Title: New Definitions

Rating: PG-13 (of the fluffiest variety)

Pairings: Sherlock/John

Summary: John's known all along that Sherlock had become the most important thing in his life. He was equally certain that the self-proclaimed sociopath could never return the feeling. Sherlock and John realize just how much they matter to each other. Everything else is irrelevant. Sherlock pushes his limits. John makes tea and worries. Life at 221B Baker Street will always be more than John bargained for.

Author's notes:

Smut-free fluff exploring a more Asxual!Sherlock/Hetero!John because we don't have enough of that, and I like the emotion behind Sherlock/John. Also includes Mycroft because I'll be damned if I'm going to write a fic that doesn't include him. (Mycroft is my spirit animal.) I think, outside of fiction, it would take a serious break down of barriers for Sherlock to ever convey his feelings in more than the occasional glance or act, and I think John needed to learn to, and would, be okay with that.

For Steegeschnoeber

John was just putting the kettle on when he heard the footsteps on the stairs. He'd been at the surgery most of the day, and after a stubborn elderly woman with a hip problem and a feverish child who tried to bite him among others, he was exhausted. So was Sherlock from the looks of him, not that he would admit it. He was currently lying on the sofa, John's computer open on his lap. John had given up on changing his password; no point to that. But he hadn't said a word since John had gotten home. He knew he's been out with Lestrade on something or other today, insisting that John needn't take the day off to come along, but he didn't know when he'd gotten back. He had set two mugs out anyway, though.

He was interrupted, however, by the sound of footsteps and a soft throat-clearing noise from the living room. John sighed and set down the mugs. He knew by now what those sounds forbade. A visit from Mycroft was the last thing he needed to end this terribly perfect day. He poked his head into the living room just as Mycroft was clearing his throat again. His hands rested gently on top of the long umbrella in front of him and his eyes rested sharply on the back of Sherlock's head which refused to turn around. He turned to meet John's eyes, nodded quickly, and without turning back to Sherlock, said, "It will do no good ignoring me, brother. I wish to discuss something, and I will not be leaving until I do." Sherlock shut his computer and sat up but continued to avoid his brother's face. John sighed again.

"Might as well take a seat, Mycroft. Tea?"

Mycroft smiled tightly and gave a glance of John careful consideration. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," he said after a moment. "Since you just put your kettle on, I'd be very grateful."

"Right," said John, slinking back into the kitchen, shaking his head. If the Holmes brothers were about to go at it, he wanted to be as far away as possible. He began fiddling with the mugs, now three. He deeply regretted the fact that he knew how Mycroft took his tea by now, but he supposed this was just one of the many…perks of life at 221B Baker Street. As he took his time, he could hear threads of the conversation drifting around the corner.

"…..2 o'clock…." said Mycroft's voice.

Some more mutterings, deeper this time. "….been seen since?" Sherlock.

"No. He….since his wife…left for the club…." They were speaking so softly it was hard to make out the specifics, especially Mycroft, whose voice John was less used to.

"Why…you involved?"

"The man…acquaintance of…I thought…might…interest…brother…."

The end of the sentence was drowned out by the sudden whistle of the tea kettle demanding attention. John shut it off and poured out the tea. He took his time though, hoping to catch more of the hushed conversation though he'd missed most of the beginning anyway. For a moment, neither Holmes said anything, until finally Sherlock called out loudly, "If you want to join the conversation John, I'm sure it would be much easier to do from in here. Bring the tea." John flushed, caught eavesdropping, gathered the mugs and brought them in. Mycroft nodded as he set one down in front of him.

As John took a set on the sofa next to Sherlock, he tuned to him. "Mycroft came to present me with a little case. Nothing important. Nothing we need keep from you. Unless this is one of your not-at-all-governmental matters?" Mycroft pursed his lips. "Exactly. So I would appreciate your assistance, John. Did you catch most of the details from the kitchen?"

John shook his head. "Not really." Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, who resettled himself as he began again in a clipped tone.

"Mark Williams is the owner of several notable clubs and bars in the greater London area. Vanished five days ago. No signs. Completely untraceable."

"That's saying something, for you, isn't it?" interrupted John with a half-grin. His joke fell flat on Mycroft, but John caught Sherlock smirking from between his clasped hands.

"Quite," continued Mycroft. "However, since two days ago, his clubs, and only his clubs, have been subjected to a series of mid-day robberies, the most recent at 2 p.m. today. To answer your next question, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft with a raised hand, "I bring this to my brother's attention because of the…unusual circumstances. My assistant happens to know Williams fairly well, and—"

"Your assistant? She brought you this case?" interrupted John again.

Mycroft grimaced. "Yes. As I was saying," he said pointedly, "The circumstances…well, as you aptly put it, it's not often I find a man to be untraceable. And I hardly have the time to go ferreting through London myself. As that's the sort of thing Sherlock seems to be so very fond of, I thought he'd be interested to take it up."

John glanced sideways at Sherlock, who, having listened attentively through that, downed the last of tea and set down his mug.

"Fine," he said after a moment, looking up at his brother.

"I'm delighted to hear that, Sherlock. You'll find all the relevant information there," he said gesturing to a tan file on the table. Goodnight." He grabbed his umbrella and moved gracefully toward the door. "Thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson," he called on his way out.

Sherlock sat frozen for a moment after Mycroft's departure, and John watched him as his fingers pressed together just below his black curls.

"So…" began John, trying to end the silence, but Sherlock was deep in thought, his attention beyond John. "You're actually going to take a case for your brother then? Willingly?" More silence. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" he grunted, finally looking up.

"So you're actually going to take it then?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I think I am."

"Well, what about your case with Lestrade now? It's not like you to give up a Yard case for Mycroft."

"No," Sherlock nodded shortly, "but I finished with Lestrade today. It's done. It got…messy, but it's done."

John looked at him with concern. "What do you mean, 'messy'?"

Sherlock waved his hand. "It's nothing you need concern yourself with."

"Sherlock," said John forcefully, "you come home exhausted and don't say a word to me all night. Not even to bring you your phone or tea. Now you're taking a case from Mycroft, and he only had to ask you once. I know you. Now tell me what happened today."

Sherlock looked up into John's eyes, brow furrowed, and John returned the gaze, considering him carefully. After all this time, difficult as it might seem, he really felt he'd come to understand Sherlock. Underneath all his talk and…idiosyncrasies, he was still a person. Granted, an unusual one, but all the more compelling for it. John had never met anyone even remotely like him and knew he never wanted to. With Sherlock in his life, things were better. Things were good. Even if just making tea in the kitchen was a potential health hazard. Even if Sherlock nearly gets them killed on a weekly basis. Perhaps because of it. He didn't mind when Sherlock knew he'd tried chatting up a girl in a club and failed that night, because he also didn't have to say anything when Harry had called him and upset him. He never said anything or tried to talk about it. That was never Sherlock's style, and that was okay with John, because he knew that when Sherlock walked down the block to collect the Chinese takeaway himself, without asking, that in itself was a gesture. And it was enough to comfort John. Sherlock may be infuriating, but there was still something in there.

And it was that something John cared about in this moment. He saw it staring back up at him. He didn't know when it had happened. Actually, that wasn't true. He knew exactly when. Because when he came back from Afghanistan a broken man, Sherlock had been the only one who could fix him. And he did it instantly. If you'd told him before hand that he would end up killing a man for someone he'd known less than twenty-four hours, John wouldn't have believed it. What sort of man could have that kind of power on him, that draw? And he made him better than before, too. John believed that. He gave him something to do, something to care about, something to live for, truly, none of which he had before. He didn't know, and probably never would given Sherlock's aptitude for talking about this sort of thing, if Sherlock would ever feel the same way. Maybe the only kind of reaction anyone could ever merit is some Chinese food. But to John, Sherlock had become the most important thing in the world. This life, and this man. He cared for Sherlock above all else. Because Sherlock had saved him, had given him everything he ever needed. John wanted nothing more than to at least try to return the favor, even if it was impossible.

"Sherlock," he repeated slowly but gently, "tell me what happened today." He sank down into a chair so they would be on the same level.

"I should really be leaving. If I want to get anything useful on Mycroft's case, then I need—"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock took a breath and curled his fingers again. "It's nothing you need concern yourself with, John, but if you insist on knowing, the case I had with Lestrade, one I had been working on privately for sometime now, had a rather significant—development today. It involved a particularly vicious killer. You've probably seen reports on the news."

"What, that shopping mall killer? I would've assumed you'd be involved, but you never said anything to me."

"No. As I said, he was particularly…vicious. Truly psychopathic with no qualms about hurting anyone in his way."

"So you went straight after him, on your own, didn't you?" pressed John in a clipped voice.

"Yes. I did. But I knew what I was dealing with, John, obv—"

"Obviously not!" interrupted John. "Because it went wrong. What happened today?"

Sherlock signed lightly and lowered his gaze, but John remained stern. "I caught up with him, but he was—resistant. I had him cornered, but he grabbed a girl, a twenty-eight year old nurse, of the street, held her at gunpoint. Very resolved to go through with it. Lestrade turned up in time, and the girl walked away. With a broken wrist, but alive."

There was a moment of silence. 'Christ, Sherlock…"

"What? You're upset? You'd have me not have gone after a serial killer then?"

"No!" said John as he stood and began pacing. "I'd have you not put your life and the life of innocent," Sherlock tutted, "uninvolved," John went on firmly, "young women because you're too—too proud to just wait for the goddamned police!"

"Too proud? There wasn't time, John. It was catch him or let him go. The choice was clear."

"It's not clear when you're going to get people killed!"

"Well, I didn't know that, did I?" shouted Sherlock. For a moment, the room rang with his words, and no one wanted to cut off the last waves of its presence.

"That's why Mycroft turned up, isn't it?" said John, much more quietly. "He probably dug this case out of somewhere just so he could come check up on you. That's it, isn't it?"

"He has his ways," muttered Sherlock, looking down into his hands.

John sighed. "God, Sherlock…"

"You're angry with me," declared Sherlock.

"No. Well, yes, I think you were an idiot. I just…wish you'd told me, is all. I mean, I thought you trusted me with this stuff, and I could've helped, been there—"

"Don't be ridiculous, John, of course I do. You know that. I trust you." He was looking directly at him, and John believed him. "I…didn't want to worry you."

"What?"

"You heard me correctly. You have a rather annoying habit of….fussing. I'd had enough annoyance for one day."

"Oh," said John looking down, a bit hurt.

"No, not…I just meant—look, I've got to go now if I want enough time to get anything useful on this case for Mycroft before everyone at the club is too inebriated to answer a thing. Don't wait up for me," muttered Sherlock, grabbing his suit jacket.

"Wasn't planning on it," mumbled John.

Sherlock stopped and looked at him. John thought he might say something, but he just closed his mouth, turned, and left the flat, laving John alone with his thoughts.

Sherlock was clearly upset by the day's events. He'd given John more of an emotional reaction than he'd ever seen from the man. Why? Was it because he nearly got someone killed? Highly unlikely. Sherlock wouldn't care about that, not if she was alive in the end and the killer was caught. She'd be irrelevant now. So what had upset him, and why had he refused to share the story with John? He'd helped Sherlock out on almost every case since he'd moved into 221B, even if that meant just glancing over his shoulder and commenting aloud on the case file. He'd never excluded John like this before.

John was still pondering this when, several hours later, he heard a loud thud coming from the hallway below. At first, he dismissed it, but it repeated. Once. Twice. Three times. John clicked off the telly and cautiously went downstairs and peeked around to see what was the cause. He could not have predicted what he found if he'd had a year to try.

At the bottom of the stairs was Sherlock. Or at least, he looked like Sherlock, but the Sherlock John knew was the not the sort to flop around a hallway, red-faced and struggling to make his arms move properly in an effort to remove a single shoe. This Sherlock, however, seemed to enthusiastically embrace the idea.

Thud. Sherlock had tripped over the loose shoelace and landed heavily on the bottom stair. He seemed to give up and lean sleepily against the banister. John could only see his back, but it was almost endearing, seeing Sherlock, so human, so helpless, and so completely wasted. Because, and as he got closer the smell more than confirmed it, Sherlock was clearly very drunk. John took a moment to compose himself and stifle a laugh. He regretted it; he didn't want to be cruel, but—it was Sherlock of all people. Had he ever gotten drunk? He made a note to thank Mycroft for this. Come to think of it, knowing the Holmes brothers, Mycroft probably knew precisely what he was doing. He chuckled once more then, silently admonishing himself, he hurried forward to help him.

"There you go, come on now," he said soothingly as Sherlock looked around, confused.

"….John?" he mumbled.

"That's right. Come on with me now." He hooked his arms around Sherlock and began to half lead and half carry Sherlock up to the flat. It's tricky work; Sherlock is all limp legs, but eventually they stumble into the flat and John gets Sherlock down onto the couch where he promptly collapses. John hurries to get a glass of water, brings it over. He balances himself on the coffee table and nudges Sherlock gently.

"Sherlock?" he asks. "You all right?"

"Yeessss…" attempts Sherlock. "I'm…fine, John…just…difficulties. Had to get answers, but," he paused to take a deep breath, "notice after a while when you're…pretending to drink. Had to go along. Was necessary."

Not if you're not going to remember a thing you learned in the morning, thought John. "Get anything useful then?"

"Yes. John, listen. Bartender. Girlfriend. She knows…Williams robbing himself. Insurance fraud. Hiding…" he gasped again and rubbed desperately at his eyes. John moved to rub his back comfortingly but thought better of it. Sherlock wasn't one for physical contact. Still, John was fascinated by him. Here he was, pissed out of his mind, and he was still trying to deduce, solve, and even communicate he as he would. He was still fighting to be Sherlock when his bloodstream had very different plans.

"John." Sherlock spoke, interrupting John's thoughts. "John?" he said more loudly.

"What, Sherlock? I'm right here," he said, his anger from earlier in the evening completely replaced with concern.

"Just…making sure. I don't want…you to leave me, John."

John looked down at Sherlock intently. "What was that?"

"You. I…need you, you know. You help…me."

John just breathed in and out, listening to Sherlock's drunken outpouring.

"Today, John I…." he went on into his pillow, "what if I had….brought you along today? Then what…would I have done?" Sherlock was getting agitated, his eyes spinning wildly. "What if it had been…you instead of that woman? I couldn't…John I couldn't handle it if I…if I were responsible…if I lost…you. Need you to stay away…but I need you…near me," he gasped out, as he struggled to get up from the couch, stumbling heavily.

John grabbed him and pulled him back down onto the couch with him, his strong hands pulling him comfortingly against him. "Shhh, Sherlock, it's okay. Is that what this is about?" John smiled. "It's okay. I'm all right, and I'm here." He ran a hand up and down Sherlock's back.

Sherlock reached out and took John's other hand. "Just…don't go. Stay here…don't leave me." His low, strong voice faltered a bit.

"I won't ," John whispered to him. "I promise. I need you too, Sherlock. I really do," he breathed. All Sherlock could do was nod lightly.

Eventually, Sherlock fell asleep there on the couch in John's arms, leaving John trapped beneath him and dumbfounded. He didn't have much time, however, to dwell on this turn of events before he himself succumbed to the late hour and the draw of unconsciousness.

The next morning, John woke up on the sofa beneath a blanket, alone. He rubbed his bleary eyes as he readjusted himself to reality. He heard noises from the kitchen, so he shuffled in. Sherlock was there, fully dressed, if looking a little red-eyed. He glanced momentarily at John before dropping his gaze back to the newspaper he had open on the table.

"Morning," said John slowly.

"Good morning," Sherlock responded quietly.

John wasn't sure how to approach this. Did Sherlock remember last night? What he had said to John? Even if he didn't remember, he at least had woken up on the sofa intertwined with John. What did he think of that? John really didn't know how to approach the subject—or even that he wanted to. There was a reason Sherlock never discussed these things. John had caught him on what was easily a one-of-a-kind night on which Sherlock had managed to lower his defenses just enough. Outside of it…John didn't know if it would make any difference. But it couldn't change what he had heard. Somewhere in there, Sherlock cared about John just as much as John cared about him. John had always suspected, or at least hoped. Small glances, little gestures, and one dark night in a swimming pool…but where did they go from here? John didn't have a definition for their situation, no plan, and that unnerved him.

He sat down at the table, concentrating very heavily on the slice of toast he was slathering with jam. He refused to look up and across at Sherlock until he had to. Finally, he heard the rustle of newspaper as Sherlock stood up from the table. He walked around to the fridge, pausing by John, who was looking down, grim-faced. Slowly, Sherlock extended his arm and laid his hand gently over John's.

John froze, but accepted the gesture, wrapping his own hand around Sherlock's. For a minute, they stayed there, both sober, both conscious, and intertwined and in union. Together in a silent acknowledgment about what they had. About what they cherished. And as Sherlock eventually slipped away with a soft but silent look, John understood. This was just as difficult for Sherlock as it was for him. He was just as confused. But he knew John mattered, just as John knew how he felt about Sherlock. They were both struggling to make sense of it and to share it.

They weren't boyfriends. There wasn't really anything romantic about it. It was just…wholeness. And happiness. John would need to find a new definition for him and Sherlock. Nothing he knew fit.

But maybe he didn't need a definition. Maybe it was okay that Sherlock was the most important person in his life. Especially if he was most important to him. Maybe they didn't have to be anything more than that. Maybe holding hands like this was all each them needed. Maybe it was enough. It would take some getting used to, but John was more than okay with that.

It was a new life for him, but he couldn't imagine himself any happier than he was right here in 221B Baker Street beside the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes was more than enough for him, and far more than he ever dreamed he deserved.

It was good to know he was enough in return.