The bathroom was warm and steamy with the nearly unbearably hot water inside the tub. Even with the moisture, the mirror was only beginning to fog up. John still had time to peel his wet shirt off his skin and look at the massive purpling bruise that had formed on his stomach.

Sherlock couldn't see this; he'd ask questions, and if John didn't answer them, he'd find a way to the answers himself - because that's what he always did. John never had any choice in the matter, even when Sherlock offered him the choice.

John quickly stripped himself bare, giving himself a quick once over in the mirror - he looked off color, a section of his body not quite in sync with the rest of him.

Quickly, he rubbed his hair and wet skin off, and grabbed one of Sherlock's silken purple bathrobes to hide the bruise. Just in time - Sherlock was already at the stairs. A moment later, he entered the room; he started taking his clothes off so unabashedly, as if he didn't care either way. Off went his coat, and then his blazer, and then his suspenders.

Dress shirt. T-shirt. Under that was pale, pale, pale skin.

John's heart got lost in his throat.

Then off came his trousers - and it was only then that Sherlock realized that John was sitting, completely clothed, on the porcelain toilet seat. He gave John a look.

"Hi, Sherlock."

"...Yes." He acknowledged John with his eyes, a spark of uncertainty in them.

"Usually, people say 'hi' back," John snarked.

"Well." Sherlock crossed the room, closer to John. "Usually people do as I tell them."

John reached out to touch his thigh - which was still cool and damp, still soft from the rain. John didn't mean to linger there - he did, anyway. "Thought you knew me better, Sherlock."

Sherlock locked eyes with John, and he felt, for once, like Sherlock did know him better. Somehow.

The moment was stripped away by Sherlock's caustic tone. "I suppose I'll just go it alone, then," he scoffed, beginning to move to the steaming bath - before John grabbed onto his wrist.

"No," he protested, pulling Sherlock closer. "I mean, no - it's fine. It's all fine."

He didn't take away his hand; he stared back in kind, like he was afraid to look away. The intensity in his gaze only became stronger.

"Can I...?" John whispered, his lips not quite able to enunciate the words fully, not quite closed. He swallowed as the seconds passed, the lump in his throat only bobbing.

Sherlock nodded.

And then, slowly, tentatively, he slid down Sherlock's boxers like they were heavy and leaden. Sherlock watched him lick his lips. Neither of them spoke.

Once the underwear had pooled at Sherlock's feet, he stepped away, bare, to the bath. John had a clear view of Sherlock naked from just about every angle, now; darkness wasn't shrouding his memory, nor the painful pleasure of arousal.

"Are you sure you don't want to join?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John said, his eyes taking in every square inch of Sherlock's body. Especially his bum. His arse alone could cure cancer. Sherlock leaned over to test the water - John exhaled - and then he was stepping in, sinking down. His shoulders were soon submerged, and he sighed, as if something winged and heavy was taking off from his chest.

John watched him unravel for as long as his conscience would allow, and then his curiosity kicked in. "Sherlock?" he questioned.

"Hm."

"...The other ones?" His voice was too dense and almost annoyed to mistake it for anything but jealousy.

Sherlock exhaled, settling deeper into the cloudy water. "Indeed."

"Am I number eleven, or something?" He didn't know how it was possible, but somehow, his jealousy intensified. It was glaringly obvious, now. As he stood up so he could walk over to the tub, Sherlock corrected his figure, seemingly growing more tense.

"Eight," Sherlock revised. John's stomach flipped, although John wasn't sure whether he was happy it wasn't an absurd number like eleven, or sad because it was an absurd number like eight. "But you're the first who's come over," he added.

"Oh." John slowly sat on the lip of the tub, looking down at Sherlock on a sharp angle. His eyes fluttered to a close, arms draping over the edge of the tub.

"You look comfortable."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, sliding down deeper into the cloudy water, so the curls on his neck were submerged. "John?"

"Yeah," John replied, smiling in the way he did when he felt kind (which was very rare).

"Since I'm so comfortable" - his eyes fluttered open quite slightly - "you should definitely get me a cig."

The smile dropped. In its place came a tight lip purse. "Where," John asked, although it didn't sound quite as curious as a question should've.

"They're downstairs."

John smiled again, except this time, it was sarcastic, if not the tiniest bit amused. "Are you sodding serious?"

When Sherlock spoke, he sounded genuinely bewildered, his brow forming one confused, dark line. "Yes," Sherlock responded, "when have I ever not been serious?"

"You're a prat."

"Regardless, you're going to get me a cigarette."

"Don't be so sure."

Sherlock let a silence fall over them for a few seconds, his eyes flickering from John's face to a decorative painting. "...Please," he sounded out between his teeth. It sounded so forced, yet flimsy - like concrete dust.

"Please what?"

"Please get me a fucking cigarette, John."

"Fine." He stood up, brushing off imaginary dust on his purple bathrobe. He allowed himself to look annoyed for the shortest of seconds, his eyes softening once Sherlock beamed at him, however sarcastically. "Where downstairs is it?"

"Dining room table, under the fruit bowl."

"Jesus," John commented. "Is that all you keep under the fruit bowl?"

"And make sure that Mrs. Hudson doesn't see," Sherlock added, blatantly ignoring John's question with a smoothly produced smirk. "She'd throw an absolute fit."

John cocked both eyebrows, then made his way to the door. "Prat," he muttered with annoyance. He watched Sherlock as he stepped into the hall; he was smirking with his eyes lidded, fixating on the ceiling.

The hallway, from the outset, was dimly lit at this hour, given the cloudiness and the fact that there were no nearby windows. John had to adjust to the darkness for a moment. When he did, he could see a variation of sculptures and vases and paintings; all of them priceless. He walked slowly, his eyes lingering on the art decorating the wall. It was like a time capsule; Sherlock had art from the late 1800's, and art from the 1920's America from before the economy crashed. All of it was so reminiscent of a simpler time.

John came to the stairs and padded down them as quickly and quietly as possible, following the scent of freshly baked cookies to the kitchen. He peeked inside the entryway, surveying the space to see if Mrs. Hudson was anywhere inside.

She didn't seem to be. The cookies were steaming on the counter, waiting to be put into the dining room, which was adjacent to the kitchen. And next to the cookies, behind an inconspicuous pair of oven mittens, was a fruit bowl.

He tiptoed silently to it. Underneath, as promised, was a singular cigarette. John removed it, trying to be careful as he lowered the bowl.

"Dear?" came a tentative voice behind him.

John jumped, the sound of a glass fruit bowl clattering onto the table overpowering the gentle voice of Sherlock's housekeeper. Without turning, he shoved Sherlock's cigarette into his dressing gown. Her voice went on. "What are you doing?" John swiveled very evenly, trying not to highlight the fact that he was smuggling stolen goods in his robe. Mrs. Hudson stepped closer, looking nonchalant. She walked right next to John and pulled on her oven mittens.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John said, keeping the terseness out of his tone. "Didn't see you there-"

"Is that because you were too busy smuggling Sherlock's cigarettes?"

John's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"You couldn't have known," she tsked. Mrs. Hudson produced a sugar cookie and broke off a piece with her gloved hand, inspecting the inside. "He thinks I don't catch on to his deviance, but it's all really quite transparent."

John shuffled uncomfortably, unsure if he should produce the cigarette now that he'd been found out. She hesitated as well, sizing John up, but the tense air was quickly lost as she clasped her hands together giddily, a gleeful smile lighting up her features. "It's a delight to have you, John."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John replied warmly, still slightly unsure as to what his limbs were supposed to be doing.

"Although - you're so much shorter than I imagined," she prompted curiously. "And more blond."

John didn't take the time to be offended, cocking his head back a bit and letting his eyelashes flutter. He instead questioned, "Than you imagined?"

"Sherlock described you as more of the" - her brows crinkled - "'tall, dark, and handsome' type."

John was so taken aback, the most coherent sentence he could muster was, "Oh?" Sherlock? Talking about him? Christmas really was approaching.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Hudson said reassuringly. She sank perfect teeth into her cookie, closing her eyes against the taste. "Sherlock mentions you regularly," she continued, savoring the flavor. "Want one?"

"No, thank you - and he does?"

"Indeed. He says you're quite conducive to his 'process.'" She took another bite and chewed slowly. "Or some such." Her eyes drifted from John to the ceiling, where John presumed the bathroom was. "He worries me so," she murmured, before being drowned out by a moderately peeved Sherlock Holmes.

"JOHN!" he yelled from upstairs. Somehow, the entire kitchen resounded with the angry noise, making Mrs. Hudson pout accordingly. "Where are you?!" he shouted.

John pursed his lips, exchanging a knowing look with his new acquaintance. "I can take care of him for you, if you'd like," John murmured to Mrs. Hudson. She shook her head, and then screamed back, and John couldn't fathom for the life of him where she stored her vocal cords.

"SHERLOCK, I SHAN'T HAVE YOU PUFFING ALL THAT SMOKE ABOUT!" she screamed shrilly. "IT'S BAD FOR YOU!"

"JOHN!" Sherlock bellowed, "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"

"I READ IT IN A MAGAZINE!" Mrs. Hudson insisted, stomping a foot. "IT SCARS YOUR LUNGS!"

"I'm a doctor!" John added, his voice definitively less loud. He didn't want to let the walls soak up his voice when he'd only first come in an hour ago. He wasn't sure if he was staying, either; if Sherlock would let him stay. "She's right, Sherlock!"

"MISS-ES HUDSON!" He pronounced "Mrs" like it was two separate words, like Mrs was her first and middle name and Hudson was her last. "I may slaughter a pig if you don't fetch me a cigarette this very instant!"

"Rather a pig than your lungs, dear!" she persisted, a stern conviction soaking her tone, although her voice strained. Sherlock, to their surprise, didn't reply. There was the telltale sound of water sloshing about in the bathtub, followed by the creak of Sherlock's weight against the ceiling.

"Here," Mrs. Hudson immediately said. She crossed the room to a cupboard, rummaging inside to grab a plate. She prepared him cookies like she was putting a gun together: arranging them neatly and quickly, shoving the plate into John's chest like he was a scared soldier. "These should calm him down."

"They're cookies!" John protested, bewildered, holding them back out to Mrs. Hudson.

"I lace them with a mild sedative."

John nodded. He didn't know of any other ways to respond to a statement like that.

"It's only noticeable if you eat more than three, so make sure he eats a couple."

"Jesus Christ." John shook his head, slowly. "Does he get like this often?"

She took a cookie from the plate. "Enough, dear."

Involuntarily, John found himself squinting at Mrs. Hudson, waiting for her to playfully push at his shoulder and say, "Got you!" but no such words were spoken. Her face was as stark and candid as when she wasn't drugging her boss. As such, John could only nod, and leave the kitchen to find his way back up the stairs.

When he came back, Sherlock had already toweled off. He didn't bother to look up, although that was all John could do - watch him shamefully as he donned one of his many robes - one which was satin and cream colored, only a few shades off from Sherlock's skin.

"No cigarette?"

John felt it in his robe, but shook his head. Before setting the plate down on the spotlessly clean sink, he offered Sherlock a cookie, which Sherlock reluctantly took. He forced himself not to watch as a wet, pink tongue darted out between Sherlock's lips to catch a crumb. Even though nothing in the room was nearly as interesting or beautiful as Sherlock, he avoided his body at all costs - even his eyes, which glinted with frustration.

"I would kill you for a fucking cigarette," Sherlock snapped, gobbling up another cookie. His eyes were already dimming, becoming warmer and softer and slower.

"Believe me, I know." John paused, and took one of the cookies himself. If Sherlock was going to get stoned, he might as well join - under all of the things he wasn't saying, his soul was twitching from guilt. He bit into the cookie, the taste of creamy warm sugar hitting his tongue, and crumbs flew from his mouth as he spoke. "Sod."

"You really do need to stop throwing that word around," Sherlock commented, slouching, his voice growing less intense. "It's much too apt."

"Afraid someone's going to catch on?" John asked, bitter.

"Singularly."

John scoffed. He got another cookie from the plate, a warm sleepiness spreading throughout his entire body. "Sod."

Sherlock moved as if it was the only thing left to do; swaying from the closet filled with robes and toiletries to John. They were so close. John could count every freckle on his face. Usually, when they were this close, he was kissing him. He never got any time to count, and now he was, and it made him feel stranger than he already felt. It humanized Sherlock more.

He carefully picked apart Sherlock's expression with his eyes, and Sherlock responded by physically stepping back. He took another bite of his cookie, looking contemplative. Like he was a small child, stepping back to observe a mural. (The mural in question being John.) "I know you're hiding something," Sherlock remarked.

John choked on his cookie, more crumbs flying from his mouth. There must have been a crumb puddle on the floor, by now. His head instinctively turned away from Sherlock, whose stance was beginning to straighten.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," he said, as if it was self-explanatory, as if it completed every circuit, "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

And what was John supposed to say to that? Yes?

Maybe, if he wasn't so high off of fucking homemade sugar cookies, he'd respond like he knew what he was talking about. Instead, he tried for annoyance, for innocence, and it sounded fake from his lips. "Notice what?" he snapped.

"Whenever you bend over you wince," Sherlock began listing off. "You won't take a bath, although you clearly need one. I touched your rib cage and you backed away. You're definitely hiding something."

"'M not."

Sherlock took a step to him. He felt like his brain was about to unravel, and he was completely helpless to that fact.

"Hey," he managed.

A hand darted out and grabbed onto the ribbon that was keeping John's robe in place. One tug, and it was undone in Sherlock's hands.

He saw it. John's throat dropped into his feet.

"...Jesus bloody Christ."

Sherlock stood there, staring at the purple-black-yellow mess of John's skin, his hand still poised to touch his abdomen. John's lips grew tight, and Sherlock's hand tentatively pressed at the dark blemish. Instinctively, a broken noise stirred in the back of John's throat, protesting at the sensation. It kind of felt like someone was constantly digging their hand into John's side.

"Sorry," Sherlock stated, almost as if to get the formality out of the way. "Who did this?"

"A coworker," John lied as smoothly as he could. "Tried to pick a fight with me."

"Care to elaborate?"

John met Sherlock's eyes, trying to somehow void his guilt. "Doesn't matter," John gritted out.

"And my lamp?"

"I hit him over the head with it," John stated definitively.

Sherlock's brow crinkled, his emotion unspecified; John thought he was angry. "That's where my lamp went?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock broke the somber tone with a hearty laugh. "Good," he said. "Good."

"He was quite surprised," John said, a quiet smile finally settling onto his lips. "I just" - John found a frown, again - "I didn't want you to know because I didn't want you to make an issue of it." John tried his best to be sincere, taking one of Sherlock's forearms in the hand that didn't hurt like all hell. "I don't want any more trouble."

Sherlock's left eyebrow cocked. "You didn't think you could trust me?"

"I knew I could." John's hand instinctively slipped from Sherlock's forearm to his hand. It felt sort of like holding a heartbeat, or something hot and light. "That was the problem."

Sherlock nodded, slowly, and John could tell he understood.

"Don't..." John trailed. "Don't look for him."

"Wasn't going to." Sherlock let go of John's hand, and stepped back. Walls came back up in his eyes. Cutting John off seemed to be one of Sherlock's strong suits.

"Hey," John prompted, then, to keep the silence at bay. "Can I see your bedroom?"

***

The architecture of the room looked like it belonged in a castle. On the inside cover of Grimm's Fairy Tales. Besides that, it was an explosion of books and music. The room was huge - almost as big as the art room - but all of the clutter made it look smaller than it was. Every wall of the room had some sort of shelf, or violin hanging up; the wallpaper were vines of beige and black. John slid into the sunlight-bleached bed, his eyes surveying the place slowly.

"This is" - his fingers bunched the covers - "nice."

"This is boring."

John frowned as he traced Sherlock's figure, collapsing beside him on the bed. "You don't have an attention span," he insisted. "What's not boring?"

Sherlock sprang up and went to one of the tallest shelves in the room. "Rudyard Kipling!" he yelled, tossing a poem book at John. He caught it against his chest and winced at the pressure it put against his bruises. "Have you read 'White Man's Burden'?"

"No...?"

"It's a superb example of imperialistic racism in the 19th century."

"Superb?"

Sherlock glanced back at John. "Wrong word?"

John shrugged. "Probably not the best word."

"Charles Darwin, then. Origin of Species." Another book flew out of the shelf, and John dodged to avoid it colliding with his head. "Thomas More, Utopia. The Secret Garden - although it must be in the other bookshelf..." Sherlock rambled on. Another book. And another. And another.

"Sherlock..."

"What?" he snapped.

"Do you have a shirt I could borrow? Or... I don't know. Whatever you wear at home."

Sherlock barely took a moment to pause before reaching down below the shelf to a cabinet. He tossed John a shirt and bottoms without looking, and then continued about his way, rummaging around for literature.

"Mrs. Hudson said you've mentioned me," John started, his voice rising above the collision of hardbound books with various parts of the room. One hit the arching window on the right; it cracked, leaving a long, razor thin stripe of shadow across Sherlock's bed. Sherlock stopped to look at the window for only a moment before burying his head back into the shelf. John slipped off his robe, leaving his entire body bare, and quickly slipped on the thick gray cotton shirt that Sherlock tossed him. It felt tight in all the wrong places.

John continued, picking up Sherlock's pajamas, "That I help you write music. But I haven't helped, really."

"She speaks so much nonsense, I can't really keep track," Sherlock murmured.

"Do I help you write music?" John asked - in his Stern Voice, not his inquisitive one.

If Sherlock was looking at him, he would have seen his lips form a thin line (Also, his entire bottom half). Instead, Sherlock pretended to file through more stories, although it was apparent that he wasn't really looking at anything. He began: "Strictly speaking-"

"No," John stopped him. He put on the pants as fast as he could, to dilute the tension. "Am I your muse?"

Sherlock gave up on that shelf, crossing the room towards John, yet somehow not looking at his face once. He attacked another shelf. "Nonsense."

"Who is?"

"I don't have a" - he snorted - "muse."

"Really? Is that so?"

"Muses distract me from the art."

"Just like romance distracts you from the sex?"

Sherlock finally looked back, only to see John wearing his shirt, his pants. He lingered on his body for a moment, obviously jarred. Then, he threw him another book - The Secret Garden - but it felt like an excuse. "Where's this coming from?"

"You've been talking to Mrs. Hudson about me. She's basically your bloody mother. I figuratively just met your mother, Sherlock."

"Well, you literally just met my housekeeper."

"Bollocks."

Sherlock's lips formed a thin line as he suppressed a protest. He expectantly turned to John, coolly leaning on the bookshelf. Hands in pockets, feet crossed, head tilted to the side. His eyes were softer, now, from the spiked cookies.

"Don't tell me you've never been in love," John said. "That boyfriend you had - you must have loved him."

"No." Sherlock could only shrug. "I'm sorry to disappoint."

"You haven't?"

"I'm married to music, and science. I don't need boys."

John opened The Secret Garden and flipped through to avoid eye contact. His voice lowered as he became increasingly embarrassed by his own questions. They were thick with jealousy; they both knew that, even though they were arguably slightly buzzed. "...How about girls?"

Sherlock didn't immediately respond. John glanced up, then did a double take as he thought something besides the usual dismissive expression flashed across Sherlock's face. "I've had girls," he said, finally, slowly, loudly. Like he was compensating. Or maybe he was justifying - John couldn't be sure. He smirked, though. "So've you."

(Definitely compensating.) John mustered his nicest closed-mouth smile, sweet like honey. "Enough times to know they aren't my preference."

"What is your preference?" Sherlock teased.

"You'll find out," John said, looking back into the book. He noticed a stain on the inside that looked a lot like tomato sauce. "Someday."

"You're awful cheeky," Sherlock said, "for someone who's eating my cookies." He made very slow, deliberate steps as he crossed the room - John knew because he heard them. His head was still buried in the book, looking at the letters but not really reading them. The room seemed to get much smaller as Sherlock's presence - his heat - increased. "Sometimes, I wonder how much it would take to shut you up."

John flipped a page, smiling. "Even the great Sherlock Holmes could never do that," he murmured. The next moment, a hand was cradling his chin, but to John it only reminded him of the bruise there. He would have pulled away, but Sherlock was already kissing him.

Sherlock's kisses made him forget about everything.

"She drugs your cookies," John whispered, eyes shut. He started giggling as soon as Sherlock parted, and didn't stop when Sherlock kissed his smile again.

"I know." Sherlock laughed, bending him back into the bed and caging his chest with his forearms. "She thinks I don't notice."

"I can't believe we can have sex on a real bed," John murmured, pausing to look up at the man braced above him. The buzz was catching up to him, now - he was starting to fixate on the weirdest things. He began counting Sherlock's eyelashes.

"You want to fuck, right now?"

"Hardly," John said. "Just, you know, this bed is" - John smoothed his hands over the covers, pressing back into the springy fabric - "nice. It has blankets, for one."

"Powerful skills of observation."

"Y'know, Sherlock," John began to slur, "I don't appreciate your scathing sarcasm."

Sherlock kissed him again. Probably to shut him up.

"Maybe if we didn't... fuck," John said, as soon as he got air. Sherlock was swallowing him down and choking him out, and John knew Sherlock heard him but he also knew he wasn't listening. "Sherlock," he repeated. "Sherlock. Just because I'm high as a kite doesn't mean-"

"What would we do instead?" Sherlock interrupted.

His lips tasted like cookies and sugar when John kissed him. "Something befitting a nice bed," he said, "Something nice."

"You want" - Sherlock moved down to John's jaw - "me" - his neck - "to fuck you nicely?"

John frowned at the ceiling, his slate blue eyes wandering aimlessly as Sherlock nipped at the cavern of his collarbones. He stilled almost completely, thinking; Sherlock paused in his ministrations.

"What is it?" he asked, impatient.

"Hmm?" John slurred, still staring at a smudge on the ceiling. How'd it smudge? Who had been up there?

Sherlock pursed his lips, and propped himself back up on his palms instead of his forearms. "John."

John's gaze lingered on the smudge, but eventually slid to the man above him. He hardly was expectant; Sherlock often said his name for no reason other than to annoy him. Sherlock cocked a suspicious brow and rolled off of John, scoffing quietly. There was a soft straining noise as he collapsed next to John, his eyes also trained on the ceiling. Their bodies were sharing space from shoulder to thigh. "Why must you be this way?" Sherlock huffed.

"Be what way?"

"Such the romantic," Sherlock replied. John could hear him roll his eyes - but not exactly. "Your sister would be ashamed."

John turned. He was so close to Sherlock that he could see the tiny blemishes, tiny imperfections on his cheeks. Sherlock was clueless to him, and John didn't know how to lay his emotions out in a way that someone like Sherlock would understand. "Because, Sherlock," he started, unable to finish his sentence. He was still combing through Sherlock's profile, still tracing the faintest lines on his youthful face. His skin looked so clean.

"Tell me." Sherlock finally took the time to glare at John. In response, John immediately turned away.

"Just-" John stammered, glaring uselessly in frustration at the light striping the ceiling, "If you were me."

"Spit it out," Sherlock snapped. "I'm not telepathic."

John finally looked back in order to meet Sherlock's cutting glare, which had sharpened significantly through the drowsy intoxication of Mrs. Hudson's sedatives. John swallowed, hard, steeling his expression. "I'd take care of it for you," he clarified sternly. "I'd take care of you."

Sherlock paused. His eyes softened, becoming malleable and troubled. "So," he eventually murmured, bewildered. The minute wore on as he pondered his next sentence. John had never seen him so far away from speech. He was going aphasic, his mouth and his brain trying to make the connect. "You're explaining..."

"I don't want to fuck anymore," John stated.

Sherlock seemed lost.

"No - I mean," John continued. "Yes. Yes. But not like - that."

"So..." he prompted, softly.

John tilted his head back. "Hm?"

"In fact..."

"Yes?" John questioned, further.

"You..."

"Yes?"

A hint of realization bloomed in Sherlock's eyes; like liquid flowers in springtime. John didn't know what to make of his expression - at least, less than Sherlock knew what to make of his. That was why it was so surprising when Sherlock rolled back on top of John, boxing him in with his torso.

Rushed, so quickly that John didn't have the time to feel it, Sherlock kissed him. The taste of sugar cookies thickened; coagulated in his throat. John didn't respond. He just closed his eyes. He let himself forget about everything. Even Sherlock, even now, laying on his mattress, feeling his hands gripping the sheets on either side of his head. Sherlock leaned down, slowly, this time - and kissed John like he was a secret.

"Could be better-" John started, a smile quirking up at his lips, only to be smothered by another touch of Sherlock's mouth.

It was like time was slowing exponentially - a curve smoothing along an axis. A time loop, a fracture in the void. His tongue swelled against the inside of John's cheek, against his teeth, and it felt like he was asking.

And John said yes - because when it came to Sherlock Holmes - he always, always said yes.

"Better?" Sherlock gasped.

John lifted his head to kiss him silent, ignoring the ache of his neck. He pulled as Sherlock pushed, down into his mouth, down into the cavern of his spine, down to where his emotions lay. Anger and frustration and love pooled at the base of his throat, and spilled, upwards, upwards-

John could feel Sherlock's shoulders arch every time he eased him into the bed. Every time, it tasted better than the time before.

"Good?" Sherlock asked.

"Good," he agreed, reaching out a hand to turn Sherlock over, back on the bed. He switched spots with him, and looked down - only to see a vulnerability in Sherlock's eyes he'd never pinpointed before. "Tell me about your violin," he said.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, looking genuinely confused.

"Because I want to know," he replied.

"You want to know the how?"

"The why."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. John almost regretted the words.

He never asked why; not with anyone. The how of a situation was quantifiable. It had a definitive answer. He didn't ask Sherlock why because both of them knew that he wouldn't know how to reply. And if he did, finally, John wouldn't know how to take it. It was a silent, creeping phobia that stuck against their brains like the residue of cigarette tar.

"My father," Sherlock said, after a minute. Looking into his eyes like this - it hurt. John had to look, though. It was like staring at a horrible automobile accident as you passed on the road. "He was the reason I learned."

"Why?" John asked again, adjusting to the shape of the word as it came from his mouth.

"Being a consulting detective doesn't pay very much." Sherlock clarified, "Nothing, actually. Being a world famous violinist, which I am - that is success."

"But you love it?"

"I love the rush, John. Different."

"What did your mother want you to be?"

He shrugged, glancing towards a bookshelf. "She wanted me to be happy."

"Are you?"

"I'm rich," Sherlock said. "Maybe my father had more realistic aspirations for me."

"If you weren't a violinist, you would have never met me," John protested, shamelessly pressing his fingertips into Sherlock's scalp, as if to make him more aware of his presence. John couldn't look away from him.

"Oh, who knows," Sherlock mused. A mischievous knowledge flashed in his eyes, and John thought about how he wanted to sleep with him for maybe the hundredth time that day. "I could have arrested you, maybe."

"For bloody what?" John snorted. "Parking tickets?"

"There's a lot I could have arrested you for," Sherlock scoffed, "assault being the main reason."

John smiled in disbelief, his eyebrows furrowing into one another. He couldn't know that. "Sherlock, that's not-"

"My brother is Mycroft Holmes," he stated, like it was the end-all and be-all. "Did you think that he couldn't get hold of a couple swept-under-the-rug charges?"

John's lips pressed into a paper thin line, creating dips and hills around his mouth. "...Of course you did a background check on me," he muttered.

"Your father must love you," Sherlock said earnestly. "His legal sway as a politician withstanding, my father is twice as powerful and would never do something like that for me."

John readjusted his body above Sherlock, propping himself up on his palms instead of his elbows. "Yes," John eased out. "You just never gave him an opportunity to prove it."

"You really don't know me," Sherlock replied.

"Please. Enlighten me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes mightily, squirming slightly against the covers as if to dispel the inquisition across his skin. "I've given my father so many opportunities I've lost count."

"What do you mean?"

"Drug habit," he explained, point-blank.

John frowned, his hand clenching from behind Sherlock's ear.

"It's okay that you don't know what to say," Sherlock said, bitterness thick in his voice. "Usually people that find out won't shut up about it."

"You've stopped?"

Sherlock paused. Pensively: "I don't need it anymore." And John tried to search Sherlock's features for remorse, or guilt, or shame - something obvious. The minutest movement of his eyes connoted an emotion, but one that John wasn't practiced at defining.

"You really can stop staring," Sherlock said, after a couple of moments.

He sighed, slowly pulling himself up so he was straddled on Sherlock's thighs. His hands worked their way down to his abdomen, and stayed there, nestling into the soft, warm fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown. "I'm just trying to figure you out."

"Stop trying." His eyes flashed with conviction, with certainty. "It won't work."

"You ripped my life apart in thirty seconds," John insisted. "I should be allowed to do the same."

"Please restrain yourself."

Quietly, then, pressing his hands against Sherlock's stomach like his body could keep everything grounded, he stated, "You're a gorgeous, brilliant, wealthy playboy violinist with an attitude problem."

"John," Sherlock cautioned.

"But you're also an addict," John commented, his voice more thoughtful than tender, "and you're a queer. And your mom is dead, but you don't talk to me about any of this because-"

"John."

"-you're scared that I'm going to hurt you."

"I don't like talking about her," Sherlock hissed, grabbing onto John's wrist in attempt to push him away.

"Why?"

"Are you dense?" he snapped scathingly. "Because she's dead, John." Anger and pain fleshed out on his skin, the creases of his eyebrows becoming dark and present. Sherlock couldn't hold John's gaze any longer. He faltered to the crack in his window, eyes reflecting the dark storm that was brewing outside.

John took his hand, pressing his thumb into the depression of his palm. "I'm sorry," he said, as sincerely as he could.

"Sorry doesn't bring her back," Sherlock rumbled, deep in his throat, his eyes glassy as he stared out into the field behind his manor.

"I know."

"But you don't know," he insisted fiercely. "You've no fucking clue."

"I do," John eased out, finally articulating everything he'd held in. "I know because I'm hooked on the fight, too."

When Sherlock caught John's gaze, it took a lot of blinking to realize he wasn't hallucinating the wetness in Sherlock's eyes; barely there, but still remnant. He still looked so... powerful, though. Everything on his face was a challenge. Prove to me, he was saying. Prove to me that you understand.

"Those assault charges..." John trailed, "they were for my sister's abusive boyfriends. I thought, for some reason, that treating the symptoms would fix the disease. And when I realized that wasn't the case, I kept fighting. All because I thought it would fix me." John lifted his shirt up, above his navel, with the hand that wasn't holding Sherlock's. "I have the scars to prove it."

Sherlock didn't ask questions. John winced when he placed his hand on the slight scars and blemishes that dotted John's entire abdomen, until he settled upon one jagged line, right above his bruise. Sherlock slid his shirt up and off his body, discarding it carelessly on the floor so he could place both his hands on the worn tan of John's skin. His scars reminded him: he knew what it was like to be sick without a cure. What it was like to touch your skin and not recognize it, because it was covered with a thin layer of blood. What it was like to break, to fracture, to feel too much.

"This one should have killed you," and Sherlock couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice. "It's at one of your major arteries."

John placed a hand over the younger man's, eyes darkening. "Sherlock."

Sherlock paused to look up, to capture everything that defined John in these moments. His lips parted to take in air, but he said nothing, didn't move, even as John closed his eyes and pressed Sherlock's knuckles to his forehead. Butterflies were ripping holes in his sides. It hurt worse than any stab wound. "Please," John asked of him, his voice dying down into a whisper. His eyes were shut. All John could hear was ragged breathing. Everything that was happening, now - everything - it was shocking, like ice cold water trickling into your shirt. "Tell me you want this."

"You're high," he whispered in response. His voice was terrified.

"Tell me."