Author's Note: This time, I think I got it right. Sparticus, my friend...Sparticus. "Just the one, thanks." Thank you for the encouragement and the nudges to get started on this new journey. Just for you, there's a double hug tucked into this story.

Don't own, heavy sigh...just love them to bits. A bit not good? Oi...they're brilliant!

Gathering clues on his own on a case that was less than a ten had expanded to an over night that had turned out to be...tedious and hateful. Sherlock's words skittered across John's thoughts and fixed a silly grin to his lips, but as he crossed Baker Street and approached the familiar door, a quick glance at the dark windows above was enough to dash his hope that Sherlock would be waiting for him. Feeling a bit sorry for himself at the thought of a takeaway dinner alone, John slipped his key into the lock, hoisted his bag to his good shoulder, and climbed the stairs one sodding step at a time.

Finding the flat door open, John reached for the weapon at his back, only to remember it was in the bedroom. One silent step brought him just inside the door, allowing him to see that the main rooms were empty and, surprisingly, tidier than usual.

What he could see in the glow from the small kitchen light caused him to close his eyes for a moment and then look again. John wondered if Mycroft had sent in a cleaning crew to eliminate any sign of a Sherlock Holmes experiment gone dreadfully wrong. Sherlock never would have done it himself...would he? No, John decided, shaking his head and dismissing the thought. Housekeeping was not his area.

Without turning on other lights, John continued down the hallway to the bedroom. Finding it undisturbed, he checked that his army pistol was secured in its proper place, dropped his shoes by the door, and lay down on the bed. Just a bit of a kip, he thought, pulling a pillow against his cheek. Perhaps Sherlock would be home soon...

The moment Sherlock stepped into the downstairs hallway, he was aware of John's presence. Avoiding the stairs that creaked, in perfect silence he entered the flat, closing and locking the door behind him.

To Sherlock's keen senses, John's essence was everywhere and all at once. Glancing toward the bedroom door that stood open, he toed out of his shoes and tossed his suit coat at John's chair. It clung for a moment, then slid to the floor. With the whisper of his socks barely audible in the quiet flat, he swept down the hallway, and paused in the doorway, his breath catching in his throat.

"John."

John didn't stir.

There it was, the familiar stutter behind his sternum as Sherlock approached the bed and stood over his sleeping doctor. Annoying, his heart. No, not annoying. This was John. Never annoying, well, yes, sometimes he was, but not in this moment. Not like this. John always seemed so small and vulnerable in sleep, and although those were the least of what defined him, the sudden need to protect John overwhelmed him.

John lay on his back nearly at the edge of the mattress, his face soft and slack, his lips slightly parted, and nuzzled into Sherlock's pillow. One arm, his left, hugged the pillow; his other lay limp at his side. His left leg was bent at the knee, his foot tucked beneath his opposite thigh.

A narrow sliver of skin visible where John's shirt had pulled free of his jeans prompted a soft smile to touch Sherlock's lips, and with an ache so deep in his chest that he found himself trembling, he knelt beside the bed. Hesitating, at first unwilling to disturb John, but then not able to resist, he reached out to lay his palm on John's soft skin, and tucked the pad of his thumb into the indentation of his belly button. Closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock centered himself on the gentle rise and fall of his doctor's belly.

Oddly, the detective had no sense of how long he lingered there, but it wasn't long enough, never long enough. John stirred and Sherlock's disappointment was as keen as any wound he had ever suffered. With his hand still on the slight swell of John's belly, Sherlock observed his doctor as he slowly found his way out of an obviously deep sleep. He counted a half dozen times that John forced his eyelids open, only to have them flutter closed again.

A wave of mild vertigo that dissipated as quickly as it had descended upon him left Sherlock struggling with the silly notion that John had somehow cast a spell over him. Whatever was wrong with his brain? Not now, Sherlock thought as he leaned over his doctor, fingering aside John's shirt to press a kiss to his collarbone...behind his ear...at his temple...along his jaw.

John turned toward him then, his blue eyes focusing as they held each other's gaze. Sherlock captured his mouth as his appetiser with every intention of following immediately to the main course. The absurdity of his dining analogy was not lost on him. When he pulled back, John frowned.

"Give them back," John ordered in his best, albeit sleepy, army voice.

"Yes, my Captain, sir," Sherlock murmured in his husky baritone as he swooped in on John's impatient and seeking mouth.

Several breathless moments later, John's stomach issued a prolonged growl. Sherlock chuckled deep in his throat while his struggling doctor attempted to sit up without breaking mouth to mouth contact. Sherlock rescued them both when they were in danger of crashing to the floor. Tucked into the apex of John's thighs, and chest to chest, Sherlock felt the grumbling of John's hunger, both gastronomically and otherwise, and groaned, mentally thrashing himself for the insecurities that threatened to abandon John on the outside of his emotional barricade.

"John."

"Mmm?"

Still but for the racing of his heart, Sherlock drew in a steadying breath when John burrowed his face into his neck.

"John."

John sighed.

"Later?"

Sherlock sighed. John knew him so well, sometimes too well.

"Yes, please, John."

"It's a date."

"More like a promise, Captain Watson."

"Yes, a promise, Consulting Detective Holmes."

"The only one in the world."

"Thank the clueing gods."

"And am I still completely yours?"

With his insecurity in plain sight, Sherlock held his breath, waiting for John's response.

John's eyes sparkled, the little crinkles at the corners deepening when he smiled.

"Of course."

"Mine," Sherlock growled in warning as he stole John's mouth again.

"Mmm."

Although reluctant to let John go, Sherlock pushed off the bed to stand upright, but not soon enough to escape John's quick reflexes. Grasped at the hips by sturdy fingers, Sherlock waited for his doctor's next move. Unexpected as it was, and despite his mounting fear that he'd be found out, the detective welcomed John's face pressed against his belly, holding him there with both hands cradling the back of John's head.

Long minutes later John released him, gazing up at him with more love than he deserved.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was wrecked.

"Sherlock?" John's wasn't much steadier.

"Take away from Angelo's?"

"I suppose I could eat...you...erm...Angelo's cuisine...in a bit?"

The detective quirked an eyebrow at John's very obvious and equally bad innuendo. In the space between one breath and the next, his reality shifted. He panicked. Why? Something was off, what was off? Was there something off? He didn't understand, suddenly lost and illogically separated from John. Emotions? Sentiment? He'd gotten a bit better with those concepts, but it was of no help at that moment. He didn't know what to do to fix it, so he chose what he did know.

"Have a wash and I'll text Angelo when you are finished. Do you have a preference?"

John frowned.

"I trust your judgement."

"Your trust is deeply appreciated, John, however, my judgement has not always proven to be in your best interest. And your attempt at innuendo is appalling."

Suddenly realizing how hurtful his words must have sounded to John, Sherlock attempted to save the moment.

"No, I don't...I mean...what you said...your innuendo was..."

From the expression on John's face, he knew he had failed miserably. John stared at him for a moment of silence that seemed endless.

"My innuendo was just fine, thanks, before you got hold of it, and my trust in you is not misplaced. I have trust issues, but not with you. It's your trust in you with regard to me that I worry about. And why are you suddenly distancing yourself? You're...all Sherlock Holmes-ish?"

"What? I don't understand that reference."

"No, I don't suppose you do. Did something just happen to make you uncomfortable? Did I say something to offend you? No, disregard that last question. I don't think you've ever been offended, but you certainly know how to ruin what was a pleasant welcome home."

"I don't..."

John huffed. "Listen, think about what just happened while I'm having a wash. If you want to, we can talk when I'm through. Would you do that for me?"

Sherlock nodded, his misery entrenched deep in his chest. He watched John turn on his heel, stiff and military, and march from the room, his despair following him like a small, John-shaped gray cloud.

John leaned back against the loo door, the lingering image of Sherlock's devastated expression softening his annoyance. Sherlock had made huge progress in the time they'd been together, but every now and then he slipped and buried himself in self doubt. It was never a gradual slope, more like an off-the-edge fall. John shivered at the thought. Would that nightmare ever end for either of them?

Pushing off the door, John turned on the faucet, stripping off his clothing while he waited for the water to run hot. At first the hotter than usual spray felt good on his exhausted body. He'd wanted to have a lengthy, relaxing shower, but the longer he stood there, the need to rescue Sherlock from his misery grew stronger. When he stepped from the shower minutes later, he realised he'd left his clean clothing in the bedroom.

John darted from the loo to the bedroom, then wondered why he'd felt the need to hide. It wasn't as if Sherlock had never seen him naked. Yes, naked.

It was while John dressed that he noticed a familiar blue protruding from beneath Sherlock's pillows and the mystery of Sherlock's abrupt emotional disconnect was solved. Sentiment, the one emotion that caused him so much turmoil because he couldn't assimilate it or the role that sentiment played in their lives together, brought him to his knees time and again.

Padding barefoot to the kitchen where Sherlock sat at the table, John stopped just outside arm's reach. He kept his voice low, and, as best he could, free of an accusatory tone.

"Sherlock, why is my blue jumper under your pillow?"

Sherlock did not look up.

"Hmm?"

"Why is my blue jumper under your pillow?"

John waved the jumper in feigned exasperation.

Sherlock mumbled, examining under the microscope what John was sure was some nasty thing...for science. John swooped in, wrapping the jumper around Sherlock's neck, grasped the detective's cheeks and turned his head so they were face to face. Startled, Sherlock averted his gaze to stare past him to a point on the wall.

"Sherlock."

"John."

"No, we aren't going to do this, remember?"

Sherlock's shoulders slumped in surrender, and he worried his lower lip.

"Yes."

John waited for several silent moments.

"Sherlock, I'm not ending this without a response from you."

"Okay?"

"Is that your response?"

"No?"

John sighed in the manner that was uniquely his, and one he was sure Sherlock would correctly interpret.

"John."

John pursed his lips, waiting a bit longer until Sherlock decided to raise his eyes, now a sad, dull grey.

John's stomach tightened as a twinge of regret shot through him.

"I took your jumper from the laundry bin."

"Why? Did you need it for an experiment?"

"No."

Sherlock's reply was barely a breath. He looked away again.

"You can't hide from me, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Not anymore. I won't let you."

John's voice finally broke.

"Please don't hide from me."

Sherlock's eyes were suspiciously shiny when he looked up. Gone was the stony gray of disconnection; the pale blue held true to John's gaze. A splash of pink at his cheekbones confirmed that he realized he'd been found out.

"Thirty-three hours, John. You were away from me for thirty-three bloody, tedious, and hateful hours."

The tiny whine in Sherlock's voice melted any resolve John had to continue his interrogation. Sherlock crumpled under the strain of his own always hard-fought battle with his little understood emotions.

John let a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. Holding the silly git's face between gentle hands, he leaned down to cover Sherlock's lips with his own. John sighed again and drew Sherlock from his chair.

"Come with me, you ridiculous man."

Weaving his fingers with Sherlock's, John pulled him along toward the bedroom. Once inside the softly lit room, John, still holding fast to the detective, bent over his still unpacked bag and drew out a shirt. Sherlock's purple shirt. He wrapped the purple shirt, his perfect innuendo, around his own neck.

"I missed you, too."

Sherlock beamed.

John giggled and drew Sherlock into his arms.

Dinner would be very late.