Oh sorry, if this appears updated recently, well I only put it in chapters instead of just one chapter. Alright, whoever read it before, it's just the same.

- I have it! I have it!

Holmes was coming running to Stamford and some stranger whose entirety was hidden by a metal rack replete with chemistry dishes and instruments; but the rack gave way to the stranger's face at time with his body (though this one Sherlock saw some tenths of second after) and he was in utter shock for a second, only one second in which he didn't inhale as he would have otherwise, and his heart clenched, and so his brain didn't receive more oxygen in any way, for one second.

But hardly anything could be that shocking already.

- I have found a compound which doesn't precipitate by anything other than hemoglobin! He continued loudly announcing his triumph.

John Watson's (formerly "Stranger") eyes widened, and in such a way he observed the curious creature in front of him, of whom Stamford had spoken with reserve and redundancy.

Their reactions had different meanings:

Sherlock Holmes tried not to think about sexuality for anything other than establishing the motives for a crime, when he saw the clues of the sexual act; those thoughts he didn't avoid, sexuality then presented itself as a crude truth about the world, and if there was something Sherlock Holmes would never betray, that was the truth.

However this immaculate loyalty to the truth wasn't heartfelt as much as it was an incorrigible perk of his; Holmes' feelings were weaker than his intelligence, they had no arguments to debate what he observed and induced, and deduced; his statements were made before his emotions could intervene, by the time he was aware of them, all he could do is judge them under the light of reason: 'this is sad but I can't do nothing about it', 'despite my rage this is right, my rage is ridiculous', 'I don't understand why people feel tenderness towards kids, they are like us only with less experience, young somewhat innocent individuals which doesn't make their cruelty any less intentional'. Of course Holmes' judgment failed from time to time; he was that kind of genius whose abilities are spread in a wide variety of ways, so that he cannot attain the level of yet human perfection which specialists gain; no, he wasn't the best man alive at any field; sure, he was the best detective because his powers of deduction were most thoroughly employed in that kind of work, but he wasn't the best at deduction from every possible point of view.

So as we were saying, sometimes he wished the truth wasn't but he couldn't block it the way emotional people do, not even in intent of avoiding it; his intent was evident to him and so was evident he was trying to construct lies from the ever present truth. In this manner Holmes knew he could carry the life of a sincerely devoted monk, waiving any sexual act with only being determined about it (at this sometimes it helped gritting his teeth, or straightening, or keeping his chin farther away from his neck so this one would seem elongated, or briefly shaking his head with lightness, etc., etc.), but indeed it required power of will for he was very aware of being human and a sexual individual; and which he wished he could deny with more impetus, was that he admired women's beauty, had without intent imagined them many times in impure thoughts, but when it came down to being in love he was by far more inclined to falling in love with a man. He had never had a woman as his friend, he despised his misogyny and yet it rang true to him, very well substantiated; instead he had had very few close male friends in his life and somehow he had fallen in love with each and every one. Sexual thoughts didn't come to his mind when being near to these friends or remembering them, not of the dirty nature that they did about women, but his chest felt warm and his heartbeat accelerated and he grinned happily, and when being near the thought had occurred to him to kiss them; and so he wanted to deny truth but he couldn't, so at his mid-twenties he had decided with sadness equivalent to a small puddle of tears to resign to the fact that he would always be profoundly lonely if he wanted to do what was correct.

So then he saw this formerly "Stranger" John Watson – Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. Holmes. Who he didn't want to live with but wouldn't have a choice since his pockets were empty; how could he live with someone that gorgeous? That only one second of shocked asphyxia was because Sherlock Holmes had never seen a man as beautiful as that John Watson. In his mid-twenties, Watson sometimes let his mustache grow but sometimes he shaved clean; Holmes met him shaved clean and his lips were full and more red than those of the average man, yet a little bit chapped, testifying of his manly nature; Holmes didn't know efforts had been made to assess the beauty of human face mathematically so his gaze wasn't of mathematical precision but it was something akin, and the harmony of this John Watson's face struck him, each trait in perfect harmony with the next, and the next with the next and the former with the next two; his eyes were big and of a blunt blue, not dark blue so that in the shadows they were black, not light blue so that under the sun they were grey as his own, not green blue so that at times they changed tone, no: they were of the only shade of blue possible in eyes to have them look always as blue; his hair was blond and sleek and preciously combed, one could have said coquettishly arranged, but of course frugal, of men, with the edge of business; his attire was sharp speaking of a hint of frivolity but also of a classy taste that didn't come naturally to any less fine personality; the proportion of each part of his body spoke of agility and strength; and the eye rings said that even when by all other proof he had once been accommodated and definitely was favored by society, he had now gone through those hardships which rendered him a man.

- Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. Holmes.

To cap it all he had a grave voice weirdly mixed with a soothing and even soft quality; yes, Holmes noted the slight bell of arrogance in it, it said that: 'all I have known is that I am a most cherished individual by society' and this was the only ugly trait Sherlock Holmes saw in this new acquaintance of his; a very small wrinkle appeared by the side of his nose, by his cheekbone, something that wouldn't turn into a sneer because he was polite: he had decided it was his duty to humble him before he were to take rooms with him, 'he should know too who he was dealing with', that's when he threw his deductions at his face:

- I see you've been in Afghanistan.

- How on earth did you know? !

- Ah! That! And he chuckled to himself. – The question now is about hemoglobin; no doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?

Yes, Watson observed Mr. Sherlock Holmes with wide eyes, asking himself 'is this man as intelligent as he seems?' Holmes was in his mid-twenties just as him and yet he had so many more wrinkles: the ones between his brows were deep and forever there, and a lot of small more superficial ones - some indeed long - were on his forehead, so his face was permanently a relaxed grimace of deep thought; it was of course not only that: his experiments, apparently with hemoglobin and others, his fast deduction, the beginning of a mocking or at least condescending sneer he had seen, how he licked his completely chapped lips from time to time with a tinge of irreverence and his disheveled hair saying he had pulled at it, and probably ruffled it while he was seeking for that compound.

When they met, Holmes and Watson were friendly enemies.

That article on the newspaper which Watson had scorned had changed things; the role each would play had been more inexorably settled especially since he had brought it up with the express purpose of impressing Sherlock Holmes too with his own intelligence.

- What ineffable twaddle! I never read such rubbish in my life.

- What is it?

- Why, this article. I see that you have read it since you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him.

- You would lose your money. As for the article I wrote it myself.

Holmes' reply came without an inch of indignation, in fact he was smiling indulgently; at last it would be known to them both, unquestionable, that he was the smarter of them both, that he was a genius, and that his humility took nothing from it, that his general low-key manner before strangers (except during his cases, but that was yet to be known) was only that: a manner.

- You!

- Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so chimerical are really extremely practical, so practical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese.

They were in the living room after breakfast, actually, Watson was finishing his tea while reading the paper and Holmes was looking at the street sitting on the stool that the window's parapet formed.

- Would you be as kind as to come near the window for a moment Dr. Watson? He did without a comment, knowing that was supposed to settle their discussion. - Take that man for example, he is a retired sergeant of the Marines: he has a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of his hand, he wears his sideburns in the crisp military cut that is regulation, if we consider that he is middle-aged and walks about with an air of command to him that only comes with a high rank, I can tell he was a sergeant.

Watson's left eyebrow rose in a disdainful manner; then the man came up to their rooms to deliver the letters he had in in his hand - For Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and he asked: - Please excuse my curiosity good man, but my friend here insists he can guess what people's profession is with just looking at them, would you be as kind as to resolve our conundrum by telling us if you had another profession before this one, and what it was? He put a hand to his hip and turned a smug face to Holmes, and when he heard it he went rigid. - Indeed I had, I was a sergeant, Royal Marine Light Infantry.

Wide-eyed, from then on Watson would amuse himself asking Holmes to deduce the most futile of things, he hardly ever erred and Watson was obliged to concede: Holmes was the more admirable of them both. He started to blush in shame, his own stupidity astounded him when it was regretfully unavoidable that he spoke his thoughts to Holmes; Holmes saw this and felt pleased with himself, but even more pleased with Watson; the high regards were thus mutual and they easily became friends.

Holmes took Watson to watch him box. When they came back home, when stepping down the hansom Watson had to help Holmes come up to their rooms, with one arm around his waist, Holmes had one arm over his shoulders, and Watson held onto it too to offer more support.

Holmes was a fine boxer; he had defeated them all, endured five fights (which of course didn't adhere to the official rules of the time about the number of rounds and their duration, and even with the unofficial box rules they followed, Holmes had knocked three of them out before the time expired). The shabby organizer called to the crowd: "Who is willing to dare the champion?", he asked "Who will be the man to defeat him?", and so the challengers emerged from that swamp of heads, stepped down the unstable old wood stands; Holmes' eyeballs spanned them well opened, no one but Watson would have suspected that he was calculating his moves determined by his notice of their weaknesses. But at the last fight the contender's fist had reached his temple and cheekbone, and Holmes' feet weren't fast enough to react to the strength of it, and so he had flopped down to the ground while his feet had still been trying to maintain him standing and he had sprained his right ankle horridly, his ligaments stretched, indeed bit by bit as it all occurs but fast, until they snapped. He sat up in an instant (he wasn't that dizzy though his brain had floated left and right in the liquid) and raised his hand which meant "time", or "stop the fight, I can't endure it anymore"; the referee who was also the shabby organizer inclined on him and so he told to his ear above the screams: - My ankle. The fight was stopped and after deliberation Holmes won anyway, by points.

And now Watson had to replace the strength of Holmes' right leg to take his weight, on top of that his ribcage was heavily bruised, his knuckles' skin washed away, and his eyebrow split open.

- But you aren't dizzy, are you Holmes? He asked as they went down the hansom.

- No… But he wasn't even properly, energetically hopping on his left leg. – I'm just exhausted.

Watson helped him sit slowly on the couch of the living room.

- Take off your shirt. He told him as he went for the medicine kit.

The first thing he tended to was his brow, which had been still letting a few drops of blood slide down his face and Holmes had had to formerly wipe off with his fingers in a fast stroke before they went to his eye; he was already squinting anyway, with the pain of the injury and some of his salty sweat sifting into his eye by its corners.

Watson cleaned the sweat from his face with a towel, cleaned the wound. – Look at me. He forced himself to fix his eyes on him, and Watson assessed it would only need stitches.

He put the thread through the needle and turned again to him. – This is painful.

- I've received stitches before Watson. Before him, Holmes even stitched himself. "Ouch!... ouch!, ouch!" he exclaimed to his own amusement, but let the needle in and out without hesitation.

When he was done (Holmes had gone without uttering a complaint), he looked at it up close, his left hand always on Holmes' neck and now his right on his cheek, temple and ear. – Look at me. Again his grey eyes were on him. – Perfect. He said and knelt down, rolling up the right leg of Holmes' pants, revealing completely one nastily swollen ankle, the swelling extending both over his instep and his calf. Watson hissed and put his fingers on the foot, beginning to examine; he gently moved it one way, then the other, and back, and in circle, - Does it hurt?, he kept asking and by Holmes' unwilling reactions and willing responses he could tell he had partly snapped his ligaments. – You have a sprain from second to third degree, but you didn't snap your ligaments completely, so it will have to heal without surgery. For now, I am bringing a bowl so that you submerge it on freezing water, alternating it with hot water, I'm bandaging it and you're taking a bath.

Holmes nodded and smiled at him. – Well, did you at least enjoy the match?

He smiled back. – Thoroughly until this happened to you.

- No need to be exceedingly polite old boy.

He smiled again. – Well then… thoroughly. And he went for the bowls.

As Watson, without much assistance from Holmes was submerging his foot in one bowl and then in other, Holmes was beginning to drift off; the change from extreme temperatures hardly bothered him and he was more exhausted than he had let on. It was Watson's finger pads on his ribs which made him open his eyes since he had last closed them, now he put his left hand on his shoulder and continued examining him with his right. – What do you feel when I make pressure Holmes?

- Nothing but a faint tad of pain.

- Tell me if it hurts more at one spot.

But it didn't. – Come on then, - putting one knee on the couch his arm was again surrounding Holmes' waist as he draped Holmes' arm over his shoulders – the bath must be ready for you at your room and then you can sleep.

- You're awful kind Watson.

Since Watson was a very caring attentive doctor, he was the one to unbutton Holmes' pants always hugging his waist to give his - for now - one-legged friend support, they fell to the ground and he pulled Holmes' knee-height underwear down, with Holmes sitting at the edge of the bathtub he was able to untangle them from his feet and leave him naked. He helped him again to step into the tub, and sit down carefully. Holmes smiled at him and Watson padded his back: 'it was nothing'.

He washed himself.

- Watson!

Watson came into the room again and now helped a dripping Holmes step out of the bathtub. Holmes chuckled. – You're now drenched too.

Watson grinned. – Not to worry, I'm taking a bath myself, and – he took the towel – solving the problem for now. He dried his friend's body with an odd mixture of gentleness and hastiness; since they were both men and he a doctor and weren't supposed to be ashamed of it, he even passed the towel by Holmes' genitals. He handed him one clean nightshirt which Holmes easily slid on; he raised his head to look at Watson who smiled at him, in which Holmes thought he saw regret, and then he was by his side again, helping him to bed.

Watson sat at the edge of the bed after bandaging his foot, as if he didn't want to leave. – Rest now Holmes, tomorrow I'm bringing you crutches so you can walk around easily.

Holmes extended one arm and surrounded Watson's forearm with his hand; he gave a reliable fast grip. – Thank you Doctor.

With that Watson stood up.

The atmosphere had been tense and at the same time peculiarly comfortable all along. No conclusions had been made on the part of either party, but what was certain was they didn't think of the other as before, Holmes began to sense himself falling in love yet again with his one closest friend and Watson felt rawly allured by him; Holmes' fighting skills had impressed him and the sight of his naked body screamed at his brain that he was before perfection, he had reverently handled that body albeit with mild recklessness that reminded him of the companionable way he and his friends of the army used to push each other, or of his wrestling games when he was a kid.

Holmes only wanted to use one of the crutches.

Scotland Yard suffered while he healed, because apparently it wasn't enough that he told them exactly what to do, they still discarded valuable evidence and screwed up all carefully schemed plans of capture.

- He ran away Holmes. Lestrade informed him perplexed.

- But how? ! You had him in the palm of your hand!

But when Lestrade stammered his explanation all was clarified.

Months later, on an idle Sunday Holmes talked about how much he wanted to go back to the "ring" and how he probably would sometime next week. A sudden flirtatious way took over Watson. – And what if I was the one challenging you now Holmes?

Holmes, was intrigued. – Do you practice box Watson?

He grinned. – Not at all. But I've always been good at sports. I'm honest in telling you there hasn't been a single rugby team I have ever belonged of which I haven't been the star and captain.

Holmes smirked devilishly. – Well well Watson, I thought your war injuries had managed to put you down, - Watson looked fleetingly indignant – I should have known better, seeing we were speaking of a gentleman of great stamina such as yourself.

He huffed. – You mock me.

- Not at all. But I'm still not well enough to fight. What do you say if we test you? Would you be willing to pit against someone else today?

Watson scowled and pursed his lips, in consideration of the tantalizing idea; that was the moment that Holmes first thought of kissing this particular close friend of his. Finally Watson's eyes lit up somewhat mischievously. – Suuure, - he dragged and grinned - why not! They shook hands and when it was seven in the night they were going to the unofficial boxing ring joint.

To prove how brave he was, within entering Watson was putting his name in the list, 'he was so ready' he wanted to say, 'that the fight could come as soon as it came'. Holmes put his hand on his nape and laughing loud and openly shook him a bit, indeed proud. They sat at a stand and Watson proved to be even more daring when saying, his grin ever present – I am a fool, I forgot my wallet… I surely would have bet on myself. Holmes responded with two clacks. – Don't worry dear friend, I'm betting on you and we're splitting the lot what do you say? Watson nodded and Holmes fulfilled his wishes, addressing one of the organizer's helpers he placed what could be considered a large sum in favor of his friend.

And so the match started. If there was something good to say about that joint was that the organizers weren't quite so brutal; with everything else like stopping the fights, they always tried to match the weights of the opponents, and so Watson was in a fair fight. His leg hurt him from time to time but his adversary was a novice just as himself; and he had spoken the truth, Watson was skillful, his adversary was only ordinary. No one knocked no one, it lasted the full six rounds and even though from the beginning of the second half of the fifth round Watson began to be inferior, due to the pain of his leg and shoulder, and by the end of the sixth round he was receiving a fit of brutal blows, he had already crudely marked his opponent during all the previous rounds, indeed beaten him to a pulp, and won by points. Holmes, who had been shouting at him what to do throughout the whole match, even if he didn't hear or obeyed him, finally could breathe freely; he shouted and jumped on one foot, his arms in the air, running to Watson with a limp. He cleaned Watson's sweat from his face with his hand, - I knew you'd win! he told him euphoric, perhaps a bit indulgent but at the moment believing himself, and dragged him out of there after gathering their winnings. Since the fifth round he had held himself up from jumping into the "ring" and making of himself a human barricade while begging to stop the fight, it now turned out to be a delightful torture.

They kept talking about the fight in the hansom, restless; the jokey kept hearing their sometimes indistinct overlapped shouts:

- Brutal hook!..

- I thought…

- Perhaps if you…

- … distracting me!

- If you'd heard me!..

- … ball of meat!

Cackles. Wheezes.

When they came into the living room Watson dropped over his armchair, and Holmes, on his own account, entirely volunteering, brought the medical kit with him; he stood before him. – In times when I didn't have a doctor with me I used to tend to my wounds myself. I am almost a professional at it. If you will allow me.

Watson allowed him, being confronted with a touch gentler than he had dared use. He gaped minimally, perhaps impressed by Holmes' delicacy; quite involuntarily his gaze followed closely Holmes' face as he committed in cleansing all the scratches and slits, and relieving some of the pain from the bruises by applying ointment; each time Holmes looked at Watson's eyes, his blue ones were already fixed on his.

- You impressed me the other day. He said suddenly.

- What day?

- When you fought… You're a most impressive man – "man", not fighter, not boxer, not detective; this choice of words didn't pass unnoticed to any of them - aren't you Holmes?

Holmes smiled faintly. – I don't think so.

Silence ensued, as the cotton with alcohol brushed Watson's cheekbone.

-… Well I do. He said at last.

Holmes smiled faintly again. – You're always telling me things of the sort Watson; you're kind, and you like to commend people only because it makes them feel good.

It was Watson's turn to smirk. – I assure you, that's not entirely true my good fellow. I have never enjoyed being left behind.

Holmes was finished and so he put his eyes on Watson's again, 'I enjoy being left behind by you' they both understood he was saying. He brushed Watson's cheek with the back of his fingers quickly, like lightning. – There, you have your pretty face back. He told him, and they both had to smirk.