Disclaimer: I'm still not owning anything. A.N. Still a silly short thing to get myself back into writing. Took the prompt sort of sideways, but it happens. And yes, I'm an evil tease, but if someday I'll be in a smutty mood I can just plunge into writing pwp with this ending. Until then…have fun imagining. ;D

Fire proof

Sherlock didn't like when he couldn't foresee things. Especially when the events hinted at slights he might have accidentally committed. He never accidentally insulted people. He evaluated their tendency to take offense and hold grudges, their importance in his life at the moment, and proceeded to offer exactly as much tact as needed. It was Anderson's fault that he had no meaningful contributions to give that the detective couldn't otherwise reach.

Today, though. Today was bad. And not because he'd had an accident during an experiment – the resulting burn being far from the worst he'd experienced. No, what puzzled and terrified him was John's attitude. His boyfriend of six months had patched him up, obviously. But he hadn't lectured Sherlock on proper safety measures. In fact, in his eyes for a second there had been almost…happiness. Or maybe relief? Feelings that would have been justified if they'd had a row, but the point was – they hadn't. And Sherlock couldn't remember doing anything that should rightfully annoy his lover, even if the argument hadn't started yet. So why? Where had he gone wrong? Was John going to leave him?

He didn't ask – didn't dare to. The answer could easily break him. Nope, first he needed to reanalyse their interactions. Find what he'd missed. Four hours buried in his mind palace later, he still had no answer…and was that much closer to a panic attack.

John had left him to his meditation as always (and why would the doctor bother with his partner anyway if he was angry). But when Sherlock swung to a sitting position, eyes roving on the room to look for clues he had to have missed, John sat next to him and patted his knee. "So? What prompted this? Any case I don't know about yet?"

"Not a case. A mystery."

"It sounds interesting. Mind sharing?"

"Well, it won't be a mystery for you." Sherlock shrugged.

"Medical matters then? Not yours, I hope. I am not that unobservant, am I?" John's frown contradicted his earlier attitude. Why couldn't the man settle on a mood long enough for Sherlock to deduce him?

"In a way." Couldn't John see that he wasn't up for conversation?

"Well, shoot. Maybe I can be of assistance, Sher." Sher, not Sherl. Because it sounded like a French endearment, and he'd been silly enough to tell John of his French roots.

As awesome as John could be (and anyone who didn't realise that was stupider than Anderson), he was also more stubborn than a mule. He could keep quiet and be annoyed for hours, while he also failed to understand what the issue was…or he could confess. And if John indeed wanted to leave him, there was always the option to beg. Not yet though. "You were relieved that I burned myself."

John sighed deeply. This didn't bode well. But his next words deepened the mystery instead of explaining. "I'm going to kill Molly".

"She's not even here," the detective pointed out. Besides, losing her would put a damper to too many of his activities.

"I know, but she's lent me that stupid book. More like a pamphlet, really. That's why I was ridiculously relieved when you did burn yourself – well, it was a minor thing anyway, so. I wasn't exactly worried in the first place." John ruffled his own hair. It was a habit he'd picked from Sherlock. Mirroring is an important sign of attraction…and this went deeper than mirroring the moment's attitude.

"What book?" BDSM romance? What else could make burning one's partner acceptable? Seriously, what was Molly Hooper getting his partner into? She better find one of her own.

"Borges' Fictions. There's that story, you see…the story of someone building a man in his dreams. He tries and fails, but then manages to make a dream man come to life…dreaming him up bit by bit, every bone and sinew and curl. Okay no, the curl might be my own insertion." John chuckled. "Anyway, the fire knows it's not a real man, so it won't hurt him, even when other people meet him and see nothing odd. And of course the ending mindfucks you, or Borges wouldn't be satisfied, but never mind that." He waved the plot twist away. "Do you see, now?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It still doesn't make any sense."

"Okay, yes, I'm stupid, but I loved the confirmation that you're actually real. Because if I've ever met someone who could have been artificially created for perfection, a literal dream man, that's you…even when you fish for compliments."

The detective flushed at the accusation. "I wasn't! It doesn't make sense, because if anyone is a dream man, that's obviously you."

John laughed at that. "Glad you feel like that, too. I can get scalded myself, if it'll help."

"Don't be silly. I won't have my doctor purposefully injuring himself. Besides, if we are going to play with fire, we might as well make sure things are hot." Sherlock grinned.

"Promise?"

"You can count on that."