It was a beautiful summer, as far as London went. So many days without rain, when the sun seemed to cling to the fabric of the sky for weeks without setting. Perfect days. It was like a different city altogether. People were smiling to each other as they crossed the street, taxi cabs seemed less inclined to plow into anything that crossed their paths, and the crime rate seemed to have hit a stand still.

A single gunshot vibrated through the walls.

John Watson could not wait for the world to snap out of it.

He lurched out of his comfortable bed, giving up on the idea of a quiet day spent doing nothing. Instead John forced his tired limbs to make their way to the tiny closet, pulling out a t-shirt. Even he couldn't be bothered with a jumper today. Maybe the heat was actually becoming too much.

The scene in the living room is, unfortunately, not an unfamiliar one. Sherlock was the personification of a bull in a china shop, a cornered dog, a two year old whose missed both snack and nap time. Wound too tightly. A bullet looking to ricochet off of anything.

"Did you want tea then?," John asks the mad man who is pacing as if the floor of the flat had done something to personally offend him. There is answer and John doesn't truly wait for one. When in a mood like this the only words Sherlock Holmes seems capable of hearing were new, interesting and case.

The actions of making the tea soothed John any way, regardless of whether the brew ever met lips. It was his long standing belief that all the terrible people in the world were simply not drinking enough of the stuff. It was impossible to stay mad after a good cuppa, regardless of what Sherlock or even Mycroft might think of his defense strategy.

"Miss. Hudson is going to start nagging you again if you don't stop shooting things and get eating something instead. Might even be interesting you know, an experiment on how the human body responds to the regular consumption of nutrients. Imagine all the scientific revelations to be had," John says with what he decided was a dignified smirk at the sound of Sherlockian type words used against the genius himself. This did nothing to lessen the scathing glare he received in return, but then little else would have either.

"John don't be so deliberately obtuse, you wound me," Sherlock tells him petulantly as he reached up to grab the hot tea cup from John's grasp. "You know all the good data's been discovered and taken already. All that's left of nutrition is boring," Sherlock adds with a sniff as he takes a sip of the sickeningly sweet tea, saying the word boring the same way normal people might have said nuclear meltdown.

"Oh I don't know, can you really trust other's research?," John asks innocently from his armchair, settling in with his paper and the knowledge that a distracted Sherlock was the best anyone could hope for today.

"I will not do any research on the matter just to correct the numerous mistakes I'm sure exist. People are idiots John, somehow we all must soldier on despite this," Sherlock says solemnly, as if he truly did live under the burden of the world's ineptitude. John imagines this wasn't far off from how the detective viewed things.

"Have you called Lestrade? Any new cases?," John says with a sigh, already knowing that Sherlock would not be sitting with him if anything of even mild interest had popped up.

"Nothing, nothing, nothing," Sherlock tells him, the repetition being another bad sign as it was something the detective never did for the sake of not being tedious. "Not one serial killer, not one triple homicide or armed robbery, not even a nice little identity theft. It's hateful!," Sherlock snaps, throwing his half empty tea cup at the already brutalized wall.

"That's enough!," John bellows back, having already jumped out of his chair to find the broom to collect the tiny shards of china before Sherlock could manage to think of a more creative use for them.

"Why can't it just get a little bloody, John? That's all I want, just a little. A teeny tiny bit of blood, no one would even miss it," Sherlock points out, looking at John with the wild eyes the doctor knew were never up to any good. "Maybe a bit of grey matter too." Sherlock amended, though he has the decency to look guilty for all of 1/45 of a second when even the detective could hear the 'bit not good' which John was about to send his way. With a huff, Sherlock whipped his blue housecoat tight around his body again as he rolled to face the back of the couch.

"A bit of grey matter would be like Christmas," he mutters darkly, ignoring John's long suffering sigh.

"Yes well, nothing I can do to make that come any sooner. Anything short of committing a major crime though, let me know if I can help you stop being such an annoying git," John says absentmindedly as he stoops with the dustpan to pick up all that remained of a once pretty cup.

The quick glance he gives over to the detective shows him that he had pulled the man's attention away from destroying briefly as the intense eyes followed John's movements over to the bin despite having to crane one pale neck in order to do so. John quickly makes a mental note to not notice his flatmates neck again for at least the next twenty four hours. It was unfair that a man like Sherlock with all his sharp angles and pale skin and unruly hair would be so oblivious to his own beauty. It was unfair that he ignored the way everyone tended to stare at him when he entered a room. It was unfair that he did not know the effort John had to put into suppressing the urge to lock Sherlock away from all those eyes, to keep him somewhere that only John could ever see. Though knowing the detective, if he ever found out that John harboured urges such as that, he'd likely think of it as a point of pride.

Being lost in his own thoughts, John hadn't automatically noticed the swing that was Sherlock getting off of the couch using his own version of grace. John looked up only when he noticed the sound of feet softly padding across the floor towards him. Looking up, he found that the powerful gaze of those pale otherworldly eyes had not yet moved off of him as the detective looked down through a mop of exceptionally crazed curls.

"Do you mean anything John? Really? Because your body language and tone already says you do, but I'd like to be sure. Certain," Sherlock says, correcting himself after a moments pause but adding nothing else before John could answer.

"Of course Sherlock, what did you have in mind?," John readily asks as he stood, brushing the fine bits of dust which had clung there from his trousers. He tries to mentally brace himself for whatever insane experiment Sherlock would deem absolutely essential, which one it would be that simply could not wait another day without being completed. The detective was nothing if not dramatic. John figured it was a long lasting hint to the young boy who had once dreamed of a life at sea full of peg legs.

"I might be asking too much of you," Sherlock tells him, though his words did not sound scared and he in fact took another step closer to John.

" And that would be different from every other day, how?," John asks, a small smile tempting his lips but the idea of what it was that was so horrible as to cause Sherlock to hesitate put a stop to that motion.

"Do I do that a lot? Push too far, overstep the line?," the detective asks him, giant eyes roaming over John's body. "I don't mean to do it. I just can't see it," Sherlock adds quietly, shaking his head as if there actually was an invisible line his eyes had somehow tricked him into missing. As if that could ever happen.

"I think that's just about all you do, Sherlock. I think it might even be what sustains you, since it's obviously not food," John says, a good natured smile on his face as Sherlock seemed to consider his words carefully for two real complete minutes. Then the detective moved closer, to the point that John is certain he can feel the madness oozing out of Sherlock like static electricity. "What are you doing?," John asks once he'd realized that he couldn't manage to get his legs to listen to his mind's pleas to escape, his words finally picking up the quiet tone Sherlock's had had.

"I'm afraid I must ask too much of you again, John Watson. If it upsets you, feel free to remember I'm mad later," Sherlock tells him with what John knew to be a smile but was really only the tugging of the corners of the detective's mouth upwards.

And then the mad, crazy, insane, brilliant, amazing, fantastic man kissed him. Deeply, forcing John's mind to quickly store the memory of soft full lips and warm breath that still held the scent of the sticky sweet tea before an eager tongue begged for entrance. The taste of Sherlock's mouth was even more overwhelming; John's mind wasn't able to comprehend all the sensations associated with it even as his body had moaned for more while leaning in to press closer to Sherlock.

It seemed that the only thought John could managed to hold onto as this was happening was that he was still going to bloody well kill the detective for smashing that cup. Prat.