A/N: Because I love them both, and the show, and Benedict's general everything. Kindly beta'd by the amazing FezzesRCool25.

A Three Patch Problem

Sherlock was having a problem. A three patch problem. And, stretched out on the sofa, his bare feet hanging off the edge, he wondered if it was normal to feel so . . . human.

His last problem that required this much nicotine had resulted in a rather jeopardous situation with a taxi driver. Sherlock had been saved by his new flatmate. What a find he had been; someone who was more than eager to dive straight into detective work and had no qualms about shooting anyone who tried to kill Sherlock. The consulting detective had deduced, with his nicotine wired brain, that everyone else in the police team, maybe except Lestrade because Lestrade needed him, would have let him take that pill. Of course, Sherlock was certain that the one he had picked was right, but John wouldn't let him take that chance.

John.
The name had been his mantra over the past few days. Unable to concentrate, he'd told DI Lestrade exactly where to stick his goddamn cases. Although Sherlock did wonder if even a serial killer, one who respected the art, could dull the constant whispering of 'John' in his head.

It had only been three days since the 'almost suicide' as Lestrade referred to it to the rest of the dummies at Scotland Yard, or 'A Study in Pink' as John was calling the draft saved on his laptop. Sherlock preferred John's way, but then, he was beginning to realise he preferred John full stop. It was a serial suicide anyway.

Three days, Sherlock's blue eyes swept around the flat, and his belongings were already becoming at one with John's. John's laptop sitting on his desk, nestled beneath a large stack of case files and paperwork he should have perhaps asked Mycroft's permission for before he took; John's mug – slightly tea stained – was sitting by the foot of John's chair opposite Sherlock's – half filled with tea he had insisted John make and then gotten bored of; John's jumper sweater slung on the back of said chair; John's biscuit crumbs on every possible surface and, when Sherlock craned his neck to look into the kitchen, a jam coated knife left abandoned on the work top. The knife was Sherlock's but the jam was John's.

It wasn't the belongings that were the problem. No, Sherlock shuffled about on the sofa in annoyance, he didn't need three precious patches to work that out because that wasn't the problem at all. Sherlock could share, and Mycroft's snide comments about "my dear little brother, finally learning to share, wouldn't mummy be so proud" only made him more eager to. Reverse psychology be damned, it was the emotional attachment.

Sherlock didn't have friends, he only had one family member that frequented his life and his friendliest relationship with any female of his age was with Molly Hooper, who he really only saw when he needed something and she often did odd things with her make up that made Sherlock wonder if she'd taken a fancy to one of her colleagues, maybe someone from IT upstairs? But then John had come hobbling into his lab, an army doctor on leave with a sister he needed to escape from and an odd sort of fetish for shirts and jumpers. And Sherlock hadn't known what he come over him, the desire to impress he thought he'd never feel after he'd grown out of Mycroft and gained the trust, well, grudging respect, of Lestrade. But that, that was work. This? Sherlock didn't know what this was.

He cared about him. More so than he had anyone, the incident when Mycroft had fallen off his horse and broken his arm and Sherlock had spent the whole night sobbing in his room because he wasn't allowed to see him was brought sharply into focus, but that didn't count because Mycroft was his arch-enemy and nobody knew. He'd asked him if he was alright, even though he was the one with the offensively garish 'shock blanket'. Nothing seemed to matter from the moment he realised John was the one who fired the bullet until he knew he was ok and he couldn't delete the odd fluttering in his chest as John tried to hide the burn marks on his hands from Sherlock's omnispective eyes. John wasn't boring. John was human, John wasted valuable time doing boring things like eating and sleeping and he even saw it as his duty to make Sherlock eat (he had a lot more difficulty trying to make him sleep but Sherlock enjoyed the flicker in John's eyes as he grew more determined to see him rest so he deliberately made it hard for him).

In fact, Sherlock enjoyed watching John do everything. He was never bored when he was John-watching. John-watching was perhaps the least boring thing to do, except maybe pit himself against London's latest psychopath.

But the three patch problem didn't really have anything to do with the watching, John didn't even seem to mind, and Sherlock had observed John staring at him more than once, the quiet look of concern written in the furrow of his brow disappearing quickly when Sherlock caught him. Sherlock had conducted an experiment as he always did when he didn't know something that was vital to fill a gap of knowledge in his hard drive. And his findings – he wanted another patch but if John caught him he would pull that face, that face that in the thee days of knowing him Sherlock had learnt meant: 'I am very displeased with your actions Sherlock but I am either in a situation where I cannot voice my opinion or feel as if it is not my place." And Sherlock didn't like that look.

The basis of his experiment was to find out if his body reacted in the same way to John's presence as one of his stupid, stupid dates. At least then he could judge if there was a physical element to John's frustrating hold over him.

His first task was to measure the physical changes in one of the dates (and every woman who happened to meet John – he needed reliable data or this wouldn't work). His findings: flushed cheeks, blinking more rapidly, slightly quickened breathing pattern – seems shallower, dilation of pupils.

Then he measured his own physical reactions. His findings, slight darkening in skin colour on the cheeks, dilated pupils (this was hard to measure, and involved many surreptitious glances in the compact mirror he, again, should have asked Mycroft's permission for), minor asphyxiation, memory loss, dizziness, slight nausea, chest pain and the inability to concentrate – without a high dosage of nicotine.

Therefore, in conclusion, Sherlock was in more trouble than he ever had been facing that cabbie. He was confused. Consulting detectives were never confused, not by their cases and not by their own emotions. Where did he even pick those up?

He was physically attracted to John as well as emotionally. Something, after years of being dubbed the 'virgin' with good cause, he couldn't explain. Mycroft would no doubt find it hilarious and Mummy would no doubt suffer severe palpitations if the umbrella wielding menace ever got round to telling her. The whole situation was preposterous.

And Sherlock was certain, he'd been told on many occasions, he didn't know what love was. He didn't have a heart to feel it.

Do we need more milk? I have a feeling you've contaminated the bottle I bought yesterday. JW

Oh.