John wasn't really sure how this happened, or what to do about it. They were in Sherlock's office, and his shirt was off, and Sherlock was kissing the life out of him. John was knocking into things. Pain exploded in his foot as he stubbed his toe, and oh - his exclamation of discomfort was lost in Sherlock's mouth, he was swallowing John up like a blue whale. Kind of blasphemous, wasn't it?

"We should go out sometime," John panted into Sherlock's lips. "I mean - I mean - I don't know you, and we're snogging in an office-"

"S'better that way," Sherlock said, trailing down open mouthed kisses down John's neck, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. With his mouth unoccupied, John was free to speak. "I really - oh - I really think I should know a bit about you before - before-"

Sherlock met John's mouth again, smothering him before he could say anything else. Ravenously, he untucked his own dress shirt and tried pulling it off of his shoulders, momentarily parting with John's mouth. Ultimately, that was a mistake.

"Dinner?"

Sherlock smashed his lips into John's, chewing on his bottom lip so he'd just shut up, "Shut up, John," Sherlock growled as he pulled back on John's hair, his dress shirt half off his shoulders. The cotton grazed John's nipple. He shuddered, gritting out, "Lunch, then."

"Mr. Watson, I will literally have you on my desk if you don't shut" - Sherlock punctuated each word with a painful bite - "the fuck - up."

John mewled as Sherlock kneed his leg in between John's thighs to keep him in place, but all it was really doing was creating friction for John to slot against. "Jesus, Sherlock," he growled, "holy shit-"

"Stop talking," he barked, biting down on John's nipple before lifting him up and slamming his body carelessly into the wall, so his eyes clouded and he pushed back a shout. His head cracked against concrete, the pain radiating his skull. Sherlock's leg was putting a sharp pressure on John's erection and John felt the heat building that wasn't nearly enough. He was going to ask Sherlock if he minded - but then he remembered; don't speak.

He began to fuck Sherlock's leg. God. God, God, God. He almost swore he heard Sherlock growl, and his hips stilled as Sherlock grabbed his bare waist and pushed him forcefully back into place.

"I really don't like your lack of self control," Sherlock whispered, backing away so John could almost see his irises. A sudden surge of confidence filled John as he stared into Sherlock's blackened eyes. He was doing this. This was his game, and he was winning. He took a hold on Sherlock's wrists and flipped his body into the wall, so he was in control, and Sherlock's back was cutting into the stone. He said, "Learn to," his voice hoarse and dark with arousal, a grim expression cutting across his features.

There was a knock, then.

"What time is it," Sherlock whispered.

John's eyes looked to the watch on his wrist. "7:17," he said, his pupils still dark.

Sherlock shot from the wall, grabbing their clothes and jackets from the floor and a chair across the room. "We need to exit immediately," he said, his voice sharp and strict.

"Wait - why?" John panted, following after Sherlock, who was pacing away to a small window. Sherlock blatantly ignored him as he opened it, stepping through to the freezing outside. Goosebumps rose on his skin, hairs poking from his skin like sprouts in Spring. "You're a moron," he shivered, putting out a hand for John to come with.

The door to the music room opened. "Mr. Holmes!" someone yelled. "Hello? Anyone there?"

John froze.

"Do you fancy prison?" Sherlock hissed, taking John's hand and yanking him forward. "Climb out the window!"

The footsteps resounded as they came closer. With an grunt, he slipped through the open space, coming out into the back of the academy. He'd never seen this place before. It was all long grass, some of it only a few inches shorter than him. After the explosion of tall shrubbery, it led into a thick wood. Sherlock quickly shut the window, shouldering on his shirt and saying, "Duck!

"What?"

Sherlock yanked John down forcefully beneath the window, earning a grunt. His bare flesh was being scratched with the coarse brick, bugs landing on the skin of his shoulder. He wanted to brush them off, but heard the sound of a man opening the window they'd just escaped from.

John's heart was thudding, even as he sat perfectly still. His entire body burned as he leaned against the brick, arm pressed against Sherlock's, breath held.

Above them, John could see the stubbled chin of the man poke out of the window, searching for a noise, a flash of skin. After a long, long moment, he surmised he must have been hearing things. He shut the window, and both John and Sherlock inhaled sharply.

John shook his head, high octane thumps of his heart shooting through him, a bullet
carving veins out of marble. "You're ridiculous," he gasped, putting his hands to the dirt, "this is bloody ridiculous." He chuckled, his vocals airy from gasping. "That... was the most ridiculous thing... I have ever done."

Sherlock looked over at him as he pulled his body into a stand. He grinned, panting out, "Probably," and a laugh built up in John's throat that he couldn't push down. He was laughing - Sherlock was laughing - and John's shirt was half on and he couldn't think from the pulse of adrenaline running through him, drilling holes into his skin. If this was a drug, he was hooked - beyond hooked - and he felt puncture wounds litter his elbows. He felt insane, that's how he felt. Their laughter heightened as the looked at each other, their lips swollen and their skin turned a strange shade of morning light. When John finally stood up beside him, beyond the stretch of gray concrete walls, he could see the toy soldier bodies of men walking into the academy to teach.

"You're bloody mad, you know that?" John questioned. Trees above them cast shadows that fell across Sherlock's torso, occasional dapples of light being revealed on his pale skin.

Sherlock scoffed, touching the palms of his hands to the rough concrete bricks. "I know," he almost gasped, catching his breath. "That was very exciting, though, wasn't it?" He looked over to John, turning his head sharply.

John barked out a laugh. "Exciting?" He shook his head, grinning. "Exciting? I'm about to go into tachycardia, Sherlock," John said.

"It would be bad if you died, right now," Sherlock said. "Abandoned. Behind a building."

"A bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock laughed again, his eyes bright and his laughter deep and slow, like churning chocolate. It was a bit peculiar, how John knew nothing about this man. All he was was a pretty face, and he was willing to do nothing to expand upon that knowledge.

Were they supposed to wave at each other in the hallways? Could they even acknowledge each other's existence? Was there supposed to be anything besides this? Would Sherlock just be a blue eyed man with disconnected words surrounding him, a concept not yet tied together? John looked at him and all he could see was two-dimensional shapes, abstract colors, irrational numbers.

"So," John said to him. "What now?" He pushed his body off the wall, not bothering to button his shirt back up.

Sherlock did likewise, approaching John from the side and grabbing his wrists. "We finish," he said, his words enunciated sharply. There was still something dangerous swimming in his eyes.

John shook his head as Sherlock leaned into him, pushing against Sherlock's carved, pale chest to keep him away. He could see the spatter of a birthmark on his abdomen. "No," he breathed, "what now?" His eyes slipped away from Sherlock's body to his eyes, where a subtle realization set in. Sherlock let go of John's wrists, but John kept his hand on Sherlock's chest until he stepped away, his feet crushing dry leaves.

"If you want to do this - you must understand that we can't form anything more than a sexual relationship, John." His eyes went dark. "We are business partners. We are not friends. We are not lovers. You will not ask me to come to dinner. You will not tell me about your day. We will not acknowledge each other unless we are required to. At parties, we avoid one another, unless gratification is to come of it. Understood?"

John was silent.

"Otherwise, we can't continue this."

John nodded, slowly. "Understood."

"If you comply, John," his lips curled, "this will be very satisfying."

John nodded, and Sherlock's eyes blew out, like a black hole swallowing a star.

***

John got home early, just like he'd promised.

His body felt radioactive. As soon as he touched the doorknob, his hand became hot. And as he walked in, he felt a lie on his fingertips and on his chest and in every place that Sherlock had ever touched him.

He was praying that Claire had gone out with Mark's wife, or that the sewing circle had called from out of the blue and snatched her from the house. He almost hoped that she had left, that she was gone, like a whisper. Never to be seen again. He would be the only one to remember her.

But - no. There was no such thing as miracles. He heard her in the kitchen, sharp gray eyes flickering up from her food. "Hello," John found his mouth betraying him. She smiled warmly, and John's stomach sank. "Sorry," he blurted.

Her face evened out to blankness again. "Why, John?"

Think, think. "I - I came home a bit later than I'd been expecting," he stammered. "I was applying for a fellowship."

"Really?"

John's eyes fixated on the space between Claire's eyes. "Yeah." He swallowed. "I'm deciding to specialize."

"Ah." She nodded, going back to her food. After a few moments of John silently standing in the doorway, she abruptly looked up. "So, um."

John glanced at her. "Mm?" He couldn't find it inside of him to offer up anything more engaged. He felt like every word more was a drip of arsenic in an IV that was strung to Claire's veins.

"We're having company over."

Okay. "Who," John stated, his tone plain.

"Your parents, my parents, Harry, James, Francis, Mark, Allison, their son-"

"Woah," John cut her off. "What?"

"I know it's at short notice-"

"You didn't think to tell me? You assumed I wouldn't have things doing?" A new sort of heat bubbled in John's fingertips. "Can we not do the whole 'pretends to enjoy being constantly criticized by our parents in front of our friends' thing today?"

"It's really not that bad."

John shook his head disbelievingly. "What the hell are you talking about, Claire?"

She suddenly turned to him, brandishing a knife that she was using to chop onions. Her eyes were red and watery, and her body had gone unusually slack. "I am so tired, John," she said, straining. He had almost expected her to continue, but she left the sentence at that, and went back to her onions.

John stared at her, thinking. She pointedly ignored him, chopping onions heatedly, getting a few done within the time of thirty seconds. If John had paid attention, he would have noticed that her hair was in her eyes and her shoulders were quaking, like September leaves.

Instead, all he was paying attention to was the beat of his own heart, and the thoughts in his head. He could still feel fingerprints on his arse and his chest, and the sharp sting of tall, tall grass, snapping against his skin. Tree bark, as Sherlock pressed him into a sapling. The taste of his mouth. The butterflies in his stomach. The elation - that moment before Sherlock kissed him, where their eyes locked and time paused in a way that was just so.

He never wanted this. His eyes flickered to Claire. I never wanted you.

John retreated slowly as he prepared for the onslaught of precarious comments and awkward silences. He held the moments he had with Sherlock close to him.

***

The smell of tarragon and chicken filled the air at about five. By six, John's parents had come in, John's dad - George - and John's mom - Emma - the both of them mindlessly bumbling at each other.

"The sciences of bacteria in the African rainforest are fascinating, Emma," he blabbered. "They reproduce at astounding rates, due to the optimal heat and moisture levels in the air."

She nodded at him, once. "Incredible." Her hand went to her graying hair, pushing it back into place, a bun taking up residence atop her head.

"And the flora! The flowers, my dear. You saw them - tell John. Tell John about how they looked."

She turned to John, smiling. "Vibrant," she stated. "Neon."

"Exactly, my son. Exactly. At night, their color was magnificent. You could see it light up entire clearings."

"That so?" John bemusedly questioned. This part wasn't too bad. Mostly discussion of his parents. Eventually, though, the spotlight always instinctually fell to him.

John had always taken after his mother. She was a very stoic woman. She listened, only cutting in when asked or when her opinion was needed. And then, if someone disagreed, she was willing to debate it with them until their bodies sagged from old age. She was John without the temper, or the blonde hair.

John's father, on the other hand... "Don't you love ecology? It's so fascinating. All these different ecosystems, all those biomes!" He'd dressed eccentrically in full out khakis. John nearly took pity on him, poor man.

Harry would arrive late. Probably didn't want to go, but no one ever did. It wasn't like she and John had become accomplished politicians in the last month since they'd seen each other. And the other kids - they had awards and a family and they wore smiles that had a slightly longer expiration date.

Being the son of a famed politician was hard as it was. "Are you going to run for class president?" his dad'd say with that light expression and encouraging smile and then, of course, John always had to say yes because he used to be like Claire. If you drew your gun at John, back then, he'd shoot you in the head. Overachiever. Workaholic. That was John. Always looking for things to curb boredom.

Claire's father showed up next. He still carried himself with that military air, even when in the company of his parents. John bristled at the sight of him, eventually crawling back upstairs so he could pretend he was looking for a tie pin until his friends arrived.

He rotated back down to greet them when they came. Mark and James lived very close to each other, and their significant others were chatting to each other, James's girlfriend, Francis, smothering a grin into her hand. He could hear her, faintly. They were talking about how she was liking Britain thus far.

Francis's relationship with the others was strange. No one dared to contest her presence because of James, but John sometimes had to pretend he didn't hear where James and Francis were concerned. James and Francis were a match made in God knew where. He was white and she was black; he was rich and she planted trees.

The Poor One. He had, in fact, heard someone refer to her as such. Like it was a gift for her to spend time with them, the wealthy.

What shit.

She was small and dark-skinned and had a quiet smile and a loud, loud laugh. John knew why James loved her.

After some parties John saw him hugging her, placing his jean jacket around her shoulders. She looked cold and skinny and obvious in those dresses. Her body didn't fit the frame of them. John thought the parties upset her - not because she was bored or cynical - but because she stuck out like a sore thumb, a brown blemish of "Don't Belong." Lavish fabrics seemed to unravel around her chest.

She hated them all, he could tell. John tried to pay her small kindnesses - a smile here, a compliment there. Mostly, she retreated into James's smile and pretended to be sophisticated by staying quiet. James loved her. And it was strange, wasn't it?

Handsome guy like him. He'd been in the US Air Force - and now he was here, for reasons John couldn't begin to imagine.

He'd asked, once. John asked him why he was in Britain, and he wouldn't say, not for the life of him. Was it for her? Boyish, skinny, curly haired Francis? The Poor One?

John liked to imagine being that wholly dedicated. As if love could metastasize across oceans. John wanted that. No matter color of the skin, no matter religion, no matter gender, you would love the person until you were both dust in rotting coffins.

John set the dinner table with Mark, and he talked with John about his son's new school. "Mikey's getting started soon," he said. "He's already begun to study addition. Knows his fact families."

"I hated maths," John said as he heard quick, staccato footsteps and the sound of a young boy, yelling.

Mark's eyes shone as he looked from John to his boy. "Mikey," he called, holding an arm up for him to come forward. The small, cherry brunette boy came close, his limbs overenthusiastic with energy.

"What?" he practically shouted.

"Can you help us with this table?" Mark patted Mikey's back. "Give us some plates, please."

His eyes flashed with understanding, and he shot off to the kitchen, yelling incoherencies. Mark's eyes were warm with paternal love as he put dishes on the table.

"Is it nice?" John abruptly blurted.

Mark turned to him. "Pardon?"

"Being..." John glanced back to Claire, his heart fluttering. She was putting a chicken onto a thick plate, cursing under her breath as it burned her. "Being a father. You know. A parent."

Mark smiled, and nodded. "I think so. I mean, yeah. Yeah, it is."

The meal was delicious. Mark and John discussed the pros and cons of telephones, and the new advances in technology surrounding cameras. Ali brought up the fact that she had a color camera, and Claire chirped that she'd used it. "Kind of grainy, though."

Looking at them, pleasantly talking, John nearly had a sense of family. Even Francis started to blend in, occasionally giggling at a joke Mark told, her hand coming up to hold James's atop the table. He looked over to her, whispering quietly with a playful grin.

Claire's father was shifting in his chair, biting back an urge to speak. John looked up at him, his eyes almost expectant, but the general locked eyes with him and stayed starkly silent. John's father was chatting about the socialites and their new endeavors to be the biggest, the best. "Mrs. Holly is trying to open up an orphanage. Good woman, she is."

"That's not all she is," someone said sarcastically. Mark's face crinkled as he laughed, saying, "She's trying her best."

The speech was all sort of lost as voices rose over each other. Claire didn't even say a word, eating her food silently and ever so often smiling at Ali, nodding in agreement. John, despite himself, held her hand under the table. It felt like sticky clam meat.

"Ever since her husband was shipped off," Mark said, "she's been trying to improve things a little 'round here. We should all be aspiring to her."

The room erupted in groans and everyone scoffed spitefully. "She should focus on herself," someone said. "We can take care of ourselves."

"It's not about us," Mark said. "Their parents are dead, and they're off living one day at a time."

"The job isn't hers, it's the government's," someone grumbled.

"Ah, the government is practically incompetent," Mr. Tabbot replied, slicing some more chicken for himself. "Winston Churchill is sending this country to the hellhole."

"Yes, let's blame all of our problems on the prime minister," John's mom bit.

"My lawn wasn't mowed this morning," John heard James say, faking indignance. "And the state of the garden - appalling! I say we send him to Japan!"

"Oh, yeah," someone scornfully agreed. "And my plumbing - awful, I tell you."

"Sending this country down the hellhole," Claire's father murmured, nodding, especially serious. "I mean, my daughter hasn't been married yet! Isn't that awful?"

The laughter suddenly dissipated as John cleared his throat, his eyes locked on Claire's dad. "Ah," he said, clipping his words short, "we're working on it."

Francis spoke up, her accent thick and her voice quiet. "When are you getting married?" she said, a smile twisting up on the corner of her mouth.

John's stomach dropped, because he had no clue what to say.

Claire suddenly butted in. "Soon," she said, plastering on a grin. In her eyes, John could see well-hidden resentment, and he instinctually shied away from her, forcing a small smile onto his lips. He could feel it come out tight, and they were still staring at each other when Claire's father cleared his throat.

"So."

John looked up from Claire, his eyes sharpening. "Yes, sir?"

"Oh, call me Mr. Tabbot," Claire's father said, warmth slathered into his voice. "I was just curious about your occupation."

Oh, shit. "Ask away," John said through gritted teeth.

"Who do you treat?" he asked. His voice was sliding from curiosity to interrogation very quickly, and John bristled as he spoke: "I'm a general physician. I diagnose and prescribe, occasionally needed in surgery or to fit amputees."

"Really?"

John wasn't sure if that was rhetorical or not, so he answered, "Yes," just to be safe. He could no longer hear people eating. It was relatively quiet, except for the noise of Mark's son playing with his chicken. Ali kept on flicking him so he'd stop.

"Do you like your job?"

"Yeah, I do, sir. I mean - Mr. Tabbot."

He shifted, running his thumb and forefinger against his chin. "Where do expect to go?"

"Sir?"

"How will you progress?" he clarified sharply. "You must think about progressing. Furthering your craft."

John squinted. "Why?" he asked, trying to play off his hostility as confusion. His father cut in before he could embarrass himself.

"John always talked about joining the army when he was young, being an army medic. I always told him to be a politician, but that boy is a free thinker. Very very creative, very intelligent," John's father added, smiling.

Mr. Tabbot blatantly ignored him. "Because," he explained, "you want to always improve yourself, your situation."

John sat back in his chair, smiling thinly. "I'm... fine as is, thanks."

"John is all about making people feel good," Claire added in, trying to stay amicable.

"Yeah, John's got a knack," Mark stated kindly. "I mean, owning a business can be fun and profitable, but he spends his days healing people. Really great of him, far as I'm concerned."

"Thanks, Mark."

"Being a politician pays better," Mr. Tabbot pushed on, leaning forward a bit. "You're just a general practitioner."

"Oh, man," James suddenly spoke up, rolling his eyes and scoffing through the words. Claire's father suddenly shifted his eyes to him, irritated by his American slang and attitude. His eyebrows creased, as if to reprimand James for speaking up. "Credit where credit's due. Your son-in-law is not just a doctor," James stated. "I mean, look at him. He's good-looking, humble, honest." James turned to the table with a smile in his eyes. "If you gave me a choice between Cary Grant and John Watson... I'd choose Cary Grant. Every single time."

John rolled his eyes, hard.

"But," James added, looking at Mr. Tabbot, "he's definitely my second favorite. And Claire's. You should respect him for that, at the least."

The table stilled, but John could see Mark nodding faintly across from him, eyes glued to his meal.

Their staring contest lasted a few moments more until James broke the gaze. "I only have a certain capacity for testosterone," he stated, "Past a point, I get migraines. Really bad ones." He paused. "I'm gonna... stop talking now."

"Stop talking, James," John said, nodding.

Mr. Tabbot turned back to John, his face decidedly more sour than usual. He kept on shooting James the stink eye while he conversed with John. "Anyway," he enunciated sharply, "why don't you try to become a surgeon? I heard that's a well-paying job."

"I am a surgeon, Mr. Tabbot," John said. His name sounded strange off the tongue. "I just don't focus solely on surgeries."

"What are you specifically? Oncologist? Immunologist? Pediatrician? Neurologist?"

"I actually haven't applied for a fellowship," John said measuredly.

"Do it," Claire's father said, sitting back. "Why not?"

"I have no need to, sir. It'll be a waste of two years."

"It's a chance to further your craft."

John's face crumpled. "I wanna join the military," he muttered underneath his breath.

"Sorry?"

He could hear the entire table quiet and lean forward to listen, and he shifted uncomfortably. Claire's grip on him tightened. "I want to join the military, sir," John stated, firmly. "I want to be an army medic."

Mr. Tabbot's face steeled, at first. And then he began to laugh. Little hiccuping laughs, that sounded absolutely ridiculous. "No," he chuckled. "You? No. No."

John faked a terse smile. "Mr. Tabbot, ah," he said, "what's funny?"

He looked at the surrounding members of the table, whose faces where stark and deadpan. "You're John Watson," he laughed. "You're not sodding... cavalier."

"Do I need to be cavalier to want to help my country?" John shot back.

"You can't do it."

"That... really isn't your decision to make."

"John. It's petty," he insisted, a smile still on his lips.

"It isn't petty to help people," Mark suddenly cut in, his intonation warning and low. "With all due respect, sir. Lay off."

Mr. Tabbot looked disbelievingly at Mark, scoffing and shaking his head. "And have you told my girl?" Mr. Tabbot almost shouted, turning back to John with a glare. "Have you discussed this with her?"

Claire opened her mouth to say something, anything - but John's mother suddenly broke in, her tone sharp and angry. Her eyes were churning as she spat, "What my boy does for a living is not to be demeaned because some frankly annoying aristocrat doesn't like the pay grade. Your attitude towards my son has been reprehensible, at best. Interrogating and humiliating him in front of his friends, his fiancée, his parents! Your nerve, Mr. Tabbot!" She fiercely sliced some more chicken from the plate, paying no attention to the shocked glances everyone was giving her. Mr. Tabbot adjusted to the silence as everyone's eyes shifted to him, John's mother beginning to speak again. "My husband has not reprimanded you out of sheer respect, but do not think for a moment that I will hold back in the face of injustice."

John looked to her, his face creased. "Jesus, Mum." All she did was violently throw a plop of mashed potatoes on his plate. "Mum, I don't - I didn't ask for-" He felt a hand grab his and lift it onto the the table, Claire eagerly displaying their domesticity. "We're very happy," she bubbled, leaning in to kiss John on the apple of his cheek. "And," she added, her eyes flickering down to their joined hands, "we're hosting a picnic on the..."

Claire's voice trailed off, and her expression fell flat quite quickly. John couldn't bring himself to ask, even though the table was practically writhing with tension. She was staring at his hands. Why was she staring at his hands? What was wrong with them?

She stood up so abruptly that her chair shot out a couple of feet behind her. "Excuse me a moment," she breathed, flustered. She bowed her head before pacing away from the dining table and into the kitchen, where John could hear a faucet being turned on. As soon as the clicking of heels had stopped, the whole house fell quiet, much like the silence after a tornado, or a hurricane passing through the doldrums. Mark gave John a look, and John gave him a look back, mouthing, "What's going on?"

"I could ask the same," Claire's father rumbled lowly from the side, standing up. He looked like a general, then. Someone truly fitting of the title - dark and tall and larger than anyone at the table. There was a gleam in his eyes, that if John looked closely, he could mistake for protectiveness. John blinked and the sparkle was gone. "Thank you for your company, everyone." He removed a jacket from the back of his chair and threw it across his shoulders. "And apologies to Mr. Watson," he said. "Your mother is very wise, and I was wrong to have infringed."

John nodded, once. "S'alright."

He walked out and his footsteps sounded like a statement. The water in the kitchen was still running.