A/N: I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who read the last chapter and who have come far enough to read this one. I enjoy the feedback that I've been getting and I'd love more. /expressing my love.

The next morning John was awoken by the sound of a police siren in the street below. He struggled to unwrap himself from the sheets, pulling the coarse beige cotton away from his sweating body as he tried to sit up. He stumbled out of his room; calling out to the only person he thought would bring the police out to Baker Street at such a time in the morning. "Sherlock, why are the dammed police in the street?" He waited for a response, but was met with none. "Sherlock?" He questioned to the seemingly empty house, but was only met with echoes in response. "Fine, I'll figure it out myself." John huffed, apostrophizing his irritation to the blank walls as he trudged down the stairs.

His dreams had been filled with rushing thoughts of Sherlock. What would it be like to hold him close at night? What would it sound like to hear Sherlock return his declaration of love? That's the way all of his dreams had been recently, Sherlock looking down and smiling at John as he held him in an intimate embrace.He blushed, ashamed of how he felt like a schoolgirl; all he could focus on was a boy that would not have him. How strange it was to think about someone in such a romantic way, he had never felt this way about Sarah, she had never consumed his thoughts in such a way and prevented him from thinking of anything else. Sarah, how would she feel when he finally let out his true feelings? When? He shook his head; it shouldn't be when but if.

"John?" John jumped in fright; he had been standing in front of the door staring blankly at the brass doorknob. The low sultry voice of Sherlock had been a shock to him. "John," he repeated, "are you alright?" John had turned to face Sherlock and now that he was facing Sherlock he couldn't help but take in everything about Sherlock. The way his shirt was stretched enough to reveal his collarbone, his curls that were playfully mashed in one direction, the little wrinkles around his eyes, everything suddenly seemed bright and vivid to John. "I'm fine," he managed, "why are the police outside?"

"I don't know," he reached around John, and unlocked the door, "perhaps we should find out." John stepped backwards, watching Sherlock take the doorknob into his hand and pull the door open with one fluid motion.

In the street below stood dozens of police officers clad in thick winter coats, some of whom stood in arcs, looking off towards a side street and still others spoke into radios in hushed quick voices and averted their eyes from what captured everyone else's attention. Sherlock stepped out onto the step outside of the door, the scene outside had stolen his attention. John watched as his bare feet pattered across the concrete towards the closest police officer. From his spot still planted firmly within the house John could see Sherlock exchange words with the Detective Sergeant, and then turned away from her and came back to John.

"A child's been found."

"That's," he turned a slightly shocked expression towards the spot that everyone else was facing, "I don't know." John was conflicted on how to feel, his training told him that the death was like every other, yet his moral compass would not let him escape how tragic the death was. "Perhaps we should make some tea." John wasn't sure why his mind had drifted to the thought of something to consume, but both he and Sherlock eagerly followed the thought.

Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen, preparing tea for the time of two of them while John sat at the cluttered table. He pondered the little sign of affection, Sherlock closed himself off to so many people, but somehow John had managed to break through all of that. What if I told him right now? The thought flitted into his mind. "Sherlock," John was surprised that he had spoken. Sherlock looked up from the tea bags that he had been fiddling with, "Yes?"

John wanted to tell Sherlock the way he felt, about the months of questioning his sexuality, the nights he had spent worrying that he may be discovered, and most of all how much he cared about Sherlock. Everything was collecting in his mind, the words he so desperately wanted to say to the tall man that stood in front of him. "I-" he stuttered, "I wanted to say thank you for the tea."

Sherlock's cheeks tinged a light pink as he averted his eyes, "Thanks."

Why did I just say thank you for the tea? John couldn't understand why he had chosen those words, of all the things that he could have possibly said that hadn't been what he had hoped for.

"Sherlock," John took the cup that was offered to him by the consulting detective, "the child," he wasn't sure how to brooch the subject to Sherlock, "what, what happened?"

"You don't really want to know."

John shook his head, "No," he could feel anger welling within him, creeping into his voice, "I want to know." When did Sherlock start caring about protecting my feeling? For once he didn't want Sherlock to care, he only wanted to hear the truth that was being kept from him. Sherlock took a sip from his tea, "The child was malnourished." His voice had turned; John recognized it from explanation that was ever given in the house. "It looked like abuse, obviously long term." John nodded. "They've asked for me to come in later."

"Oh," John looked around the room before turning his attention back to the man that sat across from him, "are you going to?"

"Of course, in fact," he glanced around for a clock, "I must be leaving now." He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. John watched as he walked away observing the most lighthearted moment of his whole morning. "Sherlock," he called after him. "What?" He peeked his head around the frame of the arch. "What are you wearing?" John asked. Sherlock cocked his eyebrow and then glanced down at what he was wearing. His flannel pants had fallen, riding low against his hips, and his shirt had moved to reveal the majority of his shoulder. "Strange."

"You should probably change." John laughed to himself as Sherlock left the room after agreeing to change before leaving.

John let the momentary hilarity pass before once again thinking about what lay outside of their front door. Of all the things he had seen while he was off to war the pain of children stood stark against the desert background that lay within his memories. He had seen the tears glisten off of their cheeks as they begged in any language they knew. Children caught in war, something that he had never expected when he signed up to protect crown and country. A sharp pain shot through his calf, the constant reminder of the frontline that would never leave him.

Faintly beyond the living room John could make out the sound of the two toned alarm as it drove further away from 221b Baker Street. His eyes cast down upon the cold cup of tea that sat in front of him on the table. Somehow it had become situated between a rack of test tubes and a stack of old unrecorded case files. Why had he made him tea? Maybe it was sign pointing towards everything that John had been hoping for. No, Sherlock had told him that he was married to his work, when would Sherlock take the time to make a relationship with John? When had been the wrong word, he corrected to himself, Sherlock would never love him.

He could hear Sherlock coming back up the stairs. As he stepped into the room the light danced off of his suit, the same way it did every time he dressed for a case. "Why aren't you ready, John?"

"I don't think I can work on the case."

"Yes you can, now get dressed, and I'll call us a cab."