A/N: A little johnlock :) I tried to make this a fluff piece, but my love for hurt/comfort just had to show itself. Let's just say this is as fluffy as I can get! This was actually a lot harder to write than I anticipated. I wanted to keep this as in character as possible! As always, all rights go to Sir ACD and MG/SM. I hope you enjoy!

The Art of Deduction

Sherlock Holmes is not an emotional man.

At best, sentiment is dull, an utter waste of precious time and effort. At worst, it is a hindrance. One simply cannot be expected to deduce anything while one's judgment is clouded over with, god forbid, emotions. Each case is a puzzle to solve, some, albeit, more intriguing and exhilerating than others. And one must have a clear mind, free of any impairing factors (save, of course, the drugs. Chemicals which, in fact, heighten his mind, thank you very much). Of course, Sherlock is human, and occasionally, must endure some sort of emotional outburst. These are promptly pushed back into the farthest recesses of his Mind Palace, to be deleted, or at the very least, temporarily forgotten. John is the emotional one. No doubt it is why they make the perfect team: Sherlock, the brilliant detective, in search of data; John, the heart of the duo, with just enough feeling to keep him in check and ruthlessness (and, undoubtedly, insanity) to enjoy the thrill of the Work while putting up with his best friend's idiosyncracies.

It is John who lights that tiny spark within Sherlock Holmes. His mind: he finds he is solving cases at a rate even surpassing his own capabilities after meeting his flatmate. His heart: there is a gradual change within the consulting detective's demeanor. He is becoming, much to his disgust, more human, even finds himself apologizing to Molly Hooper after humiliating her at a Christmas party. He begins to feel empathy and compassion, thoughts which had been foreign to him not that long ago.

Gradually that spark becomes an ember, and then the slightest of flames. Following their first meeting at the St. Bart's morgue, Sherlock has never used his deduction skills against his flatmate. John has distinctively told him not to, as it, quote unquote, "invaded his privacy." His lack of social skills being minimum, he finds this notion to be somewhat rediculous, but nonetheless respects the man's wishes, for mere convenience. He needs his blogger, and to anger him would be to risk severing their partnership. Not an option. Besides, the consulting detective admits, the man is his friend, one of the few he actually has. As the months pass, however, Sherlock finds himself gazing at John Watson and seeing more than just a flatmate, or even a best mate. Despite his promise, he finds himself deducing him, immediately storing the information away for later. He notices the adorable way he jogs along beside him, or how he sometimes still looks at him in complete amazement when he rattles off someone's life story with just a glance. He catches the appreciative smiles when Sherlock plays even simple etudes on his violin, or the freshly brewed cup of coffee and his favourite pastry waiting for him some mornings just because. Sometimes, he thinks he notices John glancing at him in a way which is slightly more than just friendly, but he pushes it aside. Because, while Sherlock Holmes is indeed a gay man, and has found his mate attractive from the beginning, John Watson has admitted fervently on more than one occasion that he most certainly is not. To pursue anything of a romantic nature (if that were ever even a consideration) would be a waste of valuable time. There is also the slight inconvenience that he is engaged to be married to Mary Morstan. Not exactly on the market, even if he did lean towards the other side of the fence.

For a while, that flame begins to die down, reduced once again to embers. Sherlock finds that he adores Mary almost as much as John. He is truthful when, during his best man's speech, he claims that he is standing before the two people he loves most dear. But with that love is also fear, which threatens to extinguish that little spark for good. For Mary Watson is newly pregnant. A child threatens to ruin everything. The work will suddenly be put on the back burner for John, whose priorities will no longer be his best friend, but the tiny human growing within his wife's womb. It matters not that both John and Mary assure him that the duo will continue on solving cases, the Baker Street Boys, regardless of their marital status. But the consulting detective is no fool. Sherlock will be reduced to Third Wheel Status, something he has zero desire to accomodate. The situation is further complicated when said pregnant wife shoots him. Clinging to life by a mere thread, it is his love for John which brings him back. The need to protect him, to keep him safe; the images of him once more standing before his grave, his only comfort now being the service pistol he still has hidden in the drawer of his nightstand. He refuses to let death claim him, not when John, his John, needs him.

His relationship with John is put to the ultimate test when Mary sacrifices her life for him. The warm smiles, the tender moments which make Sherlock's heart skip a beat, are replaced with contempt. He begins using again, secretly hoping it will result in an overdose. He could endure being the third wheel, keeping his love for his friend secret, so long as John cared. But this... the cold stares, the resentment, the looks of absolute hatred. He is even denied visits with his goddaughter. Death is, in fact, a welcome relief. When the doctor beats him nearly senseless in that morgue, he makes no effort to protect himself. He deserves this, every bruise, every broke bone. His arrogance had killed Mary, had left a child without a mother, his best friend without his wife. The guilt gnaws at him, incessant. No physical pain could ever be worse than the agony he is suffering in his heart and soul.

And then, suddenly, that ember once more sparks into life. John forgives him, begs for forgiveness in return. He and Rosamond move back to Baker Street and once more Sherlock hopes. The camraderie they had shared in their glory days returns, the banter, the childish giggles. The one sided deducing games reemerge, and the detective has to excuse himself on more than one occasion in an effort to hide the obviously visible erection peeking from beneath his trousers. Those subtle glances John used to sneak gradully reemerge: the slight peek at his ass when Sherlock leaves the bathroom, towel wrapped strategically loosely around his waist, still damp from the shower; the look of longing in his blue eyes when he and John settle on the sofa watching telly, the younger man deducing everyone and everything instead of watching the damn program. Sherlock especially notices it whenever he is with Rosie. It seems the most mundane parental tasks seem to bring out that little spark in the doctor. There is a look of longing, almost hunger, when John watches him change her soiled nappies, feed her. On occasion Sherlock would bounce Rosie on his lap, humming the lullabye Mummy had sang to him when he was a child whenever she fussed. One does not have to be Sherlock Bloody Holmes to notice the warm smile and slight blush upon his friend's cheeks. That hope blossoms when the glances are replaced with gentle touches. At first they are subtle, a hug lingering a second or two longer than usual, or the brushing of hands when reaching for the sugar bowl. Sherlock remembers almost humming in delight when John absently runs his hand along the consulting detective's leg, gradually sneaking its way up to his thigh before quickly pulling away.

That little flame grows the day John tells Sherlock he loves him.

It is a typical Sunday afternoon at Baker Street, Rosie chattering away as she plays on the carpet in the lounge. Sherlock is nestled beside the toddler, partaking in a tea party with her favourite stuffies and rattling on about how King Henry VIII's STD had ultimately resulted in the beheading of his wife and the creation of the Anglican church. John rolls his eyes with a smirk: "God, sometimes it amazes me that I love you."

Sherlock glances up from the pink, plastic teacup, grey eyes staring blankly towards him. John blushes at his freudian slip, but doesn't deny it when Sherlock whispers: "you love me?" Instead, he nods hesitantly, praying that his best friend feels the same way. He is rewarded with a smile, cautiously optomistic but with a trace of hesitation. Perhaps he is no brilliant consutling detective, but John can sense that Sherlock is trying to deduce whether he is telling the truth. After a moment, the detective rises and gently brushes a hand along John's cheekbone, memorizng every minute detail and storing them in his Mind Palace. After a moment, Sherlock hesitantly draws near, lips gently brushing against John's. It is the most tender, passionate kiss either have ever experienced. Sherlock closes his eyes, draws in the scent of John's cologne and finds himself floating. It's a high like none other, more intense than the most powerful drug. He can feel the heat in his loins as John's fingers tangle within his curls, the warmth of the doctor's breath in his ear whetting his utmost desire. It isn't until they are interrupted with the delightful giggles of the two-year-old on the carpet that they remember Rosie and pull away, chuckling.

XXX

Sherlock Holmes is not an emotional man.

Sherlock Holmes does not love anyone.

At least, not until the day he met John Watson. The man who has saved him, in more ways than he can possibly imagine. The man who has pulled him from rock bottom, held him afloat when he was drowning. The man who stands before him, eyes filled with love and laughter as Sherlock stumbles through the vows he has prepared. He can feel his heart well with this foreign emotion (happiness?) as he slips the simple gold band on John's wedding finger; as the two share a sweet, relatively chaste kiss at the end of the ceremony while Mrs. Hudson dabs at her eyes with a hanky; when he watches John twirling around the dance floor, little Rosie standing on his feet to keep up with the steps. John is laughing as his daughter squeals in delight. He feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to see Mycroft beside him, his usual blank expression on his face. Sherlock opens his mouth in anticipation of the sarcastic comments usually beknown of the British Government. Instead, his older brother graces him with the briefest of smiles. "Well done, brother mine."

"Sherlock?"

The detective looks up, sees his new husband walk towards him. John smiles, extends a hand. "Last I checked, the first dance is kind of pointless without two people."

"Dancing? Dull." John, of course, sees through the gruff exterior. He sees the flecks of gold and warm brown in his eyes, Sherlock's tell that there is warmth and love in the gaze, and reaches for his lover's hand. As they gently glide along the dance floor in time with the music, Sherlock breathes deeply, allowing himself to finally, truly relax. John Watson is his, after many years of patient waiting, of false hope and overwhelming despair. His reason for living, the beacon of light in a world dulled by chemicals and lonliness. A single tear gently traces its way along his cheek and John gently brushes it away with his thumb. No words are spoken.

None are needed.