He was going to have to find what made Sherlock tick. Like a clock, or a poker game, or the weather - there were patterns, rhythms. Everyone had one, whether or not it was obvious. Sherlock was proving to be John's match as time went on. They had to have known each other for three months, but they had covered every possible subject to cover without having a real conversation. And John was waiting.

Sherlock didn't seem like he had a shell to crack, just plenty of secrets. Sometimes, when it was late and John was kept awake by Claire's breathing, he theorized about who Sherlock Holmes was before he became Sherlock Holmes.

Masterful. Detached. Erotic. Wealthy. Vicious.

Had he been kind? Once upon a time, had his hands recognized someone's body, afraid of knowing too much? Or was it that he did know too much? That he'd discovered that love was a sham, and he was too intelligent to be made a fool?

He could have loved someone, and left someone. John had to know what made him tick. If not for himself, then for his well-being. John was going to find out - and he had to do it in thirteen days.

"Anything you're working on?" John was sitting in the chair he had unofficially claimed as his, although parents sat in it all the time. It was also the chair where he had received five vigorous lap dances (and counting). He held the Union Jack throw pillow against his stomach, fingers playing with the frayed thread.

Sherlock looked up from a music book, his violin close to him. His expression went from inquisitive to skeptical within a second. "Yes," he said. He sounded bewildered, as if he was surprised that John even cared.

"Well." John smiled, readjusted his body on the chair. "I'd love to hear it."

Sherlock looked even more cynical, his eyes squinting. "I don't think that would be appropriate, John, I-"

"Appropriate?" John said, genuinely chuckling. "Rich, coming from you."

Sherlock eyed John curiously for a few moments. Then he conceded, grabbing his instrument and putting it on his shoulder.

He began to play, slowly. It was a sad song, a subtle song. It spoke of loneliness and a quiet passage of time, until it was too late and you were angry. When Sherlock ended, seemingly in the middle, John sat up and forward in his seat.

"Who wrote that?"

"Me," Sherlock answered definitively. "None of the others in my orchestra could possibly write a single measure of musical notation and have it sound mildly pleasing." He put the violin down on his desk, facing the rising sun, curling his fingers into his sweater. "But," he said, hesitantly, "I don't know how to end it."

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Only if it has the potential to be intelligent."

"How about you shut up and let someone help you," John proposed jokingly, getting out of his seat and approaching Sherlock's violin. It was waiting for him, rosy and warm from Sherlock's body heat, despite the frosty October air. "Play," John said. He folded his arms across his chest, anticipatory.

Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him. He played more softly, his face eventually scrunched up in concentration, nose wrinkled, like he was smelling something rancid. John reached out and touched him, in between his shoulder blades, pressing the pads of his fingers to Sherlock's dress shirt.

When he pulled out a certain note, John told him to stop, and repeat. "There, right there, the beat needs to be longer. And then you can play..." John began humming, quickly, and Sherlock played along with the sound of his voice. "There," John said. "That's your end."

Sherlock looked thoughtful, like he was trying to figure something out. "Hm."

"What?"

"Didn't know you liked music."

"Contrary to popular belief - also known as your belief," John exhaled, leaning back on Sherlock's desk, "there are some things you don't know about me."

Sherlock surveyed John's body, relaxed there on his desk. He bit his lip. John knew what he was thinking; they both knew. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock stepped too close. "I know everything that matters," Sherlock mused. His voice was becoming hoarse.

"And what matters?" John questioned. He spread his thighs. Just a bit.

When Sherlock noticed the slight movement, he responded quite adequately, coming up close and putting both his hands on the desk, on either side of John. He felt boxed in and hot and too close, and a hand was snaking in between his legs and torturously pushing outwards. "I know you like using a belt more than you do a tie, because you like seeing marks."

John gulped.

"I've mapped out every possible erogenous zone on your body, from intense to vaguely pleasurable," Sherlock pressed on, his fingers grasping John's zipper. "I know how long your recovery period lasts and one of these days I'm going to make you come so many times in one night that you won't be able to reach climax for a week. That's how spent you'll be."

"Oh?" John said, trying to be cheeky but miserably failing as heat tightened his boxers, his voice going out like a light.

"I know that even though the underside of the glans is usually the most pleasurable zone for most men, you have an affinity for your shaft and I plan to make use of that next time we rendezvous," Sherlock said.

"And when will that be?"

"As soon as you stop talking."

John wrapped Sherlock's tie around his hand and reeled Sherlock's body in, wrapping his legs around his abdomen, all previous thoughts lost to the heat pooling in his groin. "You drive me insane," John said, grabbing Sherlock's chin in his spare palm. "You know that?"

"Mhmm," Sherlock responded. "I drive everyone insane."

"I think you like it. Someday your cheekiness is going to get you into all kinds of trouble," John hummed, biting Sherlock's ear.

"Is it trouble of the spanking variety?" he shot back, his eyes darkening, his hands becoming firmer. A gasp was stifled from John's lips as Sherlock kissed him, pushing his body quietly against the desk. Like a secret, he said, "Let's get it done. I'll turn over and we can get it done."

The playfulness died away, a stiff, claustrophobic seriousness settling in in its stead. Panic flooded John's brain; he froze, even as Sherlock was kissing him, forcefully making sure John knew the difference between business and pleasure. "Sher-" the words almost came. Quickly, they were swallowed down by someone ravenous, who was taking much more than they were giving, cutting off John's protests. "Sherlock."

"Business," Sherlock reminded John. "That's all this is." He began kissing him again, and it was forced and unusual and John, for the first time, felt like getting up and leaving, despite his obligation to learn everything he could about Sherlock in the time allotted him. He actually felt a bit... angry.

"Sherlock," John persisted, sterner. "I don't want to."

"What?" Sherlock said, parting with John's lips by half a millimeter. His breath was coming hard and shallow, skirting John's tongue. "Why not?" he demanded, confused, like a child.

"Because I don't want to just 'get it done.'"

"You sound like a nervous teenager."

"And you're only saying this so you'll get out of a human interaction."

Sherlock straightened up and backed a pace away. "It's not your place."

"Don't tell me where my place is," John warned, standing up from the desk and zipping up his trousers with an obvious defiance.

"What?" Sherlock asked, faking innocence. "You certainly liked being ordered around last time." He didn't even try to fight the burgeoning smirk; John made a noise that was frustrated and angry and annoyed, all at once.

"You're doing it again!" he shouted at Sherlock, stepping closer to him as Sherlock stepped back, always keeping an even margin away from one another.

"And what am I doing?"

"Speaking in sexual innuendo so you look cool," John explained.

"I don't do that."

"You did it five seconds ago."

Sherlock frowned. "Your point?"

"...I don't feel good about this," John responded. "You're just trying to avoid me."

"That's illogical. If I were trying to avoid you, the last thing I'd be trying to do is to allow you to put your penis inside of me."

"Jesus!" John shouted. "Enough!"

"I'm trying to be concise."

"No, you're trying to be a pain in my arse."

Sherlock shrugged. "That, too. Both literally and figuratively."

"You know," John bit, "maybe I'd want to go through with this if you cared. Just a little bit more." He gestured encompassingly, his index and thumb almost touching to indicate how much more Sherlock would have to care. Which was very little.

"If I cared, John, I would probably have more close friends."

"We both know you care about things!" John yelled, "Oh my God, everyone cares about things! Even you!"

"I'm not everyone."

"So I've heard, you arrogant dick." John paced forward, closing the gap between them and slowly easing Sherlock toward a juxtaposed wall. "You can't snap your fingers and erase your humanity. You care about something."

"And you're hoping that something is you?" Sherlock shot back, his voice becoming more intense, picking up speed. He was starting to rile up, responding the John's cutting accusations.

"No! I just-"

"Let's put it on record, shall we?" Sherlock said, voice tight. "I don't care about you. Don't you dare flatter yourself."

"Because it would be such a fucking honor to be loved by you? You pseudo-sociopath, intent on ruining people's lives? You?" A sudden exhaustion overtook him, convincing his body to sag with the weight of his own words, which were heavier than cement. "Why... are you so afraid of admitting that we-"

"We what?" Sherlock yelled, energy building in his throat. "That we're never going to elope into the sunset like you apparently so desire? That we can never be with the people we want to be with? That we're queer? That if we get caught, we'll have nothing?"

"Sherlock..."

"You are afraid of admitting that. Not me. You're an idiot for letting this happen."

"Hey - you came to me," John reminded poisonously.

"And you said yes," Sherlock retorted, continuing to back into the wall.

"Want to know why? Because I'm-"

"No-"

"-queer and I don't love my fiancée and I wanted you."

"I'm not the one you can fill your hole with!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm a bastard and I'll throw you out when I'm done with you," Sherlock hissed. "You mean nothing. You're a good time, but ultimately it's a tragic occurrence that you see something in me that I don't see in myself."

"No. No. You're alone, Sherlock. Because you push people away. You're the one who's afraid. And I have a feeling it has nothing to do with your homosexuality, or me. For a man that cares so little, you seem to have a hell of a lot more skeletons in your closets," John said, shoving Sherlock backwards, finally scraping his shoulder blades against the wall.

Sherlock looked feral when he registered that John had just pushed him, his eyes glazed over with detached anger, far from his usual annoyance or crude sense of justice. It was something entirely apart from his cruel insults, something deep seated. With a voice colder than Bristol winters, he spat, "Coming from a man whose sister is a whore drunk with an impulse control problem."

John nearly snapped.

He nearly found the words to cut Sherlock down, nearly released the frustration and loneliness and pitiful wrath that had been building in his chest, threatening to collapse his trachea. Instead, he swallowed it, hard, counting the moments until he stopped seeing shades of scarlet. "You ever talk about my sister that way again," John said, his breaths coming hard and his fists clenched into blotchy white balls to avoid strangling the arrogant fuck in front of him, "I'll show you who has an impulse control problem."

Sherlock's nostrils flared. "This won't work."

"Yeah. Because you're an egomaniac and you're a bad person!"

"And what would you be, John Watson? Sunshine and butterflies and unicorns? Children holding hands, dancing around the mulberry bush? For God's sake!"

"A hell of a lot better than you! You fucking machine!"

"You're such an idiot!"

"You're so frustrating I could kill you!"

"You'd be doing me a favor!" Sherlock shouted, grabbing John's shirt and yanking him close enough to see each shade of blue in his storm colored eyes. "I hate listening to you speak!"

"Ugh!" John yelled, the sudden proximity overwhelming. He could feel shallow breath exploding across his face, causing electricity where it made contact. And Sherlock's fists - wrapped into his shirt, defiant and clawing at the rage in John's chest, behind his rib cage, veins and arteries. "You - you dick! You... you..."

"I hate you," Sherlock whispered intensely. "God, I'd rather chop off my ear."

"I love Van Gogh, that's highly counterintuitive," John said, with equal vehemence. "Chop off your hand."

"You do realize I'm being hyperbolic," Sherlock hissed, leaning so close that John could no longer see anything at all.

"Oh, shut up," John spat, pulling Sherlock's lips to his so hard it hurt.

"Mmph-!"