"You're late," Sherlock announced without looking up from his newspaper. "The tea went cold an hour ago."

John dropped his shopping bags onto the kitchen table. He eased tension out of his shoulders as he glanced at the counter. Sure enough, Sherlock had prepared tea. A cup had been poured. The tea within was cold and slicked over with oil. He dumped it down the sink and started the kettle before rummaging the cupboard for the tube of biscuits he'd hidden at the back. Checking his line of sight, he took a Jammy Dodger out of the newly opened packet and then lobbed it without a warning at Sherlock who caught it without putting his newspaper aside.

"Yeah, well. Being kidnapped will do that for you. Still, I'm here instead of on a plane bound for Australia, so I'm counting my blessings."

Sherlock lowered the Times and gave John a disapproving look in response. "Engaging in hyperbole is a poor way to convey facts, John, as I've told you many times."

John leant against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, and regarded Sherlock with an expression of irritation. "So what would you call it if two men built like City fullbacks, dressed in sharp suits and wearing earpieces, bracketed you in the cereal aisle, said, 'Mr Holmes wants a word'. And then when you told them to sod off they took that as permission to bodily escort you out of the supermarket and into an unmarked van where your brother was waiting?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes ceiling-ward and shook his head as he was forced to concede the point. "So what did Mycroft want?"

John opened his mouth and then shut it again. He then pushed off the doorway, looked at the ceiling and then at the floor and then spent several seconds pacing back and forth as if he was trying to collect himself. Finally he took a deep breath and let it out again before saying, "Hewantedtoknowthatsinceweweresleepingtogetheragai n,what weremyintentions."

Sherlock frowned as he struggled to parse John's tumble of words. "Say that again," he replied. "Only much slower."

John drew and released two ragged breaths. "I said, he wanted to know … now that we're sleeping together again … what were my intentions... towards you." He frowned, lips flat and eyes puzzled. "What I don't get is how did he even know that we're … you know." He glanced sharply over at Sherlock. "And what business is it of his anyway?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair. For a moment he seemed as frustrated as John and then his expression softened into one of wry amusement at the antics of his overbearing, but well-meaning, brother. "None. What we get up to is entirely our affair. But as to how he knew, I'm afraid, John, that's entirely your fault."

"Mine?" John replied harshly. "How is his intrusive nature my fault?"

Sherlock popped the Jammy Dodger into his mouth as he went into the kitchen to get John's tea. John stalked after him, impatient for an explanation. He glanced at the jumble of shopping bags. "I'm surprised you went back into the market to finish after your interview." He glanced through the bags, picked up a packet of condoms, and showed John the label before dropping it back where he'd found it. "Or perhaps not. Anthea?"

John nodded and then frowned. "Did those say that they were glow in the dark?" He snatched the packet back out of the bag to study it more closely.

Sherlock nodded. "She has a sense of whimsy. Who would have guessed?" he mused as he turned his attention to the tea kettle. "Strictly speaking – " He handed John a mug and dropped the condoms into the pocket of his dressing gown. " – I suppose it was both our faults. However my culpability only extends to not covering up fast enough when Mycroft walked in on me yesterday morning whilst I was dressing." He smiled darkly at John. "You were the one who left the love bites."

"You liked them well enough the other night," John grumbled. "I seem to remember the words 'more' and 'bite me harder' tumbling from your lips."

"I see you haven't shaken off the more florid turns of phrase from your recent writing course," Sherlock observed dryly. John shot him an irritated look, but it wasn't enough to stem the delicious memory of teeth nipping at his skin. The heady feeling threatened to derail his train of thought and he was forced to visibly collect himself before continuing. "True enough. When Mycroft remarked upon their rather distinctive shape and location, I told him to mind his own business. Since he had more pressing matters to attend to, he did. However, I suppose they roused his curiosity. He might have intended to question you about my new romantic partner had it not been for your actions this morning."

John shrugged. "What about them?"

Sherlock smiled gently at his partner's obliviousness. "You kissed me goodbye, rather enthusiastically, before you went out to run your errands."

John sighed impatiently. "And?"

Sherlock sighed as well. Surely John had been around enough murder scenes to understand the unwitting migration of evidence. At John's thunderous look of irritation, he threw out a bone. "I had just showered and shaved. You embraced me. My skin was still damp. Some of the aftershave I'd just applied transferred itself to your skin, mingling with your own. And one of my hairs –" Delicately he freed a single strand of dark hair from John's lapel. "– clung to your clothing. In the proximity of the van's interior, Mycroft couldn't help noticing. He then put the physical evidence together with my bruising and drew his own conclusions."

John brushed a finger against the exposed skin of his throat and then sniffed. He then shook his head, chagrined. "I forgot he can do that thing that you do."

"Who do you suppose taught me?" Sherlock shrugged in resignation. "Still, it seemed likely he would have found out sooner or later. He did before."

John put his mug aside and drew his arms tightly over his chest. He looked down at the floor and studied the pattern for a long moment before glancing tentatively in Sherlock's general direction. "Before you left, before? Or after you came back, we started up again, and then you broke things off without warning, before?"

"Both," Sherlock replied quietly.

"Oh."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

"So why did he want to know about my intentions?" John asked at last.

Sherlock took a tentative step closer to John, and then a second. He touched John's cheek softly. "I suppose because he finally recognised that for me there's something inevitable about you, John. That no matter how logic and common sense and circumstance try to keep us apart, I will always find my way back to you. And if that's the case, then my oddly protective big brother wants to be sure you know that he's watching out for me."

"That's sweet … I think." John curled his fingertips over Sherlock's. "Does it change anything between us?"

"What did you tell Mycroft?" Sherlock asked instead of replying.

"You mean after I realised that I could end up in a trunk bound for Oz?" John smiled for a second and then sobered. "I told him that what's between us is between us, but that you were the most important person in my life, and as long as you let me, I was going to do all I could to make you happy."

"And what was his reaction?"

John shrugged. "Relief, I think." His expression grew thoughtful. "Yeah, now that I think about it, the sense of menace he was generating really seemed to ratchet back. He became … cheerful. Which given Mycroft's moods – " He looked up at Sherlock with concern. "Should we be worried?"

Sherlock dropped a kiss against John's lips. "Unpack the shopping and then tell me what you think." He disentangled from John's embrace and strolled off, lilting a tune, towards his bedroom.