A/N: this chapter is a good chapter.

Sherlock

Sherlock chuckled.

"What?" John asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock breathed. "John. I didn't expect you to call." That was such a lie; all day, he'd been sitting by the phone in bated anticipation.

"Really? It's not even 7:30. Your mum said you'd been talking about me."

"Sally Donovan visited. She had a slip of tongue. Said we were dating."

"We are."

"Right now," Sherlock said.

"Yeah. We're on a date." John seemed complacent.

"Is your sister crying?"

"She is. Quite loudly, too; she's upstairs, in this mammoth of a household, sobbing hysterically. My dad said that if she didn't know anyone was home, she would stop. I'm attempting to be quiet."

"Attempting?"

"Right now I feel like screaming."

"Why?"

"Because of you," John said. "You're speaking to me."

Sherlock slowly made his way to his queen sized bed, laying down gently; he didn't want to make John feel self-conscious about his economic status. That sounded strange. Would a bed make someone feel self-conscious? Sherlock lay down.

"I enjoy speaking to you."

"I'd agree."

"What time is your dad coming home?"

"Oh, I haven't any idea. They said they were going to a motel in Camden, which is fairly far away from this hellhole. Plus, they need time to, y'know, fuck."

"To fuck." Sherlock was disbelieving.

"God, Sherlock, yes."

 Sherlock laughed again.

"What?"

"I don't know, John," he repeated. "It feels like you're breathing in my damn ear."

"I always breathe in your ear," John said, and Sherlock lay back onto the pillows, bouncing slightly.

"But... this is different."

"How?"

"It's more intimate."

John paused. "Hmm. Guess what."

"What."

"Guess."

"You're wearing the color blue."

"No."

"You told me to guess. I didn't tell you anything I knew."

"Tell me something you know."

"You like me," Sherlock said. "Though, I'm not sure why."

"Because I do. Because... you're bloody... bloody..."

"I'm not bloody, John. I take a shower every morning."

John laughed. Sherlock's eyes furrowed.

"Anyway. Sherlock. I'm not going to say anything I could say on the bus, okay, or anything we could say in English."

"Did you hear about Horace?"

"No, what?"

Sherlock said, "Nothing," and then, "continue."

"Okay. Things we can't say on the bus?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, and then, "I hope those imbeciles find a hole to stick their heads in so I don't have to hear their insipid comments."

There was a pause when Sherlock assumed John laughed breathlessly. "I dislike them," John commented, "but I'm used to it. At my old school, there were tons of arses. I always had nothing to do with them."

"Yeah. My parents - well, you know, they had me."

"How did that come to be?" Sherlock closed his eyes as he listened.

"I don't know..."

"My parents met at a convention for temperance."

"Like the AA," John clarified.

"Yeah. My parents are reformed alcoholics, which always sounds good on my resumé."

"Mycroft, then?"

"He's my older brother."

"No. I mean, what."

"About him? He's just... Mycroft, I suppose. He's never changing. Like obsidian."

"Okay."

"Harriet?" Sherlock questioned.

"Harry's a lesbian."

"Oh."

"Clara is her girlfriend."

"Do you like her?"

"Harry, or Clara?"

"Both."

"They're fine. Clara's worried about her, most of the time."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter," John said nonchalantly. "What about me?"

"You?"

"Yes. Me."

Sherlock stopped speaking on the other end for a moment. "I think that you're... I think you're cool."

There was a silence, and then, a slow, unsure squeak from the other end, "Cool?"

Sherlock wanted to hang up the phone, and throw it into water while burning it. Then he wanted to crush it into tiny bits, whilst screaming, as he doused it with gasoline, and then, burn down his house. Cool? He sounded like a chav from the hoods of London. Like... like an American, in California. He sounded so... uncool.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not the cool one here. You're cool."

"The utter stupidity of the statement that just came out of your mouth will never cease to amaze me," Sherlock gasped, "Cool."

"You're Dirty Harry."

"What?"

"Clint Eastwood?"

"Is that a type of flora?"

"Nevermind," John laughed, "To be straight to the point... you're cool."

"What?"

"You don't care what other people think about you."

"Caring is a disadvantage," Sherlock said. "Caring drags."

"I hope I don't 'drag,'" John grumbled.

"You do the exact opposite. You fly."

"My dad would say you were comfortable in your skin."

"My skin doesn't fit me."

"Why?"

"I'm dangerously underweight, to put it simply."

"I'm..."

"Cool."

"You are."

"We're talking about you, John."

His voice dropped a bit. It sounded soft, and gravelly on the other end of the line, and Sherlock found himself breathing hard, his heart involuntarily pumping faster. "But I want to talk about you," he said. "Where did you come from?"

"I came from..." Sherlock laughed. "...nowhere."

John

Sherlock was a tricky bastard. He'd successfully avoid any questions pertaining to his home life, or his school life, in fact. John didn't know what Sherlock did, or how exactly he felt about anything. His dad was off limits.

"He's my father," was all Sherlock said when John asked.

When Melody fell asleep, John told Sherlock to call back in five minutes. John rushed to get a drink, some chips, and a pop tart. He took off his trousers, for some reason, and slipped into his father's bed, which had a baby monitor. He honestly should have slept on the couch, but he hated wearing slacks, so he shed them for bare legs. Then, he heard a ring. He answered.

"It hasn't been five minutes."

"I couldn't bear to wait. Waiting is so boring. Do you need me to hang up-"

"No! No." His voice was quieter, now. Lower. Heavier. "Where are you?"

"In my house."

"No, bloody... where?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to feel like I'm next to you."

"I'm in bed."

"So am I," John whispered, "Which side?"

"Left."

"Me, too," John said. "I'm moving over, so you have room."

"Okay," Sherlock breathed.

John rolled to the right side of the queen sized bed, and turned to where Sherlock'd be. "I'm looking at you," John said, and he closed his eyes, imagining Sherlock's breaths on his face.

"Are you in the dark?"

"Yeah, 're you?"

"Yep," Sherlock said, popping the p.

Sherlock

Sherlock imagined him. In his head, lying down, next to him, breaths hot. Accelerated; his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He imagined him shrouded in a quilt, with the moon from his window lighting up his face like florescents in darkness. Like that song by the Arctic Monkeys. He could hear a track playing in the background.

Sherlock breathed, so John could hear him.

John

"Is that Jesus?"

"Wilco?" John asked.

"Yeah."

"Yeah. It's Jesus etc., by the way."

"That sounds idiotic."

"You sound idiotic."

"It's my favorite song, currently."

"What's your favorite part?"

"The chorus."

"Tall buildings shake..." John sang, and when Sherlock didn't say anything, he sang the entire song in a quiet, breathless voice, because he didn't know what else to say.

Sherlock

"Sherlock?" John called. "You there?"

He didn't answer.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock was so out of it he had to snap back into reality. He was imagining John singing... next to him, in his bed. Holding hands. Breathing. "Yes," he said.

"What are you thinking?"

"I..." He didn't know. "I'm thinking nothing."

"The good nothing?"

"I'm not sure." Sherlock moved closer to the right side of the mattress. To be closer to John. "The bad nothing, too, I suppose."

"I'm thinking about you," John murmured. "I miss you."

"I'm right here, John," Sherlock reassured him.

"No," John replied. "I want to be right next to you. Holding your hand. Not two hours away. I want to be touching you."

"You can't," Sherlock whispered, emotion gathering in his voice, "Siger's asleep." And then Sherlock realized he'd said his dad's first name, completely unattached his paternal title. Sherlock laughed humorlessly. And then he realized he was crying.

"Sherlock..." John's voice was quiet, listening, still not realizing what exactly he'd done; what nerve he'd hit.

"Don't say my name like that. Like you care," Sherlock sniffled. "You don't. You can't. No one ever has."

"I do care."

"I don't, John. Stop it. You're... you're making it worse."

"What?"

"Everything." Sherlock sat up and tried to wipe his eyes, sniffling. He'd held it in so long, but now...

"Do you have a nickname?" John did that a lot. When Sherlock looked unhappy, he'd change the subject. "Sherly?" In the sweetest way imaginable. "'Lock?"

"You don't like Sherlock?"

"I love your name. I'd never cheat myself out of a single syllable."

"Why?"

"Your name is bloody beautiful. I like the way it slips off my tongue."

Sherlock racked with another sob, "Stupid," he said.

"Why can't we see each other?"

Just when Sherlock had about stopped crying.

"Tell me. Talk," John said, whispered. "Please."

"Because," Sherlock sobbed, "Siger would kill me. He'd murder me. He'd commit a double homicide."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Sherlock whispered. He needed to stop crying. Or he didn't, for that matter. "He hates me. I don't know."

"Why?"

"There isn't an answer to everything, John," Sherlock said angrily. "Not everything makes sense. The stars do. Math does. Science does, and cigarettes and drugs do and sex does. But not me. Not my father and I."

"Do I make sense?"

"You are the most fucked up thing in my life right now and you're the farthest thing from sense I've ever encountered."

"Why? What makes you think that?" John sounded hurt.

"Why," Sherlock drawled. "Always asking questions."

"Yeah, bloody hell. Why, Sherlock," John said. "Tell me something. Give me something, here. Why are you always mad at me?"

"Why are you always mad at me? I'm never mad at you." It came out as a sob. John was such an idiot.

"I'm not mad at you, Sherlock. You're mad. You're mad right now. Why do you always do this?"

"Do what?"

"This," John said, "You were saying a minute ago that you wanted to be here, with me, and now you're yelling. Can't we just go somewhere with this?"

"Where would we possibly go, John, where? I'm out of duty. I'm broken. You just haven't seen it yet, and I don't want to see your face when you finally figure it out. Because you are the only person in this entire world that can break my brokenness. And that's fucking stupid." Sherlock held his breath. That made it worse.

"Sherlock."

"Please. Stop saying my name like that."

"Sherlock, I..."

"John, I beg of you. Please." His voice cracked, and he felt the effects reverberate throughout the room; the sentiment drenched him constantly. It made him feel emptier for it; how could something so filling make him feel so lost?

"What can I say?"

"What?"

"Ask me why. I promise you. I'll have answers." John sounded frustrated. "Ask me something," he repeated.

"Yeah?" Sherlock sniffed. "Are you certain?"

"Course."

Sherlock looked at his hands, holding the phone, and pressed them to his pointed, unhealthily skinny ribs. He was so broken. "Why do you like me?" Sherlock asked.

John

John sat up, and opened his eyes.

Why. Sherlock had just asked him a question that he himself couldn't answer.

He held his breath, and then replied in a whisper.

"I don't like you, Sherlock," he said. "I need you."

John waited for Sherlock to say something clever. To cut him down at the knees, or to make fun of him or something. But Sherlock was dead silent. "I need your eyes," John added. "And your lips. And your hands. And you smell like mint. I smell like a bloody dishrag. I'm sorry. I need you."

There was silence.

"Sherlock. Say something."

A pause.

"I'm not ignoring you. I haven't the faintest what to say."

"That's a first."

"Say something. To make me feel less stupid."

"Don't feel stupid, John."

"You're an arse," John laughed.

"I mean," Sherlock whispered, voice stuffy. "You could ask me why I like you."

John smiled. "Sherlock," John answered back, "why do you like me?"

John waited. And waited.

"I don't like you."

John sighed, "You don't?" Wouldn't it be funny, he thought, if this was all an experiment?

"I... I don't. Because... because... oh God. This feels so stupid."

"Just say it."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'll say something stupid."

"What?"

"I'll tell you the truth. All of it."

"Is that so bad?" John frowned. "Sherlock... do you not like me?"

"...I don't like you." Sherlock sounded like he meant it. John sank deep into the bed, and took a breath. Calm. Down. He felt like screaming.

"Sometimes..." Sherlock breathed, "I'm certain I live for you."

John exhaled.

"I don't breathe when we aren't together. My parents wonder why I've died of suffocation multiple times. They think it's some rare disease called Odin's Curse, but all it is, really, is my lack of you, John Watson. And your name is... I don't know. You smell like vanilla, pure extract, and I like to look at you when you look out the window or when you sleep on the bus, because you look so soft, and peaceful. And I panic, really, I do. I panic when you speak to me because it's as if every second is infinitesimally important; every passing moment I need to make beautiful, John. I stopped breathing such a long time ago. I stopped everything. I'm not even mine anymore. I'm yours, and I can't fathom - not in all the time we've been together - how I have stayed in control of myself. I realized, about eight minutes ago, that I am not in control. I will never be in control, because I want you, and I can't imagine the day when you stop wanting me. How could you want me like I need you? How is that plausible?"

Sherlock stopped talking.

John would be content if he died tonight.

"I didn't even answer the question," Sherlock said.

Sherlock

Sherlock hadn't told him that his eyes were like the sea. He hadn't said his hands were strong and gentle, and he hadn't mentioned the way his hair shone. How could he?

How could he finish any of his sentences? It just turned into unspeakable mush in his mouth, even though, in his heart, it was delicate and beautiful. All his words were bound into a single point, trapped by the confines of his brilliant mind.

"Why," Sherlock said, "can't we see each other?" His voice cracked. "Of course, we couldn't let my father know how it really was. But it would be something. Anything."

"My stepdad is crazy." John's voice was broken, stuck between ecstasy and... broken ecstasy.

"Crazy."

"Insane. He will kill all things good."

"Does he have to know?"

"My mum'll tell him."

"Does she have to know?"

"No. But my sis can't keep a damned secret for her life."

Sherlock sighed. "I don't care. I need to see you. How we are now."

"How, pray tell, can we? Pickard will never let me speak to you."

"Why?"

"Because he hates me."

"Why?"

"I bloody hate him. I don't get the bruises from when he hits me. I get the bruises from when I block him from my sister. He'd take you away from me."

"He couldn't. I wouldn't let him," Sherlock insisted.

"He'd take me away from you, then. Last time he got angry, he kicked me out for an entire year."

"A year."

"Yep."

Sherlock paused to think, and then, "You could..." Sherlock said, "you could come here."

John smiled. "What would your parents say?"

"'Hello, John, would you like to stay for dinner? We've got seventeen different flavors of caviar for you to choose from.'"

John laughed, "Only seventeen?"

"Only."

"Are you sure you would want them to meet me?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded immediately. "You're my favorite person. Ever, I believe, and I want everyone to meet you. Always."

He kept making John feel like it was safe to smile.

"Ever? But I smell."

"Delicious. Like vanilla birthday cake. And Spring."

Sherlock saw lights turn on in his parents' bedroom. "Damn," Sherlock said. "They're awake, I think." Sherlock took a deep breath. It was a bet; Siger, or Violet. Actually, Sherlock could tell by the heaviness of the step, and the thump. "I never got to explain why I need you," Sherlock whispered, the softest breath ever.

"It's okay-"

"Because you're the kindest person I've met. And you're funny. And you're... you're fantastic. Absolutely sublime." Sherlock breathed hard. "And I like you, so so much. You're like God. And your eyes are spectacular." Sherlock was speaking faster than he could think. "And your hair is like sunshine filtering through honey."

His father's shadow blocked the slit of light underneath the door frame. "I have to go, John..."

Sherlock could hear footsteps only ten feet away, and his heartbeat pulsing like a drum. Everywhere. "Sherlock - wait," John said.

"Sherlock - wait - I love you."

"Sherlock?" Siger opened to the door, quietly, just in case Sherlock was asleep.

Sherlock hung up the phone and pretended he was.