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A/N: All the prompts/definitions and chapter titles are taken from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
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gnasche

n. the intense desire to bite deeply into the forearm of someone you love.

The first time it happened, it took John a few moments to register that it had. He had been reaching past Sherlock, who had been absorbed in an experiment of some kind. He felt the light graze of teeth along his forearm for only a moment. When he turned his attention to the consulting detective who was once again peering into a microscope, looking perfectly innocent. Well, as innocent as Sherlock Holmes could ever look, which is to say, not at all.

John frowned at the cold cup of tea in his hand and glanced at the other man again. "Sherlock, did you just..."

Sherlock glanced at the smaller man, barely paying attention. "What is it now John?"

"Did you... I mean, what... Did you try to ...?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the microscope. "I do wish you wouldn't blather on so."

John stared at him for a moment more and then shrugged, putting the whole incident down to the special brand of paranoia that came from living with Sherlock Holmes.

The second time it happened, they were on the tube.

They had been unable to get a cab one miserable evening and John had flat out refused to walk, shortly informing Sherlock that he could trudge through the rain himself if he liked. He strode towards the nearest tube station, soaked to the bone, the ghosts of his past making themselves visible in the slight limp and the hunch of his shoulder. As he jostled for position on the packed platform, he was surprised when Sherlock's lean form seemed to materialize beside him. He didn't have to look at him to see the look of distain on his face, but John couldn't help a small smile as they waited.

They were packed in tight as the tube sped along and John couldn't wait to be back at Baker Street with a cup of tea and some crap telly. He busied himself with these simple fantasies until he felt a sharp but gentle pressure on his forearm as he gripped the handle above his head. His head snapped up and he looked at Sherlock, but the other man was busy with an intent study of a man standing across from them. Sherlock's eyes were darting from place to place and John could detect the faint movement of his lips as he quickly deduced everything there was to know about the normal looking bloke. Several minutes later, just as the man was starting to look distinctly uncomfortable at the intense scrutiny they reached their stop.

When they emerged from from the underground the rain had stopped. As they made their way home John glanced at his partner.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm, yes? What?"

"On the tube, did you bite me?"

"Don't be absurd John."

Someone who didn't know Sherlock so well, might not have noticed the minute pause before he spoke. John wasn't one of those people.

The third time it happened, they were at a crime scene.

John was cranky after being dragged out of bed at 3am, he was cold, there was no tea so he had punched Anderson. He hadn't punched him very hard and he had deserved it. John had been in no mood to listen to Anderson's long list of reasons as to why Sherlock should be removed from society. Lestrade had let him off with a gruff warning and a small smile.

While everyone had been distracted with checking on the technician he felt a tug on his arm, followed by a sharp pain. He let out an undignified yelp.

"Sherlock, what the..."

Before he could finish, Sherlock had launched into a convoluted but brilliant explanation of why exactly a prima ballerina had ended up in an abandoned docklands warehouse. It was nearly two days later, after several manic chases and one knife fight before he had time to remember it had happened in the first place.

It was sometime after midnight on a bitterly cold winters night and John was warm and content, drifting rapidly towards sleep with the worlds only consulting detective curled beside him.

Unfortunately he was jerked back into wakefulness as Sherlock sank his teeth into his arm.

"Ouch. Sherlock! Why do you keep doing that?"

Sherlock mumbled something indistinct into the pillow, attempting to roll over. John used the arm he had wrapped around his shoulders to keep him facing in his direction.

"Sherlock!"

"I don't have enough data to come to a satisfying conclusion."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, please, attempt to dumb it down for me, so I can understand the theory."

"For some reason I have yet to identify, I, on occasion, experience what can only be described as a... surge of affection for you. This emotion seems to accompanied by the urge to bite your arm. I see no obvious reason to resist, considering the insistent nature of the feeling."

"So, let me get this straight," John shifted so he could look Sherlock in the eye. "Are you saying that you like me so much, you feel the need to take a bite out of me."

"That's a rather simplified explanation but, I believe so. It is, at times, quite... overwhelming."

John sighed and settled back down in the bed, pulling the taller man into his side.

"Right. You too."