock picked up his violin and lifted it to his shoulder before he cocked his head to answer me, “Long enough.” He raised his bow, but something in my face made him pause, “Yes?”

“Why me?” I hadn’t even meant to ask that when I opened my mouth.

Sherlock smiled up the neck of his violin, “Would you like a list?”

I raised my chin, “Couldn’t hurt.”

Sherlock considered, “I’ll make you a list, if you say yes.” And he began to play.

…

Why me? Possible reasons (a list written by John Watson and chucked onto the fire while Sherlock was in the loo):

-he likes me admiring him and no one else seems to, which is insane (he could get Dimmock at the very least and probably also that jumper lady from the morgue if he liked)

-he wants my gun arm (most likely)

-he likes company when he goes out and the skull just attracts attention (filling in for an inanimate object. Brilliant)

-he’s going to harvest my organs and he wants to build up a buffer period where no one will miss me (far-fetched)

-???????

-going to have to say okay if I want to find out, I suppose

-does it matter? (probably!)

...

Wake in the night sweating and parched. Cough into my pillow, then reach for the glass on my night table and immediately tip it over. There’s a soft trickle as the few drops run into my wastepaper basket.

“Shit.”

Pick up the glass, kick off the blankets, and make for the bathroom. I push open the door and there’s a sharp little sound that my brain in its sleep fug doesn’t make sense of til I’ve barked up against its warm, sturdy, fleshy source.

“Gah! Hey, occupied!”

Start violently, dropping the glass with a thump on the rug, reach for the light switch and squint against the sudden dazzle when it comes on, “John?”

John laughs and shuts off the tap, “Who else?”

Register that he’s standing awkwardly contrapposto and see why at once when I glance down, “Why are you erm. Naked in my room in the middle of the night?”

John reaches past me (arm brushes my shoulder and I don’t jump, though I do shiver) and pulls a towel from the towel rack and wraps it round his hips, “Actually I’m naked in the bathroom in the middle of the night. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I generally don’t switch on the light when I need the loo after you’re in bed, because I don’t want to wake you.”

“Oh. That’s very thoughtful.”

“No problem,” John says comfortably. “You do realise you’re er. Also naked.” And he pulls down another towel and offers it to me. I had forgotten, actually (John’s nudity is that distracting). Mortifying.

Hold the towel to my front and back out of the bathroom, “I’ll just. Leave you to it.” Shut the door and spring back onto my bed, bury myself in the blankets. The door opens a moment later. Peep out to see why, and John, still swathed in the towel, comes and holds out the glass I dropped, which he’s filled with water. He’s luminous and golden in the diluted street lamp light coming in through the gaps in my curtains. Criminal to look so beatific wrapped in a bath towel.

“You left this. Reckoned you must be thirsty.”

Pop my head out from under the blankets and look at John with dignity, “Oh. Thank you.” John hands me the water glass and unabashedly watches me sip from it, “You’re bold as brass for standing in someone else’s bedroom in a towel at arse o’clock in the morning.” Fancy I can see a dusting of gooseflesh across his chest (don’t get distracted looking for it!).

John laughs, “You’re an odd bird, aren’t you. ‘Bold as brass.’ Hark who’s talking.”

“Yes. Well.” Draw the blankets modestly to my chin, “We were both. Surprised. At least I’ve got the decency to be embarrassed as well.”

John smiles, “That actually wasn’t the boldness I was referring to, but believe me, you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Hope it’s too dark for him to see if I’m blushing, “Oh. Do you. Erm.”

John’s tone is reassuring so he probably does not understand how unreassuring his next remark is, “It’s just funny to see you like this after your whole. Mr Suave speech. Change in erm. Manner. I like you this way. Your midnight self.”

Shrug and think of retreating back into the blankets, “I contain multitudes.”

John seems to consider that, “That was a bit much, wasn’t it? Have I overstayed my welcome?”

Fidget with the edge of my sheet, “That depends. Are you going to keep teasing me?”

“I suppose I ought to confine that to times when we’re both dressed.”

“I would be grateful if you did.” Well. For the time being. Have another sip of my water, “How often do you go about the flat naked, John? Just out of curiosity. Is there a schedule I should be made aware of?”

John raises his eyebrows, “Is that teasing?”

“Seems the sort of thing that might have come up when we first discussed living together. I seem to recall asking if you had anything to confess.”

John laughs, a wholehearted laugh that makes my insides dance and I grin in answer, though he’s still teasing, “Like you confessed that you fill the fridge with body parts and do target practice in the sitting room?”

Bite my lower lip as it would like to sulkily protrude, which I’m sure will only lead to increased hilarity from John, “I told you I was noisy. It seemed most relevant at the time, given my. Well given the circumstances with my former landlord.”

John laughs again, so fondly that it makes me squirm (shuffle my feet a little under the blanket to try and manage that urge)(he couldn’t possibly be as fond as all that already), “I think I remember something about. Not talking for days on end? Ring any bells?”

Huff, “Oh did you want me quiet? It isn’t the sort of thing one determines in advance. It’s just sort of there sometimes.”

“I really wasn’t being critical. Only maybe. Rich awareness of our er. Peccadilloes. Possibly not either of our strong points.”

“Hmph.”

“I don’t want you any quieter. Indoor target practice is bad, and the explosions I could do without. The other noises can stay.”

Other noises, “Generous of you.”

“One of my strong points.” John looks about my bedroom (feel a tiny bit indignant to have momentarily lost his attention). “I suppose I ought to go to bed,” he remarks with his eyes on my baritsu certificate above the bed.

“It’s late,” I agree.

“‘Mnot working tomorrow,” he looks at me. “Have we got anything on?”

Gratifying, “I’ll check the blog.”

“Good night, then,” says John without moving.

“Good night.”

John steps forward and pats my knee, then departs through the bathroom. Fall asleep trying not to wonder if he left the towel behind and went back upstairs starkers.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa with a newspaper splayed on his chest when I came down in the morning. I’d have almost thought he was asleep, but he disappeared behind the paper when I came into the room. Not a promising start.

I paused at the end of the sofa, but he didn’t look up at me, “Breakfast?” Sherlock only rustled  the paper rather pointedly. “Right. Well. I’ll put the coffee on. You think about it.” I went into the kitchen and made two cups of coffee. Black, two sugars for him. White without for me. I carried both mugs back into the sitting room. Sherlock was still silent behind the paper and unhospitably occupying the entire sofa.

I set his mug on the coffee table and perched on the arm of the sofa opposite the one he was leaning on. “Sherlock,” I cleared my throat. He didn’t look up. “I’ve brought you a coffee. It’s. Just there, when you’re ready.” Sherlock turned a page of the paper without responding. “Are you. Erm. Sorry, did I do something wrong?”

“Excellent deduction,” Sherlock said quietly, turning the page too soon for him to have read much of anything on it.

“Well I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to. Is this about last night?”

Sherlock did not appear from behind the paper, “I imagine you can do a bit more deducing, if you’re willing to continue to expend the effort on an ignorant public school madman.”

My stomach seemed to drop into the soles of my shoes, “You found my blog.”

Sherlock sniffed and turned the page again, “I did.”

“I. I suppose I should have asked you before I wrote about your work. It was just. The most interesting thing that’s happened to me in ages. Meeting you and. The things we do together. I didn’t mean to erm. Invade your privacy. But I’m thinking now maybe I er. Did?”

“Oh, do you think so?” Sherlock lowered the paper to glare at me, “Why should I consider my flatmate tittering over my many faults and speculating with strangers about my sexual orientation to be an invasion of my privacy?” And he disappeared behind the paper again.

I felt hot with shame, “I’m sorry.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got no excuse. I’m sorry. I’ll delete the posts. You’re right; I was. Totally out of order.” I patted my pockets for my phone, anxious to make amends immediately.

Sherlock sighed, “There doesn’t seem any point now. It’s been. They’ve been there for some time. You’re the third hit now if you google my name. Before my own website. The association is formed.”

“Christ.” I scrubbed a hand through my hair, “I’ll fix them! Clean them up a bit and delete those dodgy comments.”

“I am far from imagining I can guilt trip you into taking me seriously, John.”

“I do take you seriously!” Sherlock scoffed. “I do !”

Sherlock lowered the paper again, “John, I really don’t have the energy to witness all this performative self-flagellation. What’s done is done.”

I squeezed my own knee, trying to steady my hand, “Okay. Yeah. You’re right. Erm. I’ll just. I’ll give you a bit of space.”

He didn’t answer.

I thought of going up to my room, but decided Sherlock might be glad of a bit more space than that. I got up, pulled on my jacket, and went out of the flat.

When I reached the street, I glanced back up at the sitting room window. The curtains were twitching tellingly, and a moment later, I heard the melancholy sweetness of Sherlock’s violin. It seemed to follow me long after I should have been out of earshot.

…

Do you have an hour to meet up? I really need a chat.

I can do that. Something wrong?

-S. Sawyer MD-

I think I may have hugely cocked something up, and I need someone else to tell me how doomed I am.

This is probably really inappropriate, isn’t it?

I’m starting to think I might have boundary issues.

It’s fine. I’m the one who got us started on the boundary issues first, I think.

-S. Sawyer MD-

Meet me at the cafe near the surgery?

-S. Sawyer MD-

Yeah, see you soon.

Thanks.

…

Sarah made it to the cafe before me, and I found her at the same table where we’d sat when she ended things with me. I sat across from her and handed over the coffee I’d bought her.

“Thanks,” she took a sip. “So, John. What’s going on?”

I sipped my own coffee, “I think you were right about me being interested in Sherlock. Not that I was aware of that when I asked you out,” I added hastily.

Sarah smiled, “I think I asked you out, but good for you.”

“Well no, because I’ve already made a mess of it. I sort of. Have this blog that I’ve been writing about him on. And he found it, and he’s not exactly flattered. Really hurt and pissed off, actually. Which is fair. When I went back over it on my way here, a lot of it was. Not very nice.”

Sarah’s eyebrows went up, “Wow. You certainly move quickly from interpersonal crisis to interpersonal crisis.”

I kicked my chair leg, “Right, I’m a lightning speed arsehole. What should I do?”

Sarah regarded me quietly for a moment and had a few more leisurely sips of coffee while she thought it over, “I’m surprised to see you this passive, to be honest.”

I frowned, “Passive?”

She shrugged, “You know him; I don’t. Why should I be able to help?”

“Right.” I slumped in my chair, “Sorry, this is. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“No, it’s all right. I said I’d help, so I’m giving it a think. Shush a moment.”

“Okay.” I watched her anxiously and finished my cup.

“Erm, here’s something I don’t understand,” Sarah said presently. “If you like this guy, why would you write unflattering things about him on your blog?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t mean to be unflattering.” I considered, “I think maybe. I felt a bit exposed writing about him at all. He’s. He’s like the only thing that’s. Well. You know. It’s hard to explain. He’s kind of ah.”

“Like a brainy, gorgeous alien,” Sarah offered.

I’d already forgotten she’d met him, “Well. I don’t know about alien, but yeah. He’s hard to explain. Even trying to explain him feels like. A lot.”

“Maybe think about the things you were avoiding saying and tell him those things. If. You know.” Sarah leaned back, arms folded, “You can say them nicely.”

I laughed ruefully, “I deserved that. Erm. Well thanks. That’s a good idea. I might. I might try that.”

“Oh don’t look like that,” Sarah stood and held out her arms. I got up also and she gave me a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, “It’ll be all right.”

I tried not to sigh, “Yeah. Maybe.”

....

John returns to the flat around lunchtime still looking distressed. Which is flattering (shouldn’t be!) but possibly put on. He smells of perfume, and there’s the faint impression of lipstick on his right cheek, near his ear (consoling himself in the arms of another)(stop it!).

John hangs his jacket on the hook and starts toward me, then turns back to retrieve a folded bit of paper from the pocket. He sits across from me in his chair, worrying the paper in his hands a bit before he speaks, “I want to talk to you. But. If you’d rather I didn’t erm. That’s. That’s all right, I suppose.”

Shrug and set aside my book, “Fine. What is it?”

John takes a deep breath, “I’m not going to try and make excuses. I went and had a look at what I wrote on my blog, and. I really didn’t mean it the way it came out, but I can see why you’d have found it. Erm.”

“Humiliating.”

John hangs his head, “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, so you’ve said.” Should not be softening but he does look sincerely miserable (he sincerely is miserable)(he’s an appalling actor), “I believe you. Thank you for apologising.”

John brightens (wish it weren’t exciting)(it is), “I really do think you’re fantastic. I’ve never met anyone like you before. I don’t think there are other people like you.”

I think I must be flushing, “All right, John. There’s no need for-”

“There is, though,” John insists. “I think you’re amazing. That’s the truth. I’m sorry I made you think otherwise. I really. I think the world of you,” very exciting pleading note in the last remark. “Do you believe me?”

Consider that, “Admiration without respect is-”

“I know,” John says fervently. “I know. Will you let me try and do better?”

I do so want him to do better, “All right.”

John sighs and his shoulders drop. He smiles at me, “Thanks.”

Have to look away, “What’s on the paper?”

“Hmm?”

Point at the bit of paper he’s still holding, “What is that? I thought it would come into play, but it hasn’t.”

“Oh.” John’s ears pinken slightly, “I. I wrote some things down, but I. Didn’t actually need them.”

“May I see it?”

John looks reluctant, but holds the scrap out, “All right.”

Take the paper and pocket it without opening it, “Thank you.”

“Sure,” John tries to put his hand in his pocket, but it won’t go in because of the angle he’s sitting at. “Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Come and have lunch with me?”

Rise from my chair, “Yeah, all right.”

…

It’s hard to talk about you without sounding insane. That sounds like an excuse, and it isn’t meant to be. It isn’t fair to you to keep saying what I know is the wrong thing, because I’m afraid the right thing makes me sound stupid. You’re the most brilliant and engaging person I’ve ever seen. There, that’s a bit of the right thing. I’ll keep practising. You don’t need to be patient with me, but you nearly always are. It makes me feel like I’m worth something. Worth improving. That’s a bit more of the right thing. Thanks if you’re still willing to be patient. If you’re not, I understand. And thanks anyway for what you’ve given me already.

...

Have been failing to get comfortable for upwards of an hour. My feet are cold and my neck is sweating, which is distractingly incongruous. Also perhaps need a new pillow? Mine seems to have developed an unacceptable lumpiness. Turn it and punch it, and it’s still not right. Give it up as a bad job, kick off the blankets and rise from my bed.

There’s a dim flickering coming from the sitting room, and when I step into it properly, I find John on the sofa, wrapped in the blanket from the back of his chair.

He looks round at me when I come in and smiles, “Hullo. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all. Never got to sleep.”

Had been meaning to go and have a look at that pollen experiment I’ve been working on, but approach the sofa anyway, and John draws up his knees to give me space to sit down. Seems churlish not to take it. Closer up, John looks rather ill. He’s staring at Return of the Jedi with a sort of unwarranted grim determination. His eyes are red, and there’s definitely something sickly in the lines around his mouth. “Feeling all right?”

“Hmm?” John glances at me, “Yeah, fine.” He attempts an unconvincing smile.

“You look a bit peaky,” I press after a moment.

John gives me an appraising sort of look, then sighs, “Bad dreams. That’s all. Just trying to relax before I try and go back to sleep.”

Look back at the telly, “Understandable. Though. You do realise you’ve chosen a film about war?”

John is quiet for a long time, and am worried that I’ve offended him, but when I look back, he’s laughing into his shoulder, “And father issues! You’re right; this might be a bit ha. Self-defeating. I’m starting to realise that. Is maybe one of my er. Patterns.”

Snort, “Join the club.”

John reaches for the remote and switches off the telly, then turns to me with that appraising look again, “So. What do you do when you can’t sleep?”

Shrug, “Stay up.” John laughs, which makes me want to be more useful (feels like a reward, his laughter)(same as his praise)(getting distracted; mustn’t wander off). “Sometimes I compose. Or just play. Though violin at two AM is one of the reasons I got thrown out of my Montague Street place.”

John seems to have come closer, though I didn’t feel him approach, “I think Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister for the weekend. Would you?”

Get up immediately (useful!), “Stretch out on the sofa and shut your eyes.”

John obeys smilingly, “Getting right to the lullabye, mm?”

Pause halfway to my violin, “Problem?”

John shakes his head, “No. Go on.”

Shoulder my violin and glance at John’s reflection in the sitting room window. He’s still lying on the sofa, hands clasped over his belly. Not quite as peaceful as he looks. Fingers are digging into the backs of his hands. Begin with some Brahms, as it seems apropos. Steal another quick look at John after I’ve played through the first piece. Think he’s pretending not to watch me from under his eyelashes. His smile has an indulgent sort of tilt to it (if I’m not flattering myself)(not unheard of…).

Improvise a little thinky bit and then go into a piece I’ve been working on for some time now. It’s about John (or for him)(can never decide if there’s a difference) and it makes me rather warm to play it. It isn’t long just yet, and when I finish, I hold my violin to me waiting for my blush to fade.

Wet my lips, “The last one was for you. What shall we call it?” (The right thing) John does not reply. Turn round to find he’s asleep, hugging himself, mouth falling open. Watch John for a bit, feeling mysteriously bereft, then turn back to the window and play on.

Chapter Text

“So he’s catfishing the old man?” I whispered.

“Something like that,” Sherlock murmured back. “He needed something in the old man’s collection room, and he couldn’t think of another way to get him to leave. It’s really quite ingenious. By the way, it’s still your go.”

“Oh, sorry.” I massaged my thigh against an oncoming cramp and shifted my position a bit so that more of my weight was against the wall at our backs, “How many questions have I got left?”

“Thirteen.”

“Hmm. Am I alive?”

“Yes, twelve.”

“Okay,” I scratched at worn patch in the carpet with my fingernails, and Sherlock squirmed next to me.

“Stop that,” he nudged me. “It gives me the shivers.”

“What, this?” I scratched a bit harder and Sherlock did indeed shiver.

“John, if you keep that up, you forfeit the game!”

I grinned, “All right, I’ll stop. But I’m remembering for the future.”

Sherlock sighed longsufferingly, “The list of things I must politely ignore continues to grow.”

“Politely ignore? I didn’t realise that was in your repertoire.”

Sherlock tossed his head, “You have no idea. Are we playing or not?”

I laughed, “Right, let’s just recap. Okay, so I’m alive. I’m a man. I’m tall. I’m dark haired. I’m not handsome, not famous. So someone we know then.”

“Mm,” said Sherlock noncommittally.

I considered, “Am I. Anderson?”

Sherlock made a sound of disgust, then went quiet and grabbed at my hand. I opened my mouth to ask what was the matter, but he pressed my hand and shook his head. From below I could hear the sound of someone moving about, and I fell silent also. Sherlock’s eyes were bright, his expression keen. His whole body seemed tensed to spring, like a trained bloodhound on the scent of its prey. It was thrilling. He  was thrilling. My heart was already pounding. I tried to breathe steadily. Sherlock rose very slowly, taking care to stay hidden behind the decorative screen we were crouched behind, then motioned me to do the same.

There were footsteps in the passage, then the door swung open and in came a sweet-faced, youngish man whom I recognised from the photos Sherlock’d shown me before we left. The man strode with purpose to a particular corner of the room and shoved aside a desk, then knelt down, pulled up the corner of the carpet, and took a jimmy out of his pocket. He pried at a floorboard, and a square opened up, nearly the size of his torso.

With a triumphant ha! the man leaned into the hole he’d opened, and busied himself trying to haul up something evidently heavy and bulky. It was our moment. Sherlock caught my eye and nodded, and we edged out from behind the screen as silently as we could, ready to take him. As careful as we were, the floorboard must have creaked, because the man whipped round as we emerged, his expression anxious.

“The game is up, Evans,” Sherlock said coolly. “The police have the place surrounded. This is a sting. Now step back from the trapdoor, hands on your head. And let’s see what you’ve got there.”

Evans’ expression slid quickly from fury to cunning to nonchalance, “Right, then, Mr Sherlock Holmes. I know when I’m beat. Go on and have your look, then. Seeing as how you’ve got me, fair and square,” and he began to raise his hands slowly into the air.

Sherlock stepped forward, eager to look into the hole, and with Sherlock’s attention diverted, Evans pulled a gun from down the front of his trousers and cocked it.

“Sherlock, look out!”

Sherlock, lunatic that he is, slide tackled Evans, knocking him to the ground and sending the gun flying. Not before he got a shot off, though. I think I felt the heat of the bullet sting my leg before I actually heard the shot. I fell backward onto my arse, more in surprise than pain.

Evans, bleeding from a gash in his forehead tried to rise, but Sherlock grabbed him by the jacket and threw him hard onto the ground. “Don’t move!” he snarled. Evans, whose skull had made quite a worrisome thump against the carpeted floor only cringed and shook his head as Sherlock went scrabbling after the gun. He caught it up and unloaded it with shaking hands, then stuffed it into his coat pocket and turned to me, “Are you all right, John?”

I laughed ruefully, clutching my leg where it was bleeding from the bullet graze, “Well, I’ve been better.”

Sherlock at once dropped to his knees beside me and whisked out a pocket knife. He hooked the blade in the hem of my jeans and ripped them all the way up to my thigh where the wound was, “God, you’re bleeding! Is it in you? No, ah thank god! It’s quite superficial!”

“Hey! Jesus! Sherlock, I said I was fine!”

Sherlock tore off his scarf and handed it to me, “Not fine enough! Pressure on the wound, please.”

“Thanks, doctor, would never have thought of it,” I wrapped up my leg in his scarf and applied pressure.

Sherlock turned back to Evans, “If you even think about moving, I will hurl your miserable body out of that fucking window. You’re lucky I haven’t already. If you’d hurt John any worse, you’d definitely not be leaving here alive.”

Evans only curled in on himself, cradling his head, “You win, mate. Could you stop shouting already? Bit of a headache.”

Sherlock took his phone out and dialed, “Lestrade, do you think you could possibly get your team of imbeciles up here before I do a murder? And bring a paramedic! John’s been shot!”

“I’m all right,” I called.

Sherlock only growled and tossed down his phone, pacing back and forth til we could hear Lestrade’s men on the stairs. He went to the doorway and shouted, “In here!”

In a moment, Lestrade came barrelling past him, gun drawn, with three other plainclothesmen.

“Put that thing away before you have someone’s eye out,” Sherlock spat. “That bit is over now. Get him out of my sight and get us a fucking doctor, Lestrade! John’s been shot! ”

“A bit,” I put in. “Grazed, really. Stings quite a bit, but I hurt myself worse the time I-”

“John, do you think now is the moment?” Sherlock snapped.

I cupped my mouth with my hands and stage-whispered, “I’m the one you’re worried about, you arse.”

Lestrade laughed nervously, but Sherlock whirled round and gave him a filthy look.

Lestrade cleared his throat, “Right, you heard the man. Let’s get Evans out of here. I’ll get the ambulance.”

Lestrade’s men cuffed Evans and hauled him out, and Lestrade stepped into the hallway to call for an ambulance that I didn’t need but wasn’t about to turn down in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock dropped down beside me again, pressing down on the wound in my leg with his scarf, “If you ever -”

“Are you lecturing me about getting shot when you charged the shooter, you idiot?” I could feel him shaking. I put my arm about his shoulders, “I’m all right, Sherlock. Really I am. It’s okay.” I stroked his back. “Can you take a deep breath for me?” Sherlock gulped shallowly, and I patted his back, “How many questions did I have left?”

Sherlock let out a careful breath through his nose, “Twelve.”

“Twelve. Okay. Hmm. Am I nice?”

“No,” Sherlock said instantly. “Eleven.”

“Not nice. Okay,” I stroked Sherlock’s back as I considered, and he kept up steady pressure on my leg. I wanted to ask him if he’d done it before, but I thought I should probably carry on with our distraction. “I suppose I’m definitely not Anderson. That wasn’t a question; don’t answer it. Right. Not handsome, not famous. Erm. Can’t be myself, I suppose. I’m not dark-haired. Ha, nor tall.”

“You think I think you’re not handsome?” Sherlock looked into my face, his forehead creased in genuine confusion.

“Well. I’m getting on in years, aren’t I?”

“Thirty-six!” said Sherlock, outraged.

“Well you’re only. What? Twenty-seven, so I-”

“I’m thirty! You’re just trying to upset me, you horrible tease. Either way, thirty-six is hardly in the sere and yellow.”

I laughed, “I don’t know where you get these expressions from.”

“Macbeth, John, honestly! Where did you go to school?”

“And anyway I’ve got a nose.”

“A perfect nose,” Sherlock said fervently. “It suits your face.”

“Ha, thanks. Well, I give up. Tell me, who am I?”

Sherlock looked down at his hands on my leg, “You’re me.”

I grinned, “Genius. I’d never have guessed.”

“You didn't  guess.”

I brushed a bit of fringe back from Sherlock’s forehead, “I think I’ve had a brainwave.”

“Have you? Perhaps it’s only a headache.”

I smiled because he seemed to be a little less worried now that I’d disappear out from under him, “Haaa shut up for a moment and listen to me. You’ll like this. This is what you wanted for me, isn’t it? For us, I should say.”

Sherlock looked down at my bleeding leg again, then back up to my face, outraged, “This?!”

“Well not the shot bit, but. The rest of it. The deductions, the plan, the stakeout. The dramatic confrontation. The thrill of the chase. The blood pumping in your veins. Just the two of us against the rest of the world. That’s what you wanted, when you invited me to work with you full time. Yeah?”

Sherlock’s eyelashes rather fluttered and he looked away again, “Well. Yes. Though I’d hoped the blood would continue pumping in your veins rather than outside of them. And I’m starting to think there’s something in that whole. Practicing medicine thing.” He nodded down at my leg.

“There’s something in it, yeah.” I drew a long breath, “Sherlock, erm.” But at that moment, with heavy hurrying footsteps on the stairs, the paramedics appeared with a gurney and Sherlock sprang up and began snappishly ordering everyone about again.

…

“It was worth it, you know,” John remarks from the sofa. He isn’t looking at me, his remark may as well be addressed to the cup of tea he’s nursing. Try and ignore the little flare of anger this stokes in me. Lower my chin over my violin and pluck G. “Getting shot,” John clarifies.

He is looking at me when I raise my head to glare at him, “That isn’t the right thing. Shut up, John.”

John sets his mug on the coffee table, “Mmnope. It is, actually. Aren’t you going to ask why?”

“Because you’re off your tits on painkillers and a complete slut for an adrenaline rush besides. Still doesn’t make for pleasant dinner conversation.”

“Slut,” John repeats delightedly. “Pot, kettle, black. I’ve only had half a pill two hours ago, for your information, so I’m not even close off to my tits on anything. And I’ll tell you, since you haven’t the manners to ask.”

Sigh and pluck G again, “I suppose there’s no stopping you.”

“None at all. This is important, so listen.” Cup my ear theatrically, and John laughs before he continues, “Actually, could you come here, please?”

I set my violin down, rise obediently and come and stand before the sofa, “Yes?” John pats the cushion beside him and I sit with a sigh.

“Thanks,” John adjusts his position so that he can look at me head on. He wets his lips, “It was worth it, because I got to find out. I got to find out something. Important.” John shakes his left hand, then clasps his hands together, “I got to find out. Got to see firsthand. That I’m. That I mean something to you. And that. Is worth it to me.”

I’ve gone very warm all over, “Oh.” Try and make myself say more. Can’t seem to manage it.

“Because. You mean something to me. You mean a lot to me. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had in the world. More than that, even,” John tugs my sleeve emphatically. “But that’s the most important bit. And since apparently you’re a headcase who dives in front of guns, I didn’t want to waste another day in telling you so.” The right thing.

Make myself breath, “I.”

John smiles, “In your own time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You. You mean I’m your. Your best friend?”

John’s smile broadens, “You really are. Which means if I catch you charging a gunman again, I’ll take the gun off him and shoot you myself. You nearly gave me heart failure, you maniac.”

“I. Yes. Sorry, John.” Head is either too empty or too full to answer properly. Difficult to say.

John pulls on my sleeve again and speaks low, “I can’t do without you, all right? I’m. I’m crazy for you. Please don’t scare me that way again.” I nod, and John pushes forward and wraps me in a brief hug before sinking back into the sofa cushions and propping his injured leg up on the little cushion stack I’ve made for him, “You okay?”

My eyes are stinging. Blink hard and stand up, “Fine.” John watches me cross the room stiffly and pick up my violin again. I take my playing spot near the window and play through his piece. Shut my eyes against watching his reflection, and when I lower my instrument, I can see John is still looking me. His face is glowing. But it always does.

“What is that?” he asks, as if he knows. “What’s that called?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m thinking of calling it John.” John begins to push up from the sofa, tries to stand. “John, don’t! You’re meant to be resting your leg.”

“Damn my leg!” John snaps. “I’ve got my whole bloody life to rest my leg, but if I don’t get my hands on you in the next two seconds, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Drop my violin in my chair and move the rest of the way across the room in two steps, and John reaches for me and clutches at me the moment I land beside him. Winds his fists in my tee shirt and pulls me close to him, “Can I kiss you, Sherlock? Please let me kiss you.”

Nod and lean in and John meets me with a kiss. Much gentler than I’d expected. A soft little question of a kiss. Hope my answer is clear enough, and it seems to be, because John’s hands glide up my back, stroke my neck, tangle in my hair. Squirm and clasp him to me, tug at his shirt, then drop my hands.

John draws back from my face with a little gasp, his mouth already pink and swollen from mine (surge of possessive delight)(bit not good)(he’d like it, though)(must think how to tell him)(the right thing!), “I hope you’re not thinking you can’t touch me because I’ve been shot.”

“Well,” I’m rather gasping myself. “Yes, a bit.”

John shakes his head, pulls off his tee shirt, “ Please touch me.” He leans back against the sofa, beckons to me, and I lunge after him to catch his mouth again. Rub my hands up his smooth, warm sides, kiss down his jaw, his neck and I can feel his answering moans in his skin against my lips and it’s all too too too delicious. Kiss John’s chest, search for his heartbeat so quick quick beneath his rib-cage. His hands are wandering over my back underneath my tee shirt, and he toys with the hem, “Can I see you?” He tugs at it to show me what he means.

“Yes!” Sit up and pull the shirt over my head and get stuck briefly, til John helps me out of it, and he’s laughing when I can see his face again, but it doesn’t matter, because his hands are on me and his hands are exquisite.

“Let’s lie down on your bed,” John sits up. Think of telling him to stay put, as I’m actually quite nervous of him walking. On second thought, I’m also quite nervous of bumping his leg with all the squirming he keeps exciting from me, so nod and stand up and offer John my hands. He lets me help him to his feet and wrap his arm about my shoulders.

“I really don’t need that much help,” John says sheepishly. “It aches more than hurts, really. It’s just a bit stiff.” John actually blushes at the double entendre (or perhaps it’s because of the erection evident through his pyjama bottoms).

“So I see,” my voice is rough. “More than a bit, I’d say.”

“Hark who’s talking,” John’s colour deepens.

It’s a fair assessment, “John, you can stand here on your sore leg and make clever jokes, or you can let me help you into my bedroom and suck you off. Whichever you prefer.”

“Jesus,” John mutters. “The latter.”

“Thank you.”

We make our way to my bedroom, John rushing rather more than I’d like on his leg. He drops onto the bed when he’s in range of it and pushes himself backward into the centre. Flop down beside John and crawl between his spread knees to tug down his pyjama bottoms. The bandage on his thigh is actually quite reassuringly neat and medical (no blood showing through).

“Too many bullet wounds, John.”

“Working on that, yeah,” John’s voice is a rasp.

Want to kiss his scarred shoulder. Now is not the moment, though. Mustn’t be self defeating. Kiss down John’s chest instead, lap at his navel, nip the suggestion of his hip bones, and John’s moaning squirms make me too stupid to do anything but exactly what I’m doing. There’s a damp spot on the front of John’s pants, and I peel them away carefully as if I’m opening a present. John’s cock is lovely (my mouth waters as it comes into sight), stout and pink, the head already shining with pre-come.

Slather wet kisses on it from root to tip, and John rocks and catches at my hair(he doesn’t pull it)(going to have to make him pull it), “Sherlock...” Take the blushing head gently, reverently into my mouth and apply the barest suction. John’s hand tightens in my hair, “Sherlock, please.” Pull off momentarily to grin at him, and he giggles, “Would you get on with it, please? Or I’ll make you go first.”

Take him into my mouth again, deep as I can (pleasing stretch in my jaw)(going to need more practise)(suspect I’ll get it!), then ease off slowly to tease his foreskin. Only for a moment, as that’s too near to not getting on with it (and we’ve waited long enough). On either side of me, I can feel John’s thighs trembling (he’s trying not to rock his hips)(must let him know it’s all right if he’s a bit unmannerly with me)(want to pull him to bits and make him forget himself). Stroke along the inside of his thigh, cup and squeeze his scrotum gently, and John makes muffled desperate sounds into the heel of his free hand and drops his head back against the headboard with a thump (very encouraging!)(want him unmuffled)(there will be time to get to that)(!).

Work John’s beautiful twitching cock with my mouth and hand in unison and pull up to suck ruthlessly at the tip and John rocks up into my mouth and comes with little shout and a deliciously rude tug at my hair. Hug his uninjured thigh for a moment and squirm through a sympathy shiver while John likewise shakes off an aftershock, then push up onto my knees and stroke myself off over his groin and belly.

John beams at me, shakes his head, “I wanted to do that.”

“So you shall, John.” Yawn helplessly, “Sorry about that. I’ll put you in the queue for next time.”

“Here now,” John nudges me with his knee as I sag onto the pillow next to him. “Are you going to fall asleep and leave me all messy like this? You’re the one who told me to stop walking so much.”

“Actually the infant of a doctor at A&E told you to stop walking so much. But I think it looks nice,” rest my head on his shoulder just to annoy him. “I think you should go about like that all the time.”

“Might be a bit hard on you, though,” John refuses to be annoyed and strokes my hair instead. Lovely.

Yawn into his shoulder, “A sacrifice I’m willing to make.” Kiss his cheek and spring up before he can reply. Go into the bathroom and have a wash and return to the bedroom with fresh gauze and a wet towel.

Clean John up first, then replace his bandage (wound looks better already). Settle myself on his shoulder again, and he puts his arms about me, and I sigh, and he kisses the top of my head.

“Are you the sort of person who gets sleepy after sex?” John asks presently. “I get chatty. How do you feel about pillow talk?”

“Much as I enjoy the dulcet sound of your voice, John, I feel that you should definitely be asleep now. We can talk in the morning; I assure you the pillow will still be here.”

“Bossy,” John kisses my hair. “Do I get special pillow talk dispensation for our first time, since I’m a revolting old romantic?”

Turn my face into my pillow to hide my silly grin, “Be as romantic as you like, John. That’s nothing to do with it. But people who are recovering from being shot-”

“Grazed,” John interjects.

“-need their rest. Now shut your eyes, and go to sleep,” give him a very instructive and business-like pinch.

He squirms and giggles (delightful), “Well all right, if I get to stay here with you, I suppose I can just have romantical dreams about you, then.”

Blush furiously and hide my face against John’s neck, “I hope you don’t imagine I’ll be carrying you up the stairs to your bedroom in this state.”

“Ah well, no matter.” John cuddles me a bit closer and yawns obligingly, “I could really get used to this.”

Stroke his chest, “I hope that you do.”

John gives me one last sleepy kiss, “Mmmn, good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”