(Set Before the beginning of ACOL)

Sherlock had come across it quite by accident. That wasn't to say he hadn't been looking for it, but he found what he had been looking for in a rather peculiar place.

It had begun on one not so interesting day in April with a rather interesting case. Well John says it was, and Sherlock says in retrospect it wasn't, but John was just thankful that it had stopped the Consulting detective from lying upside down in his chair and throwing various matters into the fire and singeing his curls.

Either way, a boy was currently in intensive care recovering from arsenic poisoning and Sherlock was sat cross legged on the floor of said boy's bedroom, flicking through his collection of The Guinness Book of Records, donned in some rather lovely pink rubber gloves with an equally lovely feather fringe that John had found under the kitchen sink.

Of course, even a man such as Anderson – who Sherlock was sure lacked the correct number of chromosomes and had said as much – could come to the diagnosis with a urine analysis or perhaps a stand of hair.

However, it was the origin of the arsenic that caused Sherlock to thrust open John's bedroom door at around 11:00 pm the previous evening, maintain eye contact with a rather gruesome stain on his ceiling to avoid looking at the bulk under the sheets that was far two small to be for just John alone and proclaimed 'dying child!' - example of lack of empathy #164 and complete absence of tact #something with four digits- because not only was it the most effective erection killer but because it would have roused John's sympathy complex.

It worked perfectly.

Sherlock soon left the room, the tail of his Belstaff billowing behind him, pausing to listen to John, who was mumbling to a woman with 34 C breasts, size 5 feet and whom smelt faintly of antiseptic...

Oh.

An exasperated sigh that came from the bedroom confirmed his suspicious. Sarah. How does one maintain an air of nit-wittedness with a Medical Degree from Kings College? Sherlock wondered, perhaps he ought to go right ahead and ask her-

Ah wait, John had warned him about that hadn't he?

Nonetheless, Sherlock typed away at his iPhone, or at least pretended to, leg bouncing impatiently on the step below where he sat and tried to ignore the sharp pang he felt in his stomach...

...Which was soon replaced by a sort of smouldering warmth as John stood on the stair above him, donned in his Barbour striped jumper (inside out, but Sherlock didn't dare risk having him dive back under the covers) and jeans, leaning against the banister slightly, biting his cheek to no doubt hold back some working-class quip that the Detective wouldn't understand.

And so, we find Sherlock staring wide eyed at page 392 in the 1994 Edition, mouth downturned slightly as he tries to make sense of the sixteen letter word that looks like it's been created from a random handful of Scrabble tiles and yet seems to epitomise and explain his entire relationship with his flatmate/colleague/friend/most definitely something else, far better than any Freudian analysis or pitiful Week-day, working hours talk show.

Most Succinct Word – The most challenging word for any lexicographer to define briefly is the Fuegian (southernmost Argentina and Chile) word 'mamihlapinatapai', meaning "looking at each other, hoping that either will offer to do something which both parties desire but are unwilling to do".

Rising up the book from his lap - eyes dashing across the passage again so he can transfer the information from his visuospatial sketchpad to his episodic buffer - Sherlock mumbles "Well would you look at that..." in awe.

John, wearing his typical frown of oh look i'm more than enough steps behind, yet again, peeks over Sherlock's shoulder with a "Wha-?", before being rewarded by a horrendously bony elbow to the cheek.

"You don't actually need to look John!" Sherlock barks, limbs flailing as he slams the book shut, "Honestly, and you mock me for my lateral thinking." He adds, tucking the book under his arms and standing up.

His knees crack a little and John has to bite the inside of his cheek to hide a smirk as he stands up too. His knees crack a lot. It practically reverberates off the crayon marked walls. "So...the book?"

Sherlock pauses at the doorway, "Rather fascinating. Shame it's ridden with arsenic really." He proclaims with a crooked smile, before shoving his hands into his Belstaff pockets and galloping down the stairs.

After Sherlock handed over the book to Lestrade – and rather forlornly at that – both he and John were treated to the finest Hygiene Procedure, courtesy of Scotland Yard.

As bizarre as his antics got with Sherlock, John had always hoped that there would never be a time he would find the pair of them standing in the nude - well actually he did - but not with a hose spraying barely lukewarm water against their backs with such force that John had to tense his thigh muscles just to prevent himself from toppling over.

The doctor dares to pry open an eye to look at the Detective standing to the right of him, and is rewarded with what looks like a rather jovial giggle, by the looks of Sherlock's shaking shoulders and Bombay Sapphire (John thinks this by association, it's one of those beverages where everyone has a bottle hidden somewhere, but never actually drinks it. Sherlock actually does) eyes squinted in mirth, a hand fisted and pressed against his lips and the other... not protecting his modesty?

A member of the Decontamination Squad hands John a sponge, frowning to him in a "what's with the naturist?" look and cocking his head in Sherlock's direction. Well, this is Sherlock, never been one for unspoken rules of Society and all, and the doctor merely shrugs his shoulders because receiving the same look over the past months no longer justifies an explanation.

Maintaining your modesty AND covering your body in suds is some feat (the pair of them should just be grateful they don't have breasts to cover as well. Well, John should...Sherlock wouldn't care either way), but Sherlock gets right down to it – as though he were standing under the shower head at Baker Street. He scrubs every inch of his 6ft brain-haulier, even going as far as asking one of the members of staff for hair conditioner, hand outstretched for a good six minutes until a bottle of mint Alberto Balsam is slammed into his palm from a staff members locker.

He squeezes a rather generous dollop into his hands and passes the bottle to John, "For greasy hair? It's hardly having its effect." He quips, hissing when the notably colder water knocks the air out of his lungs.

Later, in the Staff Changing Rooms, Sherlock sits on the wooden bench after collecting lime scale samples from each of the shower heads more out of a need to pass the time whilst John put on some clothes that once belonged to a man suddenly facing a mid-life crisis (according to Sherlock's deduction). Lounge wear with a price tag which far exceeded its worth and a small seagull logo stitched on the lip of the left pocket.

The cubicle door opposite him unlocks, and the sight of John rubbing his hair with a towel comes into sight. "I thought you'd dried your hair?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock enquires, focussing far too much on the scatterings of body hairs on the linoleum floor.

John's voice is much closer, and Sherlock throws his head up to look at the man leaning over him, "You're bloody shivering...c'mere."

The towel is rough against his cheek – mass produced; slightly damp, smelling distinctly of John and over washed going by its now off white colour as John dries his hair and yet Sherlock has never felt such tenderness in his life. The way John beckons the moisture from his curls as he kneads his scalp, tucks a frayed ribbon of hair behind his ear...

And there it is. A covalent bond between the two of them in the form of a look, their offerings hanging in the air between them, a static of change for them to share.

With a overly enthusiastic slap on the shoulder in order to put some testosterone back in the situation John tosses the towel into Sherlock's lap, "Uhhh, here," He adds with a awkward lopsided grin, "I'm just going to get my stuff, then we can go alright?"

John's yet to think of Sarah, and they keys she'll have had to post back through the letter box.

"So, i'm still wondering why you asked me to join you on this one..." John sighs sometime later, cursing under his breath as he tries to put on his seat belt in the taxi, in a sweater with ridiculously too-long sleeves that was given to him.

Sherlock attempts to twist his body to face the window – which would be as good a response as any – except he winces from the too tight jeans digging into his stomach from the contortion and pulls his mouth into a pout. "For your assistance John," He finally says with a huff, "As always."

"But you only need my help with the Medical side of things – the kid was already in hospital."

...

"Sherlock?"

...

"Sherlock."

...

"Oh bollocks to you then." John mumbles under his breath, fumbling in his plastic bag of belongings for his wallet to pay the taxi driver, whilst Sherlock waddles up the door of 221B in his ridiculous 'drainpipe' jet black jeans.

Watson's a doctor, not a detective, but even he notices the sly little smirk on Sherlock's face when he picks up the door keys that lie on the doormat, bouncing them in his palm whilst waiting for him.

"Wait a bloody minute..." John mumbles, pausing on the stairs, eyes squint in thought. Sherlock throws him a look, as though he knows John is on the precipice of an epiphany and thinks its best to glide into the flat to avoid the upcoming accusation. "You wanted to get me away from Sarah," John continues to proclaim to an empty living room, "But why...-"

He pauses to the sight of Sherlock leaning against the stained glass partitions looking at him through unruly curls, stressing the corner of his underlip and both hands attempting to pull down the bottom of the far too small t-shirt in bashfulness. "You were jealous...oh God." He breathes. "This is actually happening isn't it?"

Clearing his throat, the taller of the two men shuffles across the room, rather like a child when he knows he has been caught out by a parent, John suddenly thankful for Sherlock's complete absence of awareness for personal space when they are so close that their fingertips brush together, and the Detective's forehead rests against his.

"Should I be expecting any cliché declarations then?" John sighs in to the small valley between their lips, his thumb rubbing the inside of Sherlock's wrist tenderly. "You know, 'you make me want to be a better man' etc, etc..."

"Certainly not John," Sherlock scoffs, lips teasing the skin of John cheek, before lowering his voice to a whisper, "You make me want to be myself."

For every year after that, John buys the latest copy of the Guinness Book of Records for Sherlock at Christmas, if only for that small look of nostalgia the man throws his way when he opens it.

So many page breaks...whoopsie...

I shall continue to offer opportunities for prompts throughout my writing of A Child of Limerence, some of which will be set in that Universe and some won't - depending on whether they could be fit into the plot I have created. This series I have begun includes all the prompts I will write that are set in the AU of ACOL - all others will simply be one shots that will be released separately.

As a matter of fact, if you wish to send me a possible prompt, then please feel free to do so at katielizabeth92 at hotmail dot co dot uk .I'm a fiendishly freaky bugger, so be as kinky or nerdy or kooky as you wish -it can be set in ACOL or not - and if I like your idea, i'll be sure to write it! Goodness knows I can always do with the practise :)