The small gap in the old wooden window frame let through a light breeze, feeling pleasantly cool on John's skin. He had been standing there for a while, staring out on to the village, and a part of the Moore behind it, letting the day's events pass through his mind. A vain attempt to get some calm back into his system. It wasn't helping much, but he couldn't think of anything else that he should be doing now, with Sherlock wandering around in the room fairly restless – never a good thing – and himself still feeling pretty wired. They'd just solved the Baskerville hound mystery, seen a man blow himself up on a mine, a young man get his peace of mind back after eons of tension and mind games, and discovered that DI Lestrade was a rubbish gunman (pretty shocking, thinking of all the times he could've had to save their lives before…), leaving it to John to kill off two vicious (and ugly) dogs.

The other shocking thing was Sherlock's apology, earlier, in the graveyard, which had left John confused. What had he meant by it? Was it another one of his calculated attempts to get him back on board? Was it a way to make sure that at least loyal and sweet John wasn't going to leave his side, after the emotional turmoil (any emotion at all, really) of the night before? Sherlock doesn't do emotion, he said, and this sudden onset of fear left him freaked… No way, he'd seen emotion in his eyes before, in his voice, there was something there, something normal people ('how dull') called feelings, something he claimed not to let himself have, not to let himself be ruled by, keeping his distance, he said, but what was it John sensed more than a few times, when he was close to him, if it wasn't affection, or damn the word: love…?

His own realization that those exact feelings started coming to the surface was a slow one. Once, quite soon after moving in with the slightly unusual detective, he noticed how much he liked being near him, watching him think, hearing his voice – so deep, so rousing – seeing him hang lopsided on the sofa, or sitting in weird ways on chairs, realizing how terribly mundane everybody else in his life had been, so far, and he'd corrected himself straight away. There was no way in hell he was going to let himself be dragged along by that desire again. No way… But it kept happening, he found himself thinking about the man he shared a flat with, and noticed how incredibly jealous he could get of anyone who's captured that man's attention (hating Irene Adler with a passion), being angered when others sussed out the deal with him (insisting that they were a couple... what the hell...?) and by the time they had to go to Baskerville for this case, he's made a pact with himself, that whenever he thought of Sherlock in That Way, he would have an image of Mr. Tibbs, his pig-faced biology teacher in Secondary school, so as to wipe out any thoughts that might excite him in any way at all… He wasn't gay...

A car drove past, breaking the perfect silence that seemed to be innate to the village as soon as it was dark. How different to the continuous noise in Baker Street. It reminded him slightly of the war, but that too he had carefully resigned to a corner of his mind that had a big heavy door in front of it, not to be touched, unless a dream did. As dreams could do so well – the war, and Him… A dog barked, loudly, and then the silence returned. His thoughts were still a scramble, and he suddenly detected warmth, all the way down his back, and before he could work out what it was, a voice spoke.

"John, I need your help," it said.

Sherlock had slowly walked up behind him and stopped an inch away, the warmth he radiated touching gently, enveloping him almost. His voice had sounded delicate, fragile, so incredibly unlike him, but it was unmistakable.

"Why?" John matched the discreet way his friend had approached him and waited for the reply. It came as a touch, his hand was covered by another, a warm hand, and it stroked his, carefully, finding his fingers, squeezing them so gently that there was barely an impact.

"I need you… I don't want to lose y… I think I will… I feel stuff, John, and I have no idea how to deal with it… I need you to help me…"

Something sarcastic and very unhelpful jumped to the front of his mouth, but John held it in – telling him that most Normal People have feelings was probably going to have the opposite effect of the nice place they were right now, so he sighed quietly, smiled and leaned back slightly, causing him to touch Sherlock, who froze a little.

"As long as you will trust me, Sherlock, I may be able to help you…"

"Trust..."

"Yes, trust…" John turned a little so that he stopped talking to the window, " That wall you built around yourself is there 'cos you don't trust anybody else to mean well with you, to love you, like I do…"

The word love made Sherlock freeze even more, and he let go of John's hand, stepped back a pace, and John turned around to see the face of a little boy, forlorn, rejected, upset, and he stepped forward a pace to close the gap between them again, so that he could touch, but Sherlock seemed to have closed down again. The slight opening in his armor had shut rigidly, as it was most of the time. John could only guess the things that must've made him be like that, so cold and distant. To mistrust love when it was handed to him like he just had , to shy away from sharing the feelings he was possibly feeling for his friend. But John was determined. He was going to crack this code… You know my methods, John, now apply them… His words…

"I know these words will freak you out more than any imagined hound, or the intellect of a criminal mastermind that might outsmart you, although I'm sure that will only turn you on, somehow, but I can assure you, Sherlock bloody impossible Holmes – I care about you… And I feel stuff for you that I've not felt for anybody out there before, not in this way… And there is no way in hell I will ever leave you, however outrageous and offensive you are, and god knows how much you've already put me to the test… Trust me, you daft man… The world won't fall apart if you show me what you feel… You won't stop being the brilliant mind that you are, I won't run away screaming…"

John looked into his eyes determinedly, and saw cold, hard ones stare back at him, eyes he'd seen shoot people to pieces, stupid reporters, idiot policemen, silly girls and young men, no one stood a chance against the most wonderful mind in Britain, and it looked like he was going to use them against John, put him back into his place. Get back to where he'd feel safe.

But he couldn't. John saw tears, and a smile on that beautiful face, and he lifted his hand up to wipe away the evidence of Sherlock losing his composure, feeling soft skin, warm skin, and the other man leaning slightly into his touch. John stretched himself up to reach where he'd just wiped salty tears away, and kissed it softly, a quick but gentle peck, that worked as a kind of proof to the other that he meant what he'd said. That he was ready to go for this, if that's what Sherlock, in turn, was ready for.

As John moved back to his normal level, he felt arms around his body, and a head moving down to meet his. Uncertain lips touched his mouth, and he knew that he was going to have to lead here, initiate Sherlock into the ambivalent world of feelings, of desire. But he was more than willing, and enjoyed what was happening to him. The kiss slowly became more intense, with each barrier that his friend dared to let go, and ended that day in a first tentative exploration of their love for each other.

John secretly thanked the Baskerville experiments for the best thing that happened to him in a long time.