It was another day at 221B Baker Street.

The window in the living room was in need of replacement due, yet again, to a man being flung out of it. John wasn't entirely sure why people thought it was a good idea to mess with Sherlock in his home, but he was sure that he was damn sick of fixing things every other time someone broke into their flat. When he asked Sherlock why he didn't just subdue the intruder on the carpet or lock him in the bathroom, Sherlock simply shrugged. The police always picked up the criminal, cleared the area, and were gone after only a short lecture from Lestrade. There were never any repercussions.

So he'd call into the shop where Sherlock knew somebody, request that they bring over yet another window for the living room, and tell them that, no, they didn't need to install it for him, even if it was free of charge because Sherlock saved someone's life or something like that. After cases that ended with someone thrown through something in their flat, John tended to need a few beers and a distraction. The beer was in the fridge, the window would be there within an hour, and all would be right in the world.

Before then, he changed into the old pair of work jeans and a t-shirt that was a bit too snug on him- both things he didn't mind ruining. He popped the top on his first beer of the afternoon, dug out his tools, and started carefully taking the frame off the window.

"John."

The voice, after all this time, still startled him. He turned around and Sherlock was standing there, shirtless and hair damp from the shower he took to get the feel of confrontation off his skin (John ignores the strange tug in his gut, because it was Sherlock, for fuck's sake). The doctor knew that he would sleep soon- his adrenaline crash was already evident in his slight sway- wake up after a few short hours, and be hungry for take-out Thai food from the place down the road. For a second, John let himself think it was an apology that danced in Sherlock's eyes.

"Everything okay?" John asked and grabbed his beer for another swig.

"I wanted to apologize about the window."

The beer almost sputtered out of John's mouth at the sheer fact that those words had just crossed Sherlock's lips. He had a moment of pride where he realized he read Sherlock's expression correctly, but it was drowned out by the shock.

"Pardon?"

A faint pink tinge crept into Sherlock's cheeks. "You heard me just fine. Don't play games. I know how much you hate having to fix things around here. I just wanted to apologize for not being as… careful with our things as I should be."

There was that world again, apologize, with an added dash of Sherlock referring to things in the flat as "ours" instead of "yours" or "mine." John didn't know how to handle this, so he took another sip of his beer.

"It's alright. Go sleep the case off. The window will be good as new when you wake up, then we'll get take out."

"I don't need to sleep. I can help, if you want."

Help. That was another word John didn't hear too often out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Are you feeling alright?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're being, well… nice, I suppose."

"I'm always nice."

"No, you always pretend to be nice."

"How do you know I'm not pretending right now?"

John wanted to say it was because the lack of shirt made him vulnerable, something he wouldn't do if he was playing a game, that the corners of his eyes crinkle when he's being sarcastic, that he doesn't have any trace of the sneer that usually, briefly, crosses his lips when he's offering to do something he really doesn't want to do. Instead, John just shrugs. "I've got this handled. Go to sleep, Sherlock. You've been running for 4 solid days. You need your rest, Doctor's orders."

Sherlock shrugs and goes to his room, leaving John to question why he was so intent on memorizing the musculature of his flat mate's retreating back. The case must have been harder than I thought it would be, he thinks, and the rest of his beer is gone and he gets to work on the window frame again.

Sherlock wakes at 10:00, just as John has finished calling in their take out order. Somehow, he always knows when the detective will return back to the land of the living. Twenty minutes later, they are sitting at the kitchen table, in someone amiable silence, eating take-out Thai food. John pops another beer, and Sherlock raises one perfect, slender eyebrow.

"What?" John asks.

"That's your 5th beer today."

"And?" John is long past asking how Sherlock knows things, even when he's been asleep during the events.

"After rough cases, you only ever drink 3 beers or you move on to harder alcohol."

"And?"

"Why the beer instead?"

John thought about it. He could have certainly used the quick buzz from a gin and tonic or several, but he wasn't in the mood for a full on drunken night. "I felt like having the edges smoothed out but not blurred. Beer is a slower way of getting drunk, allows me to drag it out longer."

"And why do you want it to drag out longer?"

Because I still can't stop thinking about the drops of water that clung to your skin or the way I wanted to grip that damp head of yours and shove you to your knees and-.

John shakes his head and shrugs, hoping Sherlock takes the hint and stops asking questions.

Of course he doesn't.

"Was there something about this case that particularly affected you?"

"No, it wasn't that. I mean, I'm used to international drug smugglers by this point in our adventures."

"Was it the window installation? I knew I should have stayed to help…"

"Sherlock," John said and placed his hand on top of the one that Sherlock was currently worrying the table with. "It wasn't the window. I just felt like having a few beers more than normal. Stop analyzing things."

John realized quickly where his hand was once Sherlock's eyes darted down and back in a move that John would have missed if he hadn't been so intent on seeing the way they caught the light. He dropped his hand, finished his beer, tucked his Thai food in the fridge, and went to bed, trying his hardest to ignore the fact that Sherlock definitely knew he was hiding something now. He could deal with it in the morning.

Little things changed at first. John noticed Sherlock making physical contact with him more often. A guiding hand on his back here, a pat on the shoulder there, a tug on the sleeve of his jumper to get him to follow.

Little things.

John would find Sherlock making tea shirtless in the mornings, his hair disheveled from late nights running his hands through it because of an experiment gone wrong.

He'd find Sherlock composing music at three in the morning that pulled at John's heart and made him wish that it wasn't completely fucking mad to want to kiss his flat mate.

When had he started wanting to kiss Sherlock?

Their next case was particularly bad. They had found the man who was behind the human trafficking ring, only to discover they were too late to stop him from setting the warehouse where he stored his victims ablaze. They were children. Not all of them made it out in time.

Sherlock didn't ask before he climbed into bed with John. John didn't speak either. It was nice to have the presence of someone else, someone who was living and breathing, so close to him. It helped chase away the visions of those who weren't.

When John woke in the morning, the bed next to him was empty. He thought he had imagined the guest until he saw the long, dark, curly hair on the other pillow.

This was information he would stow away for another time.

They didn't speak about it, but every night from that point on, Sherlock ended up in John's bed. At first, he was tucked close to the edge of the other side of the mattress, taking up as little space as possible. With each case that passed, he edged closer and closer to John.

The night they failed to save a woman from the stalker who had tracked her to London from America, Sherlock ended up curled up against John's side, his head resting on the man's chest, one leg draped across.

The next morning, John woke up to the truly amazing sight of Sherlock asleep. The man who never seemed at rest, not even when he was thinking through some case, three nicotine patches on his arm, eyes closed and on the couch… He finally seemed peaceful. He looked years younger with the stress gone. John moved his hand and ran his fingers lazily through Sherlock's hair. The curls were softer than John had imagined- not that he had imagined the feel of his hand in Sherlock's hair or anything- and were knot free even after a night of sleep. The contact only lasted a few moments before Sherlock woke and moved away from John, getting up and getting ready for the day.

John tried to ignore the sense of loss as the door closed quietly. He'd been doing a lot of ignoring of feelings lately. He pushed that thought aside as well and figured he should also get ready for the day ahead.

That night, Sherlock didn't sleep. The next night, he slept in his own bed, as well as the night after that and the night after that. John hadn't slept in 4 days. His bed seemed entirely too big for just one person.

They didn't talk about it.

Then Sherlock got kidnapped.

It happened during a rather violent case of serial murders. The culprit wasn't interested in anything other than pure torture. There were no signs of injection, strangulation, gunshots, or stab wounds (or, at least, no stab wounds that would have caused death), just various bruises and wounds covering every inch of the victims that washed up on the shores of the Thames. They were on their way to tracking down the man behind it (white, job in a butcher's shop, learned the trade from his father, mid-50s, married, two children, abusive, about to go bankrupt- all according to Sherlock, who's voice John had missed hearing in their flat).

When Sherlock went to get more of his nicotine patches and didn't return within an hour, John sent him a text.

Where are you? –JW

Followed by another.

So help me, Sherlock, if you are ignoring me, I'll kill you myself. –JW

And another.

Where the hell are you?- JW

And then John tucked his gun into the back of his waistband, put on his coat, and texted Lestrade.

There was an address circled on the notes Sherlock had left on the table. The cab dropped John off a block away from the rather unremarkable building. It was a small warehouse, not far from the Thames, which would easily fit with the waterlogged corpses they had found. A quick look showed him a side door propped carefully open, almost unnoticeable. He was grateful it opened silently.

He could hear voices not far ahead of him. He stepped cautiously, quieter than he had on the battlefield, with his gun raised in front of him. The light at the end of the tunnel was growing brighter and a new sound overlapped the voices- the sick thud of an object striking flesh. He turned the corner just as the object- a flogger, he noted somewhere deep in his subconscious- landed against Sherlock's bare back, bruising the skin and raising welts. The bitten off scream that came out of Sherlock's mouth was all it took before the bullet was out of John's gun and lodged into the kneecap of the man holding the flogger. Killing him would be far too messy, and Lestrade really told him he had to be more cautious with firing at people. Let him suffer.

There was a second man, an obstacle that they had not considered, who pulled a knife. John rolled down and forward to avoid the blade as it flew through the air, raised his gun again, and the man froze.

"Get down on the floor or I will shoot you," the cold, calm tone of his voice managed to catch the man by surprise.

"You wouldn't kill me."

John managed a small laugh, making the man even more uncomfortable. "No, but I would ask your friend what it feels like to have his knee cap shattered."

The first man's screams were slowly dissolving into strangled sobs as he rocked on the ground, clutching at his leg. The second man looked at him, then back at John, before kneeling on the ground, his arms by his head. John brought the butt of his gun to the man's temple, knocking him out. He pulled his own knife out of his pocket and walked over to Sherlock.

"John…"

John wouldn't look at him, simply cutting the rope, catching his weight, and carrying him to the couch the second man had been watching the show from.

"John-."

"Lay on your front so I can look at your back," with how angry he was, John was impressed his voice held its calm.

"John, please-."

"I said, lay on your front and let me look at your back." The edge crept into John's voice that time and Sherlock did as he was told. The marks made long stripes across the pale stretch of skin, some already bruising, a rare few leaking a small amount of blood, all of them raised and red. "I have what we need to take care of this at the flat. Do you know where they put your clothes?"

"On the table."

John helped Sherlock into his shirt trying not to think about the fact that it was the wine colored one that he enjoyed so much because of the way it contrasted against Sherlock's dark suits and fair complexion. By the time Lestrade and the team arrived, John had tied a tourniquet around the first man's leg and tied the other's hands together.

It was John's turn to lead Sherlock out of the building with a guiding hand gently on his lower back. It was John who hailed a cab, who opened the door, shooed off Mrs. Hudson.

"Take your coat and shirt off," he said as he pulled out his med kit. The latex gloves slipped on easily, the cap came off the salve with just a small twist, the gauze and tape were laid out neatly next to the rag, bowl of warm water, and the alcohol wipes. When he looked up, Sherlock was facing him, naked from the waist up. John hoped he wasn't reading the look on Sherlock's face right this time. He wasn't sure if he could stand the pain there being real, especially since not all of it seemed to be physical.

"Sit so you're facing the back of the chair." Sherlock obliged without question. "This is going to sting a bit."

The alcohol wipe elicited a sharp intake of breath, but soon enough John was smoothing the salve across Sherlock's back. He wrapped the gauze around the worst wounds, his arms circling Sherlock as he reached across his front to move the gauze from hand to hand. He taped that in place then wrapped it again, tighter this time, with an ace bandage.

"I wouldn't shower until tomorrow night at the earliest, not unless you want the water to make the pain worse. You can wash up a bit in the sink though, just try not to drip water onto the bandages. I should have suggested it before I wrapped you up, so it's my fault, but you're good now."

He said all of this while he was stripping off his gloves and repacking the med kit. He busied himself putting on the kettle for tea, getting down two cups, pulling out the tin of Sherlock's favorite biscuits…

Then arms wrapped around his waist and John froze.

"I'm sorry."

You fucking should be. How dare your risk your life like that? You could have warned me, texted me, something!

"It's not your fault-," John started instead.

"Not directly, no, but I took a different way home from the market, the way that goes through the alleys, even though I knew they were onto me. I'm sorry."

John took a deep breath, then another, and let his head drop. He let his voice get soft. "You're safe now. It's alright."

That's all that matters, right? You were an idiot, but you're here, so it's fine.

"Thank you for finding me."

John had been prepared for that. He had not, however, been prepared to the gentle press of lips against his cheek.

The floodgates opened.

He turned and caught Sherlock in his arms, pushing his hips against the counter and wrapping a hand in those curls, forcing Sherlock to meet his eyes.

"Do you have any idea what would happen to me if you died? Do you? I haven't been able to sleep for four days when you've just been downstairs, which was fucked up in and of itself because you were just bloody ignoring me! What if you weren't here at all? What if you were never going to come back? Do you have any fucking idea what I would do without you? I would die, you selfish son of a bitch, so the next time you decide to leave for nicotine patches and take some dark fucking alley way home, just remember that there is someone who loves you patiently waiting on the sofa for you to come home and show some fucking respect for their feelings!"

John was breathing harshly at this point. Sherlock's pupils had blown wide, his mouth slightly open.

"You said you loved me."

John wasn't sure if he heard it because it was barely more than half whispered into the air between them. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it, either, because it would mean that he had let his carefully built façade fall and Sherlock would leave because why the hell would someone like Sherlock want to be with someone like him.

And then there were lips pressing against his and the entire world stopped.

Sherlock wasn't fierce or passionate like John had imagined- not that he had thought about it often, of course- but rather, he kissed in a way that made John think he was being dissected, slowly, bit by bit, carefully examined and categorized. His hand cupped, rather than pushed, Sherlock's head, and he granted the access the man's tongue was begging to his own mouth.

It was like fireworks or sunsets or a forest fire, something bright that flared and burned and shocked and awed and John wasn't entirely sure it was happening.

Then their clothes came off, piece by piece, making a delightfully wicked trail from the kitchen to Sherlock's room. ("My room is closer." "Are you sure?" "I can't wait any longer." "Let's go.") John had only a moment to acknowledge that the room had changed since the last time he had been in it before they tumbled onto the bed together, Sherlock's knees resting on either side of John's hips, their obvious erections pressing against each other.

He became immediately aware of the immensity of their situation. They were in their pants, on Sherlock's bed, breath heaving from tearing at each other, lips bruised from kisses…

"What are we doing?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"I was going to let you take your frustration out on me as you fuck me."

There was that strange feeling of all his thoughts disintegrating, a moment of stuttering, before:

"I've never done this before."

"No, but you've thought about it. Isn't that enough?"

"But-."

"You said you loved me."

"Sherlock, I-."

"I love you too."

Whatever commentary John was going to spout off, whatever points he was going to make about why it was such a bad idea for them to be doing whatever it was they were doing at that point died in his throat.

"What?"

"Don't play games. You heard me." Words still failed John and Sherlock continued. "I thought about you, tonight, when they tossed me in the boot of their car, how you'd be worried and furious that I wouldn't come back. I thought about you when they stripped my clothes off, how it wasn't okay for anyone but you to see me like that. I thought about you when the flogger came down across my back that first time because I knew, any second, you would be there, and then you were. My flat mate. My friend. My partner. My doctor. My John. Please. Please…"

But John was already kissing him, cutting off the rest of the begging. There would be time for that later, a lot of time, if John had his way. He flipped them over so he was on top, gently lowering Sherlock onto the bed, careful not to jar his injuries. He trailed kisses down Sherlock's neck, delighting in the soft moans that seemed to echo around them. He nipped, sucked, kissed, licked, and all but had the man beneath him unraveled. John marveled at the sight.

There had been times on the battlefield where it seemed only logical to give a friend a hand (or mouth) to help out with their issues. Deep in the sandy deserts of Afghanistan, it didn't seem like anything big. They could die at any moment. Why worry about the source of your pleasure?

As John stroked Sherlock, taking him into his mouth, these thoughts ran through his mind. He never thought of himself as gay, and would say as much to any who asked, but there was something about the soft, unyielding flesh, the sharp bite of pre-cum in the back of his throat, that made John groan with pleasure even though he was the one doing the work.

"Do you- do you have-?" he started, but Sherlock was already handing him a small bottle of lubricant and a condom.

John had seen his fair share of porn that may have involved more than one guy and had perhaps not a single female in sight. He knew the preparation was important, and as he slipped one well lubed finger inside Sherlock, he reminded himself that he gave enough damn prostate exams that he could do this and make it pleasurable. It was hard to concentrate on his technique when Sherlock was saying such wonderful things to him.

"John… yes, fuck, right there. Please…"

John added a second finger just as he slipped his mouth back around Sherlock's prick. He timed the strokes of his fingers with the movement of his mouth, in and down, out and up, taking his time, keeping Sherlock right on the edge of orgasm, until Sherlock couldn't put more than a few vowels and a helpless "please" together. When he couldn't wait any longer, John eased his fingers out, slipped a condom on, and pulled Sherlock into his lap so his back wouldn't rub against the sheets any more than it already had.

It was nothing like he imagined it to be. He had had anal sex with women before, but it was always a rough, drunken night, no cares and certainly no emotions attached. But with Sherlock…

John held him close, his forehead resting against Sherlock's who had his legs wrapped around John's waist, hyper aware of every single detail of Sherlock's expression. His eyes were closed, mouth parted, and the sounds.

John kissed every bit of him he could reach as he rocked slowly. Whatever frustrations Sherlock thought John wanted to take out of him had somehow vanished.

"Harder, please, John, don't make me wait any longer."

John held Sherlock's hips in place as he thrust up harder, deeper, picking up the pace. Sherlock's hand went between them to stroke himself.

"Say it again," John whispered into his ear. "Say it again for me."

"John…"

"Please, say it again."

"John, I love you."

The feeling of Sherlock's orgasm wracked through John's body. He felt the muscles tighten around his prick, felt the shuddering half-moan/half-scream as Sherlock buried his head in the crook of John's neck, the sting as nails clawed against his back.

When he emptied himself into Sherlock, John was certain he had died. Every muscle in his body went limp with the release. They sat there for a few more moments, just until John started to feel the pain in his legs. They ended up in the shower together despite John's (half-hearted) protests. He could always redo the bandages, Sherlock had argued, and besides, Sherlock wanted to shower and if John was there, he could make sure there wasn't too much pain involved in the process.

They ended up back in Sherlock's bed, clothes on this time, with Sherlock's damp set of curls sticking to John's chest, the sound of his heartbeat lulling the detective to sleep.

"Love you," he muttered.

"Love you too."

And all was right in the world.