"John?" Sherlock called up into the seemingly empty house.

There was no landlady this time to greet him with her daily complaints of the state that he left his rooms in. Still waiting a reply, Sherlock closed the front door, which had been forced open by some amateur of a burglar, and treaded over the pieces of smashed glass covering the tiled hallways as he took his time climbing the stairs.

He avoided the stairs that creaked so that he could hear the sound of running water more clearly. Either the burglar was having a wash, after disposing with Mrs Hudson and presumably John also, or John had dealt with the whole matter and had sent Mrs Hudson with her packed bags to stay with her sister for a few days- weeks, Sherlock corrected himself as he reached the landing. John would have insisted a week minimum. Also Sherlock had glimpsed how tidy the kitchen was. Mrs Hudson only did that when she went away for a while, hoping that it would still be that way upon her return; no to mention some of the pieces of shattered glass that had been cleared slightly, leaving two parallel clear spaces that that the wheels of a suitcase had made.

Walking along the landing, Sherlock saw a body lying on its back in the doorway of the room ahead. 5ft 9, the detective thought to himself, with a thin body structure yet a fair amount of muscle. Well, he had to be strong since John had felt compelled to shoot him twice in the chest. It was either that or John hadn't liked the look of his face; it was quite a dislikeable face. His pale blue eyes had rolled upwards towards the ceiling and his mouth hanging open slightly. He must have been in his late twenties, roughly.

At least there was no blood on the carpet, Sherlock thought as he stepped over the body. He looked ahead of him to see the dead man's companion who was slumped in Sherlock's chair. He too was dead, but shot three times in the chest. A much bulkier man of 6ft 1 and probably quite dumb as many well-built criminals tended to be. It was him who had forced the front door open by throwing his weight against it after the thinner man had attempted and failed to pick the lock. Mrs Hudson must have arrived after they'd broken in as they would have knocked on the door and taken her by surprise when she opened it.

Sherlock slowly stood up straight as the running water had stopped running a few minutes ago and he could hear John muttering rather loudly to himself. Sherlock caught some words such as 'bloody', 'moron', 'myself', 'kill him'. Making sense of it, Sherlock removed his scarf and shrugged off his coat, dumping them both in the corner of the sofa. He turned to see John trudging into the room wearing a dressing gown and rubbing his hair dry with a small towel, still muttering to himself.

"When I get my hands on him-" he cut off as soon as he caught sight of him watching him.

His face turned into more frustration and he threw the towel at Sherlock.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

Sherlock caught the towel and looked around the room.

"You've been busy. Mrs Hudson away?"

He calmly sat on the sofa and tossed the towel back to John, who in return caught it and lashed it like a whip at Sherlock, striking him across the face.

"Answer my bloody question! Where were you when I rang telling you that someone was breaking into the house?" he yelled.

Ignoring the pain and the question, Sherlock leaned back into the sofa and took out his phone from his pocket. He refused to look at John's outraged face.

"Who were they? Did they get time to say what they wanted before you dealt with them?"

Struggling to control himself, Hon remained where he was and continued to dry his hair. Sometimes Sherlock could be a right old prick, he thought to himself.

"They just asked about you and when I told them that you weren't here, they said that I was to go with them. My gun was close to hand, so it was a reflex to defend myself," he explained, "Mrs Hudson arrived shortly afterwards and almost fainted when she saw what I'd done. It didn't take much effort to persuade her to stay with her sister for at least a week. After she'd packed her bags and tidied up the kitchen, I told her to leave the rest of the mess to me, she took a taxi to the station and should be on the train as we speak."

Sherlock nodded as he took in what he already knew.

"I was paying a visit to Lestrade. I think he might be getting ever so slightly smarter, considerably more that when we first met."

He casually took a picture of John from his slouched position without him noticing. That would be joining his collection.

"Maybe next time you'll get back here a bit quicker."

Sherlock adjusted his gaze to watch John half collapse into his usual seat opposite the dead man in Sherlock's. Slouched shoulders, tensed muscles, sharp intake of breath, wincing; he was hurt. He'd probably bruised- no, fractured his shoulder- no, dislocated. It seemed that John hadn't been able to click it back into place, which explained why he'd had the shower.

"You're hurt." Sherlock stated, lowering the phone.

"And you're taking pictures of me," John replied as he rested his head against the back of the seat, "again."

Only now did Sherlock see how tired John really was from the fighting and getting angry at him, but also from hiding the pain. Should he attempt to comfort him? Emotions were his weak point, but then again, that was why John agreed to be his counsellor, if you could call it that.

It had been after a case where a couple had been reunited. Sherlock had felt something that day, but he forced it into the back of his mind. Emotions were a weakness, especially those for others. Once back at 221B, he'd turned his attention to another case that Lestrade had lined up for him; a boy had gone missing only for his body to turn up in a police cell the next day in France, yet the boy had gone missing in Ireland.

Sherlock had tried to ignore John watching him intently from his seat which Sherlock sat opposite him, checking flight timetables.

"Sherlock." John addressed his friend after a whole hour of silence.

"John."

"Is everything alright?" he asked.

"You tell me." Sherlock replied calmly.

He suspected what John was going to ask, but he didn't want to say it.

"You've been acting differently since we got back-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock spoke over him as he studied Google maps, "I've been myself the whole time."

He sneaked a look across at his friend who was looking at the floor, biting his bottom lip in thought.

"Yeah, well, I just want to make it clear that I'm here if you ever want to talk about anything," he said, "you aren't completely alone, Sherlock."

And then Sherlock felt it again. Silence filled the room and neither of them spoke. Feeling nervous about how Sherlock accepted his little speech, John briefly drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair before getting to his feet and making himself a drink.

Keeping a controlled face, Sherlock continued searching for any information that he would need until he eventually closed the laptop five minutes later and put it aside as he stood. He retrieved his scarf and coat and put them on.

"Where're you going?" John asked, bewildered with a fresh cup of tea in his hand.

"Out." Sherlock replied.

He felt like he needed time to think. Being the faithful friend that he was, John put down his cup of tea which he had just made and grabbed his coat.

"I'll come too then."

At that point, Sherlock allowed himself a smile as he set off on another quest with John closely behind him. Since then, Sherlock had tried to be more open with John about his feelings, but it was difficult. His feelings seemed childish to him and it was pointless to share them. John had seen this struggle and to make him feel slightly more at ease, he shared his thoughts and emotions with Sherlock.

However, this wasn't enough for Sherlock. It felt too strange, and by the power of deduction, Sherlock decided that in order for him to open up to John, he needed to tell him his deepest and most sensitive secret. So that's what he did. There were two secrets that he had, one was Irene Adler, but John already knew about that.

After a good month of them sharing their thoughts, they were sitting together one evening. Sherlock had attempted to calm himself, but nothing would work. All that was left to do was to tell John.

"Ginny Crowe was a girl I knew when I was young." Sherlock blurted out.

He had kept his eyes fixed his hands in his lap, but his preferential vision picked up John looking up from the book that he was reading, giving Sherlock his full attention.

"During my childhood, I spent some of it growing up with my Uncle and Aunt. While there, Mycroft employed an American bounty hunter, by the name of Amyus Crowe, to be my tutor. It was mainly due to him that I am what I am today." He took a deep breath in.

John remained silent and still, scared that any movement or sound would put his friend off. It was very rare for Sherlock to speak about his family and John had never heard about his childhood. He grew up with his uncle and aunt? Did that suggest that his family couldn't look after him? He continued to listen.

"Ginny was Amyus's daughter and we developed," Sherlock paused, "a kind of relationship. There were a number of times when I was scared of losing her."

From the outside, Sherlock seemed almost perfectly calm, but inside he was tearing himself apart. No one else knew about this. These kind of feelings had melted away since he'd last seen Ginny and he'd vowed to himself to never experience those emotions again. To everyone else, he was the consulting detective who had the potential to be a psychopath.

When he felt like he couldn't say any more, he looked up and John was smiling softly at him.

"That's fine." Was all he said.

Despite the pathetic reply, Sherlock found it comforting and felt warm and happy that he'd shared this with his closest friend.

Now, as Sherlock recalled these feelings, he got to his feet and went to stand by John.

"Is that anything I can do to help?" he asked, almost forcing the words out of his mouth.

The doctor had been attempting to fix his shoulder during Sherlock's brief flashback and now he looked up in surprise.

"Er…alright."

Before anything could be done, John had to carefully remove the dressing gown so that Sherlock could access his shoulder. With Sherlock's help, he extracted his arm from the sleeve, leaving the rest of the dressing gown on. He then instructed Sherlock to place one hand on his shoulder and the other just above his elbow. Sherlock did this, wrapping his long fingers around John's pale arm.

"Now move it up," John instructed, "quickly."

No sooner had he finished speaking, Sherlock sharply did as John said, causing him to cry out in pain and release a few swear words.

"Like that?" he asked, not exactly sounding sympathetic.

John pulled away from Sherlock before he tried twisting his arm in anymore directions and rolled his shoulder a couple of times before being satisfied that it was back in place.

It was after that they realised how close they were to one another. Sherlock was crouched next to John, his head level with John's, awaiting further instructions. John had relaxed in his seat and studied the detective's face. To him, Sherlock seemed lost like a child who'd wandered away from its parents. Was it possible that for once he didn't know what to do? Testing this theory, John leaned towards Sherlock and embraced him in a hug.

It was quite awkward at first as Sherlock didn't hug him back at first, but slowly, the long arms wrapped around John and hugged him back. He also felt Sherlock gently nuzzle his head against John's, enjoying the closeness. Just when it seemed to be going well, Sherlock began to pull away. But John wasn't ready to let Sherlock go.

As Sherlock's check brushed again his, John moved his mouth until it fitted with Sherlock's and kissed him. Instantly, he felt Sherlock tense. It was too late to take it back, but John instantly pulled away and racked his mind for a reason why he'd just done that.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I don't know why I just did that. It was spontaneous; I hadn't planned to do that, I just…"

He stared at Sherlock whose eyes were fixed on the floor. He hadn't moved at all. Shit, John thought to himself. Why had he done that?

And then, Sherlock seemed to return to the room. He raised his gaze and looked John in the eyes.

"That was spontaneous?" he asked.

John nodded anxiously. He watched as Sherlock slowly drew closer to him, his hand cupping John's cheek.

"Then this must be love." He said before pressing his lips against John's.

Love, John thought to himself as tried to accept the fact that Sherlock was kissing him, on his own intention. His eyes closed as he kissed the detective and brought his arms around Sherlock's neck. Never did he ever think he would do this with his friend, who he'd barely even made any contact with. It was true though. Even when they were sharing emotions, Sherlock would settle himself certain distance away from John, as if scared by what he was about to say.

Eventually John had to pull away for breath, but kept his eyes slightly closed and his head pressed against Sherlock's. He pulled Sherlock closer to him until he was almost straddling him.

"And people said that you had no emotion." John chuckled to himself.

Sherlock tried to regain his breath before pressing his lips against John's. It didn't seem like the right time for talking and all he wanted to do was to be close to John. He now had both hands on either side of John's head, caressing his cheeks and kissing him lightly on the lips.

"Bedroom?" John suggested.

He wasn't quite prepared to make love to Sherlock with two dead men in the room and he wasn't going to dispose of them and end up being covered in their blood. Sherlock just moaned into John's mouth before standing and they proceeded to Sherlock's bedroom.

No sooner had they entered, Sherlock pressed John against the door and kissed him. John tried to protest, saying that they should wait until they were on the bed, but Sherlock couldn't wait that long. Instead of conveying his message by speech, John half pushed Sherlock towards the bed and managed to sit down on it with Sherlock standing above him.

Their mouths remained pressed against each other as Sherlock removed his shirt. It was a slow process, but it felt right. His thin fingers than untied the dressing gown belt and pulled then away from John's body. His lips brushed John's chest, causing John to fall back onto the bed and moan. It was a good thing that Mrs Hudson wasn't here, Sherlock thought to himself. John's head rested on the pillow and his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck as the detective worked his way down John's body, exploring all of the doctor's sensitive parts.

Soon enough, he reached John's crotch and he pulled away the dressing gown before taking in John's length into his mouth. He may lack in emotions, but he knew the basic skills required for love making. It didn't take long for him to get John hard as the kissing had already done most of the work. Sherlock almost gratefully sat down and allowed John to repay the favour. John's lips had been amazing against his, but they were magical as they slide along his length.

Sherlock barely gave John any time to finish as he pushed John until he lay on the bed, before he raised John's legs and rubbed the tip of his length against John's firmly closed entrance.

It was just before this that the doctor realised that Sherlock wasn't going to use and lubricant of any sort.

"Sherlock." He began to protest.

He was silenced as Sherlock entered him, crying out as he did. Sherlock let out a grunt as he thrust himself deeper and deeper into John. When he wasn't grunting or gasping for breath, his lips would be against John's, searching for the love that he barely had throughout his life.

No words were used throughout their activities as none were needed. John could almost sense when Sherlock was going to come and clutched the pillow under his head to stop himself from moaning too loudly. Mrs Hudson might not be there, but there were still the neighbours who tended to complain about the gun shots coming from the flat.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock give one final thrust before he felt the warm, creamy liquid fill him up. Sherlock's arms trembled as he tried to stop himself from falling onto John, but there wasn't enough strength left in him. He flopped on top of John, not having enough strength to remove himself from within his friend.

After a few minutes, John pulled the covers over them and held Sherlock close to him. He wiped away the light layer of sweat that covered Sherlock's forehead and gave him a final kiss.

"I'll always be here for you." He whispered gently in Sherlock's ear before sleep overwhelmed him.