Experimenting: THE QUESTION

Even after Sherlock knew that he and John had mutual feelings for each other, he was still unused to the idea of a 'partner.' In two days, it had gone from just meeting to being friends, and within a year, it went from being friends to – Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say 'boyfriend.' It sounded too plain, too much of an overused word. 'Partner' was just as bad, but in his mind, it was better than calling John a 'boy.'

'Man-friend' sounded even worse, both prehistoric and lacking in precise definition of their relationship; 'Companion' gave off the air of 'friend with benefits.' No, John wasn't just a 'friend,' although the benefits were satisfying. 'Lover' was the next word on Sherlock's Mental List of Potential Titles as stared intently out the window, violin in hand, bow ready to be combed across the finely tuned violin hairs.

No, not that one, either. 'Lover' sounded synonymous with 'friend with benefits.' Sherlock didn't go to John just because of the build-up of sexual frustration. He didn't have John just to relief himself of the uncomfortable sensation in his trousers and then carry on to his other business. Sherlock frowned. He didn't use John. John is more than that. He is…he's…

"He's been standing there for hours!"

Sherlock snapped out of his trance to listen to the quiet – but not quiet enough – conversation commencing behind him.

"…not moving at all! Just wakes up in the middle of the day and stands in front of that window, in the same position!" Mrs. Hudson said in a low voice. "He hasn't eaten in days!"

"Well, at least there's one thing still normal about him," John replied.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"What do we do?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Sherlock heard John sigh, one he knew all too well. He knew that John wanted to ask him what he was thinking. He knew that John wanted to tuck a curl behind his ear and ask how his composing was going. He knew that John wanted to take his violin and break it in two over his knee. He also knew that John would do none of these things.

"You know how he gets sometimes," John finally said. "He'll snap out of it when he figures whatever the hell he's thinking about out."

Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson trying to object, then heard soft footsteps exit the flat. Then, he heard John's footsteps walking away, presumably to make tea. Sherlock dragged the bow across the instrument, and then let his arms slowly fall to his sides, feeling the blood rush back into his hands.

'Mate?' No, too strong. 'Man'? Was John really his man? No, too…just no. 'Beau?' Sherlock pondered on this word as he turned in his bed to face the ceiling. Yes, John was handsome, but the French adjective didn't fit. It didn't fit John Watson. It didn't fit the Doctor who fought in Afghanistan. It didn't fit the silver, dirty blond haired man; with eyes that looked cold and hard on the outside; while underneath the surface, those eyes were wild; with deadly winds ripping a grey sea apart. Ten foot waves crashing down on a ship and tearing it to pieces from bow to stern, sending the long abandoned wooden corpse into a black abyss with no hope of sunlight to reach its deepest regions…

Sherlock blinked as his room materialized around him, a tiny sliver of sunlight peeking through the cracked curtains. He groaned. This problem should've been solved by now! His head flopped to the side and stared at the only light source coming into the room. He squinted. Something about the light made him stare, his mind clicking and turning gears as he thought.

"No more titles, nothing. What haven't I thought of!? Think!" He pressed his palms into his forehead, forcing himself to think straight. Finally, something slid into place, and a light-bulb went off as Sherlock snapped into a sitting position. He jumped out of bed and ran into the living area, and almost knocked over John in the middle of the room.

"Sherlock! What are you-!?"

"Watson!"

"What?"

Sherlock smiled as he pulled John into a tight embrace and kissed him chastely on both cheeks. My Watson, Sherlock thought. Sure, it was sentimental, possessive, and a bit commanding, but it didn't seem right – no, it didn't seem perfect to call John by any other name. And besides: What would a Sherlock be without his Watson?

A/N: What do you think, guys? Good sequel?