This story was written a few years back. I've not been able to revive my enthusiasm enough to rewrite it, so here it is with minor revision.

Sherlock took pleasure in knowing that John would suffer for leaving him alone. He had left to spend the holiday with his sister, after all. John had admitted in the past to being a troubled sleeper when something did not sit well with him, and considering where he chose to sojourn, and with whom, he was unlikely to get much rest.

Even so, Sherlock's gratification wore out rapidly, as it didn't change the fact that John went about his morning routine with an away bag resting by the door.

Of course, John only left it there after Sherlock promised not to touch it again—with skin or an object, though it took Sherlock using a set of salad tossers to hide the bag in his hamper before the second rule was established.

Eventually, John made to leave, bidding Sherlock goodbye and being ignored until he reached the bottom of the stairs, at which point Sherlock rushed to the doorway to give his own farewell. If John heard how solemnly it was said, he made no mention of it. Instead, he grinned up at Sherlock and left.

Despite having done so, Sherlock had not wanted to say it. John would be gone for less than a week, then he would return, satisfied or surly, and slip back into the place he helped carve in Sherlock's life. There was also accounting for the sixteen hours of the day during which they could text—the only reconciliation Sherlock received from John before his departure.

John would only be absent in the physical sense. There was no reason to say goodbye.

And yet, Sherlock felt it necessary in the end, though he refused to dwell upon the why.

He lounged on the sofa until there was little doubt John had reached his destination, and then began sending speculations about the way the Watsons would tip-toe around topics, contend to be the most pleasant sibling, and participate in stilted banter. How futile would their efforts prove this time?

It wasn't long before his vengefulness ran dry and the messages devolved into simply repeating John's name.

He should have arrived at Harry's home 7 texts ago.

7 texts, 0.0214 weeks, 0.15 days. 3.6 hours, 216 minutes, 12960 seconds—He wondered if it would be quicker to die out of boredom or spite, and decided both were likely to be equally lengthy and unsatisfying.

The afternoon sunlight gradually drifted around the sitting room, shifting as the hours passed, and highlighting dust motes all the while. Sherlock, having withdrawn into his mind long ago, merely stared through them, not sparing a thought for their serene beauty.

Before, while the sun was still heating the back of the leather chair, Sherlock had stopped waiting for John's reply, though anyone watching would be unable to tell, as he had not bothered to move from where he was sprawled. So lost to the world was he, nothing ordinary would be able pull him back. Fortunately, ordinary was abnormal these days, especially in the life of Sherlock Holmes.

His phone went off at long last, and the sound it made abruptly seized all of his attention. It was not the usual chirp, but a noise that was undoubtedly made by a human. Neither harsh nor airy enough to be a sigh, and hardly throaty—not a groan—but something in between. A moan. Obviously.

John's moan... obviously.

Though he had never heard such a sound from John, it was unmistakable. He could catalog and categorize all of John's stray noises and inflections; time bred a familiarity with his friend's voice that allowed him to piece together any combination of tones and words to fabricate whole sentences that could conceivably come from John's mouth. Identifying a moan was child's play.

What he could not understand was why there was anything to identify at all. John joked and teased, but he did not prank, and as far as pranks went, this was nothing worthwhile. And if he was trying to prove a point, Sherlock couldn't figure out what it was.

A thought was shouting for Sherlock's notice, but he refused to accept it as a possibility, no matter how large a part of him wanted to.

Maybe John himself would be of some help.

Harry's just finished giving me the grand tour. (A lie. Why would John lie about that?)

He deigned not to address it, and instead asked, What is the meaning of this? SH

Unbearably long minutes passed.

It's for an experiment. A slow response for such a short message; caused by hesitance or a distraction? If it was hesitance... The unacknowledged possibility snuck forward again, but he violently shoved it away. That was the worst assumption he could make now; it would only be entertained if more evidence began to point in its direction.

But the phrasing was not something John would usually say. It was his own line. This, John was teasing about, but it was also a transparent ploy to catch Sherlock's attention, and he could do nothing but give it to him.

And what is this experiment of yours? SH

I'll let you know when I get the results back. Swift to answer, but it told him nothing. Of course John waited until he was away, limiting Sherlock's ability to make deductions on anything more than his texts. Clever, John.

You are taking pointers from Ms. Adler, I see. SH

He knew exactly what possessed him to send that message, but it wouldn't allow him to regret it even after deletion impossible. Still, he would not allow himself to trust the idea that wouldn't leave him be, as it could lead to something worse than disappointment.

Sherlock's phone moaned—Let's hope mine gets better results.—and he picked apart and reassembled the sentence until he had a new conclusion. There was a chance that he was setting himself up for disaster, but he could finally consider that desperately determined possibility that nagged at him.

If he was correct with this point, and he had not forgotten to remove his dusty rose-tinted glasses, this "experiment" could be John's attempt to bring them together, and Sherlock admitted to himself that he had been expecting this for some time.

Fondness was something that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes held for one another. They shared a flat and worked together, one wrote about the other, they were practically inseparable, and, in the past, John insisted upon proclaiming them to be Not a Couple, despite the general public's nearly unanimous decision that they were. All of that didn't change that they were truly not in a relationship.

But much had changed in recent months. Nothing large, and in no vast way, but subtly, and with minute turnarounds, as there was hardly anything that needed to change. They still shared a flat, they continued to work together, one wrote about the other, they were inseparable as always, and society still agreed with itself. However, John no longer declared them to be Not a Couple.

These days John seemed eager enough to allow Sherlock to catch his eye, though few would be able to interpret his actions or words as romantic interest. Sherlock only noticed it because he was looking at John in the same way. He stared longer, he felt more deeply for John in new ways. When he received a comforting squeeze to the back of his hand, or an affectionate hair ruffle in passing, Sherlock was bewitched. He couldn't help but return to John an easier smile and softened demeanor, or to initiate that half-step closer brush of arms.

Things were different, and John couldn't possibly be so ignorant as to not notice. This was not Sherlock's area in the least; he knew nothing of being in a relationship—he hardly had any familiarity with friendship when John stepped into the Barts lab their first meeting! If anyone had reason to play oblivious, it was him.

John had to know.

Sherlock did not fancy himself a coward. If he was sure that John wanted the two of them to begin a different kind of relationship, rather than keeping his desires to himself, he would readily make the appeal.

Before now, with this strange, exciting, and entirely welcome plan of John's, it seemed that they would have been stuck in a perpetual dance around one another.

John had a Sherlock-resistant ability to surprise, however, and it wasn't always pleasant. Yes, this sudden side-step enlivened the dance and awoke something within Sherlock, but he couldn't be sure that John was doing this for the reason he suspected. If he was wrong, if John somehow had a completely different move in mind, Sherlock couldn't risk taking a step closer, lest he break their rhythm.

Though, were he correct, they would flow together with their usual ease. And it meant he had the answer to John's experimental question. More data was necessary, but John did not yet seem inclined to divulge any.

Eventually, he straightened out of his slouch and headed into the kitchen, sending another question along the way.

What am I to do with this in the meantime? SH

Whatever you want.

Sat at the table, he couldn't stop the shudder that ran through him when the reply was delivered with a moan.

By the following afternoon, John's moan was the only sound his phone made.

Each time John sent him a text, the sound spread a heady warmth through Sherlock that only John could cause. It was a low sound, John's moan; similar to a sigh, but not breathy or harsh enough. Sherlock found that he wanted to hear it again, and again—at some point he realized how much he wanted to cause it, to draw it from John.

Upon realizing John had finally fallen asleep in the early, early morning, and that the texting had ended for a number of hours, Sherlock found a craving within him to hear John's moan.

While in the process of setting the alert for all of his contacts (because of course that was the next step), he found a selection of other recordings that John had failed to delete. Curious, he played them back.

The first was a drawn out groan, and the recording ended with John's disbelieving laughter. Sherlock agreed; the sound was rather ridiculous on its own.

Each of the next three sounds were half-hearted at best, and it was obvious that John still hadn't relaxed enough to make one with which he was pleased. However, they were steadily reaching that point.

The last recording before the one John had decided upon was more akin to his normal, tired sighs, but it was higher, and finished by flowing into John's breath of "Sherlock". Something changed in Sherlock, like a gear being shifted into a new place. Over and over the word yearning surfaced in his heady thoughts.

Sherlock contented himself with replaying recording several times before he set the penultimate moan as his ringtone, and attached the one John had picked to his remaining contacts' texts. (Excluding The Woman. Her chosen alert was her own doing, and he respected that; he would not change what she decided on her own.)

Despite the readiness with which Sherlock accepted John's experiment, he was astounded by the situation. John's attempt to make him enjoy this game was clever, if a bit too obvious, but Sherlock was invested. When John surprised Sherlock, he did so in such a way that Sherlock had to stop and take his time appreciating it.

And take his time, he did.

Sherlock was standing over Heath Carlson's corpse when John's moan next rang out.

Sergeant Donovan almost tripped over her feet in her haste to halt. "My word. You do get off on this."

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket. "It wasn't me. I've got a text."

Lestrade sent Sherlock a bewildered look from where he stood on the other side of the body. "That wasn't the one I heard before."

"No, that was set up by an acquaintance of mine. This—" Sherlock slid the phone back into his pocket and crouched over Carlson, examining his wrist. "Was John's doing."

He glanced up in time to see Donovan and Anderson exchange a look that said she had either won an argument or a bet. He chose to ignore them.

The phone moaned again.

Lestrade seemed to become increasingly agitated. "Can you at least turn it off while you're here?"

"Problem?"

"Yeah. I don't want to think about you and Dr. Watson..." He shut his eyes and breathed deeply. "Set it on vibrate or something."

Sherlock was looking down at the phone. "No need. I'm finished," he said as he looked up at Lestrade. "Find his daughter and the boyfriend with the black watch."

Back in familiar territory, the Detective Inspector questioned, "Wait, the black watch? I thought you said the killer would have a silver watch."

"The boyfriend with the silver watch is innocent. He doesn't know about her other partner," Sherlock told them as he strutted out of the crime scene, phone still in hand.

He passed under the tape and actually came to a standstill when his phone moaned again. The team stared at him as he sent out another text, giving the phone a small, fond quirk of his lips.

Donovan shuddered and made a distressed sound in the back of her throat. "Do you think this is permanent?"

Lestrade sighed and looked down at Carlson's twisted body. For Sherlock and John's sake, he hoped so. For everyone else's, he wasn't sure.

While Sherlock was permitting John to keep his thoughts to himself, he still ruminated over the doctor's investigation. Under other circumstances, Sherlock would insist John tell him what he was planning, but John's decision to give him authority over the use of a moan, of all things, spoke quite clearly for itself. He hoped. His mind followed this trail in a recurring loop:

The looks John had sent him with increasing frequency in recent months were not entirely new to Sherlock, but his reciprocation was.

John's gazes of admiration, adoration, and fond exasperation appealed to Sherlock in a way that no one else's ever had. He found himself warming when John gifted him with those expressions, and eventually stopped holding back his own feelings. Because of this, he knew that he smiled at John more often, and his demeanor softened effortlessly at times.

Still, they never addressed it. John had yet to show that he noticed Sherlock's change, and Sherlock refused to do anything until he was proven correct in thinking that John harbored romantic feelings for him. Addressing emotions such as these made relationships strenuous and awkward if they were not received well.

And so, as he did when Molly's infatuation became too intense, Sherlock feigned ignorance. He would not ruin a reasonably good working relationship by turning down Molly, and he could not push John away with his own feelings.

Thoughts like these created Sherlock's hesitance to believe this experiment was John's attempt at stopping their dance around one another. If he was right, however, Sherlock had the answer to John's experimental question.

He needed more data.

You took a case without me?

And solved it. That is what you sacrifice when you attend holiday events. SH

Yes, alright, you smug prat.

And Harry and I are getting along fine.

Yes, and you sent that last as an afterthought. You're either regretting your decision, or you've had a disagreement. SH

Sherlock turned his head in time to watch Mycroft stride into the flat.

"Oh, must you?"

Mycroft eased on a falsely pleasant smile. "I'm afraid I must, dear brother." He sat in John's chair, placing the parcels he brought along on the end table.

Mycroft has come bearing tidings and gifts from our family. SH

Ask if he was cornered by that handsy friend of your mother's under the mistletoe.

He flicked his eyes over his brother.

It seems her daughter found him as well. SH

"If you're quite finished schmoozing," Mycroft interrupted. He didn't appear perturbed by the text alert—he only raised a brow at the noise—but he never could tolerate being ignored.

Sherlock paid him no mind.

"The two of you have yet to enter a relationship, so why has he given you something so intimate?" the older Holmes baited. It seemed as if the question was asked more for Sherlock's sake than his own.

He wouldn't allow Mycroft to play his conscience. "It could have been my doing."

"Of course it was John. You have no carnal urges to act upon," he stated.

"It would seem that John is the exception."

Mycroft made a disgusted noise. "I'd rather not discuss your newfound libido."

"Don't be alarmed. It's not just to do with sex," he mocked.

"No, I dare say it's not." Mycroft's tone was earnest. "You could die without ever having known the touch of another and not care in the least. In fact, even now you are largely driven by sentiment."

Sherlock allowed his silence to speak for itself before asking, "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

The older Holmes gathered his black umbrella and stood. "Gifts from Mummy and myself." He gestured to the packages. "She was saddened by your absence. However, as always, she remains sympathetic to your cause. I do hope you cracked the case."

Sherlock sneered as his brother headed for the door.

"She demands you attend Easter supper and 'bring along that nice doctor of yours'."

Left alone, Sherlock reached for his phone to respond to John.

How's the experiment coming? SH

I don't know. What have you done with it?

It is my only text alert. SH

I'd say the results sound promising.

Sherlock entered the kitchen to find John setting out the last of the tea.

"Morning," he greeted.

Sherlock looked him over. "You got back after four—"

"Harry and I had an argument," John told him before he could finish his deductions. "I thought it best I come home early." He turned his head to flash Sherlock a small smile, though hurt was evident in the lines around his eyes. "Harry thought so, too."

Feeling it was his place to ease John's troubles now, Sherlock moved around the table to stand across from his flatmate. John leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, waiting to see what he was planning.

"Have you drawn the conclusion to your experiment?"

John's lips quirked. "I haven't quite had a good look at the results."

"I am the more experienced scientist; if I know your hypothesis, I may be able to help you understand the data."

The residual pain from the argument with his sister faded swiftly. Now John appeared anticipative, if somewhat insecure.

As John mustered his courage, tightening his jaw and straightening his posture, Sherlock prepared himself for what was to come next. He found himself hoping, of all things. Hoping that his theory about John's intentions was true.

"I think it was, 'if I make a fool of myself and moan into Sherlock's phone, then he'll give me a kiss because I—'"

Sherlock didn't wait for the rest before he swooped in to brush his lips against John's. The relief he felt at realizing John's objective left him awed, but he only expressed that through a quiet sigh.

John made a happy sound and pulled Sherlock down by his nape, sliding their lips together tenderly. His pulse quickened when John hummed into the kiss; he sounded so satisfied it was impossible for Sherlock to be anything but equally complacent. They were in no rush, dragging out their second kiss until they were content to lean against each other.

"And your conclusion?" Sherlock asked at last, voice husky.

"Er, yes."

Sherlock expected something more scientific, but he deigned to teach him at a later date. For now, he would keep himself wrapped around John; possibly even make him moan.