John

He had never looked at Sherlock this early in the morning, when the sun was still under the horizon, and the wind was still whispering, and the rain was still quiet and soft against the windows.

The sheets smelled like books, and heat, and John couldn't even figure why he was so damned lucky, or why he hadn't taken Sherlock away sooner. They could be so happy here. They could breathe. And John could help him love, help him feel, teach him how to trust again, which was really all John wanted in the first place.

His lips parted when John kissed the softness of his neck, and his eyes fluttered for only half a moment before he fell back into a soft, gentle sleep.

He couldn't help but wonder how many people had seen him fallen apart like this, open and young and features kind and forgiving. Not many, probably, and John felt rather selfish when he realized that he was special. He also felt sad - sad that Sherlock's father had seen him like this, too. Whatever he did, whatever Siger had done, it hurt Sherlock, and John could hardly think about the things that made Sherlock hurt.

He hadn't heard Sherlock cry since the day on the phone. The day John said he loved him for the first time. He still hadn't cried, not this entire trip, and John knew that wasn't good. Sherlock was volatile and much more delicate than he made himself out to be, and John knew that.

John was also frightened. Frightened he would never see Sherlock cry again. Because Sherlock didn't feel anymore. He had barred emotions. He said he didn't have the capacity. The breathing space. The amount of heart for it.

Sherlock stirred in John's arms, and for the first time, John recalled that he didn't remember how he got into Sherlock's bed... he could have sworn he was on the couch before. Maybe he'd sleepwalked his way in. Maybe, even his subconscious was irrevocably in love with Sherlock.

That sounded like a bad thing - even the depths of John's mind couldn't escape him. He was everything... and John didn't regret that a bit.

Sherlock

He woke to John, still and smiling, dreaming about something that made him happy. It was beautiful surprise to find his head on John's chest as it rose and fell, but it also ached. Sherlock hadn't the faintest idea why; they were away. Baskerville was gone. It still hadn't sunk in.

That they were safe. That they were alone, and still breathing... That Sherlock was still alive. He didn't even remember what Siger had done, it happened so fast, but what Sherlock did remember were the screams. He felt like he was still there. Still on the edge of dying.

Sherlock slowly rolled out of bed carefully, trying not to wake John. It was six in the morning, and the sun had finally decided to show itself, rising over top the buildings. The sky was still a light shade of purple pink - the kind that made you think all was right with the world.

Sherlock observed the living space while he tiptoed around, touching the furniture, taking in the smells. There was different wallpaper on every side, the most prominent one being print of a black vine going through a beige background. It smelled like tea (black, no sugar), minty and clean. The ground was carpeted from wall to wall, squishy and warm under Sherlock's aching toes. (Sherlock had slept in his dress shoes, and thus, his feet hurt; it must have been strange for the landlady to see that.)

There was a basket of freshly made cookies on the coffee table next to the leather couch. The note attached stated, "Hope you lads like the apartment. I'll lower the rent this one month, just to help you get started. Fill out the paperwork, and it's yours! Love, Mrs. Hudson." Then, lower, "P.S. Do you need a second bedroom?"

Sherlock scoffed and began to nibble on one of the pastries. "Stupid landlady," he muttered, getting up and sitting on the couch. There was a tiny TV, and Sherlock flipped it on, beginning to watch a film on HBO. Stupid landlady, he kept on thinking. Making cookies and being kind and being regular... cookies. Goddamned cookies.

Sherlock finished the cookie and picked another. Sugar, with sprinkles.

Stupid landlady, he thought.

God, he was relieved.

John

They spent the next day on the couch, filling out paperwork. His name was John Hamish Watson, he was eighteen, and a Caucasian male.

Sherlock's name was William Scott Holmes, he was sixteen, and under John's care as rightful and sole guardian.

Are you terrorists?

John checked no.

Have you ever committed a felony?

They'd never gotten caught committing one.

They were falsifying John's age, but that was fine, as long as no one found out. Mrs. Hudson was always going upstairs to check on them; "Want some tea?"

"Yeah, um, and some biscuits, please, if you have them."

"Not your housekeeper."

"And make mine with lemons," Sherlock added.

"Oh, dear," she said, as she left to go make them tea.

They were almost done. Just had to fill out the date of birth, and sign his name on the dotted line... and then...

"We own 221B," John whispered, staring blankly at the piece of paper he'd just scribbled his name upon. "We own 221B."

"Well, no," Sherlock said, "I do believe you have to pay initial rent, first, they have to do background checks, you know, other tedious technicalities..."

"Shut up," John said, grabbing his face and kissing him. He tasted like tea.

"Don't you enjoy the decor?" Sherlock whispered into John's lips, before lifting one arm to John's chest and pressing his palm to John's heart.

"Quite," John panted. "Very much."

Over the next week, John applied for jobs. Lots and lots, and he started up a blog. Sherlock said that blogs were overused and people were impartial to them. John said that if he didn't like it, he could start a petition. Sherlock said that he would.

John actually did quite like the decor. It was warm. The blankets were warm. The cookies from Speedy's restaurant were warm; the Chinese food place was warm and now Sherlock was so, so warm. He wore the same sweater almost every day, despite the temperature rising, and his kisses were softer and his touch was sweeter.

They'd also signed him up for physical therapy at Bart's, so he could begin to move his arm again. John almost forgot about Harry when Sherlock was with him, and almost was good enough.

A week later, he finally received a call from a close-by hospital; St. Bart's, asking for an interview. It was early in the morning when John left, leaving Sherlock alone in the flat.

Sherlock still hadn't told him about what his father did. John didn't like thinking about it, which is why he wanted to just know, so he wouldn't do anything stupid trying to draw an answer out of Sherlock. 

Sherlock

Should I tell him?

Sherlock woke up with that question running through his mind.

Should I let it go?

He could explain the basics and make John promise he wouldn't bring it up again, since there was nothing to bring up past that. He could tell John wanted a more physically intimate relationship; Sherlock couldn't provide that. How would he even say it?

"John, I need to release torrents of emotional burden upon you. Sit still."

Or maybe he should just put it as it is.

"John, my father has caused me, as the French would say, shitloads of emotional and physical trauma that I do not wish to explain to you, as it would expend all the emotional energy I have left. Thus, you must understand, in short, that I am not ready to have as much physical intimacy as you might require. Please understand."

Sherlock took out an index card and began writing. He'd read the card later, when John got home from the interview he had told Sherlock about. John'd left a note on the bedside table, saying that if he got the job, he'd take them out for their first-ever date. That made Sherlock insanely, disgustingly happy. Sherlock had this feeling in his bones. This new, beautiful feeling... that everything would be okay.

There was a knock on the door, and slowly, Sherlock made his way up. Did John forget his house keys? He never forgot them.

Sherlock looked in the peephole, where a man was standing, holding a clipboard and displaying a badge on his chest. Sherlock opened the door cautiously, leaning into the hallway. "Yes?" Sherlock asked.

"You Mister Watson?"

"I'm his partner, yes."

"Mister 'olmes, then?" The man was tall, with a buzz cut and an annoyed facial expression.

"I do believe that happens to be my name," Sherlock quipped laconically. "What do you want?"

"Well..." The man took the clipboard out of the crook of his arm. "I'm here to talk about your options."

John

He had gotten the job. It paid fairly, and it offered an internship if John wanted to gain experience. But what John was really excited about was the date.

He couldn't even believe it; that he and Sherlock were finally free men, happy, together... It was too good to be true. Way too good. John was certain that life was going to kick them in the arse sometime soon. He couldn't wait to kick life right back.

When John got into 221B, he ran up the stairs.

"Sherlock!" he called. "Sherlock, I got the..."

He opened the door to see a man, and Mrs. Hudson, gathered around the coffee table. She was yelling at the man, the man was yelling at Sherlock, and Sherlock was pointing at a stack of paper, screaming at it. John stormed in after standing in the doorway for a while, and he grabbed a paperback off of a random shelf and slammed it into the floor.

"What the bloody hell is going on?"

Everyone froze, except for Sherlock, who promptly answered, "They're making us leave."

That's when John began shouting, too.

A/N: What do you think will happennnnnnnnn? MYSTERIOOOOOOUS!!! CLIFFHANGERS! HAHAHAHAHHA! LEAVE A COMMENT OR VOTE IF YOU'RE FEELING GENEROUS!!!!