John walked into the living room, sipping on his tea absently. Sherlock was sitting on his chair with his hands folded beneath his chin.

"Morning, Sherlock," John said, garnering no response. He rolled his eyes. "And good morning to you too," the doctor snarked.

Sherlock waved his hand in the air impatiently. "Hush, John. I'm busy."

John's eyes rolled again. "Yeah, right. Scuttle along to your Mind Palace, wearing your Mind Palace-y Sheet and doing Mind Palace-y, Consulting Detective-y things."

"Enough with your incessant chattering," Sherlock shouted. "I need quiet and I'm fully dressed. Have you gone blind, John?" The detective pulled his knees to his chest and brought his hands to his temples.

"Yeah, out here." The doctor thought of the pale expanse of Sherlock's back, glimpsed at Buckingham Palace. He shook himself and regarded the detective. "You don't have a case on and you did your," the doctor waved towards Sherlock's head, "housekeeping yesterday. So what are you on about?"

"I'm re-installing some old subroutines," came the detective's absent reply.

The doctor swiped his hand over his eyes. "Don't you think you're taking the whole hard-drive-as-brain a bit too far?"

Sherlock gave John a pitying look. "It's my brain. I think I know how it works. It's a simple enough process," he glared at John, "if I have silence."

John sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. "Right. I'll just sit here, quiet as a mouse, sipping my tea."

"Good." Long moments passed in silence. The detective opened his eyes and regarded John. "You're thinking too loudly."

"Can't help that."

"You want to know what this is all about."

"I am, understandably, curious," John admitted.

Lowering his feet to the floor, Sherlock leaned forward. "There is a certain skillset that I found I no longer needed after…" he blinked slowly, "Well, after. Being a young healthy male, I attached an unreasonable value to said skillset. So, rather than deleting it, I merely uninstalled it and left it on a shelf in my Mind Palace."

John's eyes narrowed. Maybe he was leaping to conclusions, but the bit about being a young healthy male had its implications. "You're talking about…" The doctor trailed off.

"Sex, John. I'm talking about sex. After Victor, I didn't expect to need that knowledge anymore, but I couldn't bear to delete it, not completely."

John had heard of Victor once or twice and he was ragingly jealous of the faceless man. Victor had had Sherlock in every way possible, he was sure. The man had to be an idiot for ever giving the detective up. No, he had to be a right bastard. There had been clear indications that he had hurt Sherlock. He had scarred him emotionally, making it hard for the detective to trust. Who had Sherlock chosen to trust now? Not John. It felt as if a knife had been plunged into his gut, as if it were being twisted. The doctor managed to keep his voice level. "Right." He stood. "I'll just be in my room, then."

In acknowledgement, Sherlock merely lifted his legs and tucked his knees back to his chest. His eyes quickly became unfocused as his awareness sank into his mind.

The steps up to John's room seemed to stretch out forever before him. He cursed, as his leg went stiff and the hated limp came back. The doctor growled to himself. Sherlock was supposed to be above all of that. His body was supposed to be just transport. He was supposed to be married to his work! That was all that had held John in check those first few years and it was all that had held him back since the detective's return. It looked like exercising restraint had been a mistake. Then again, maybe not. Maybe Sherlock just wasn't interested in him, never had been. John was rather plain after all. He didn't have a soaring intellect and his looks certainly couldn't compete with the detective's own. He was nothing but an old worn-out ex-army doctor with a bad shoulder and a psychosomatic limp. John reached to open his bedroom door and he noticed that his hand was shaking. He mentally added that to his list of pathetic attributes. He threw himself dejectedly on his bed and stared at the ceiling, his thoughts spiralling downward. There was no way that he could keep living here, not now that Sherlock had found someone. It would hurt too much and he wouldn't be able to feign indifference, let alone happiness for the situation. Hours passed and the room sank into gloom. John drifted off into a restless, uncomfortable slumber.

The doctor had rolled onto his side, his back to the door. He woke to the sensation of someone nuzzling at his nape. He was supposed to be alone. John's body reacted violently, his elbow plunging back, taking the person behind him by surprise and causing a sharp "umph" as air was forced from his assailant's body. He was sitting upright in bed, glaring and ready to defend himself. Before him, bent double and clutching at his chest, was Sherlock.

"What the bloody buggering fuck?" John yelled at the top of his lungs. "I thought, by now, you would know what PTSD means. You do know I have it, you wanker? I could have killed you." Wait… What? "And what were you trying to do anyway?"

Unable to answer, still gasping and trying to catch his breath, Sherlock held out one hand pleadingly. "John," he finally managed, "I thought it would have been clear. You were there. You saw, but you didn't observe. You are an idiot, John."

The doctor's temper soared. In the space of less than twenty-four hours, he had: 1) been confronted by the fact that he could never have Sherlock and someone else would, 2) realised that he would have to move out of the flat to keep from having his heart broken daily, and 3) been assaulted by the detective in some misguided experiment. He didn't have any reserves left. Being called an idiot, though nothing new, was enough to break him. "I'm an idiot?! Me? P! T! S! D!" Half the neighbourhood had probably heard that. John couldn't be arsed to care. "And just what the fuck didn't I observe?" His nostrils were flaring as he breathed heavily.

"Sex, John," the detective said for the second time that day. Sherlock was breathing easier now, though he looked slightly worried. He should be worried. John looked as if he were about ready to give him a pounding. "I've reinstalled the subroutines, all of them. I thought... Clearly I was wrong." He stood awkwardly, looking at the floor. "I'll go. I shan't bother you further."

The doctor lunged off of the bed after Sherlock, grabbing his wrist. "I thought..."

There were a lot of broken sentences tonight.

Sherlock looked up. One look at John's face and he understood. "You thought I had found someone else, someone other than you."

The doctor's reply was sheepish. "Yeah."

"You really ARE an idiot." Sherlock moved towards him and leaned in for a kiss.

"I am at that," replied John before taking another kiss. "But I'm definitely your idiot." Another kiss. "Still, waking me up like that, a bit not good." Another kiss. "Were these subroutines very detailed?"

"Mmm, yes. Very." The detective slid his hands down John's back.

"Show me," John breathed and he did.