The next day:

John was out of hospital quickly with a bandage and a pat on the head. But it wasn't Sherlock who met him at the door. It was Mycroft. Well, not Mycroft technically but, a car that took him to Mycroft.

"How's the leg John?"

"Fine thanks." He didn't even bother asking how Mycroft new about his leg, he had gotten to the point where he figured Mycroft just knew everything.

"Sherlock was quite shaken up by the whole ordeal," said Mycroft.

"Was he?"

"Well it's always difficult to see someone you love in pain, isn't it doctor?"

"Love? But Sherlock can't love, he's…"

"Well of course he can love."

"What?"

"Listen, I think you may need to go a little easy on him today. He's not having a good week by all accounts."

"What do you mean of course he can love?"

"Every human on the planet can love, even you Dr Watson. Good day."

John was left feeling ridiculously confused. All this time he had been under the safe assumption that Sherlock was incapable of love, but, as it turned out, according to Mycroft, he was. And John felt suddenly guilty about thinking so lowly of the man who cared for him the most.

Mycroft's words echoed in his head, even you Dr Watson. What did he mean by even you? Was he trying to suggest that he, John Watson, was in love with Sherlock Holmes? Because that was absurd. He wished everyone would stop thinking he was gay. It was infuriating.

When he returned to Baker Street the most surprising sight greeted him. Sherlock had cooked. Sherlock was always shocking John with skills that he never would have dreamed the genius possessed. Like how to make coffee, or how to drive, or how to apologise. But he had to admit, cooking was something he never thought Sherlock Holmes would attempt.

But attempt he did, and when John walked through the door, Sherlock was wearing Mrs Hudson's apron and was taking an apple pie out of the oven. The sight left John somewhat flabbergasted.

"John, so good to see you." He said, waving with an oven-mitt covered hand. "I was just making dinner."

"Brilliant" said John who was wondering if he was starting to feel the after effects of his bullet wound. "What are we having?"

"Pasta." Said Sherlock whose face was flushed from working in the kitchen making him seem far less cold and hostile and far more…human. (Once again though, it might just be me thinking this.)

So John sat at the table and ate what he was surprised to find was a completely satisfactory meal, and the apple pie, though shop-bought, was cooked rather well.

"I must say I am pleasantly surprised Sherlock" said John as they adjourned to the living room. "You never cease to amaze me."

For some reason Sherlock had piled everything he owned onto John's chair so he was forced to sit on the couch. Sherlock sat right next to him.

"So" said Sherlock, in that suggestive way (Suggestive because they were sitting awfully close and he was acting very peculiarly) "fancy a brandy?"

"Well now that you mention it…"

"No I'll get it" Sherlock practically catapulted off the couch to make the drinks. John figured he might as well face the situation with a little alcohol in him. Might make it all a little less weird.

Five glasses later and he was giggling like a school girl. (You must remember he had also taken several pain killers, for the leg.)

"Sherlock" he said, "you are so amazing you know that?"

"Yes I know" and though he said it with arrogance his eyes were filled with self-doubt. (At least I think that's what it was…could have been the brandy.)

"Really I mean it, you saved my life yesterday."

"Hardly, besides, that's what we do isn't it? Save each other's lives on a daily basis?"

"Yeah" said John, in a lovely way (lovely because he meant it, obviously, but also because he knew that they had saved each other in a far different way, in a way that no one else could.)

"You're not so bad yourself though" said Sherlock, who always had trouble with authentic compliments, and this one was authentic.

"Better than a skull?" said John, and as he did he turned to look at Sherlock and found that the detective's face was only a few centimetres from his own. And somehow, he couldn't look away.

"Infinitely better than a skull," said Sherlock in a very quiet and nervous way (I don't think I need tell you why.)

John gulped, he was suddenly very aware of Sherlock's eyes watching him, probably reading his thoughts. That was unnerving.

Their faces were so close; John could see Sherlock's eyelashes.

"Sherlock I…"

Sherlock kissed him. It was very slight, very brief, and very light and almost as soon as John had realised what was happening Sherlock had pulled away. There were several seconds of awkward, (passion-filled) silence.

"I saw your brother today," said John. He had no idea why, it was the first thing that came into his head.

"Mycroft?" said Sherlock, suddenly serious.

"Yeah, he told me that I should go easy on you today."

"Is that what you're doing John? Going easy on me?"

"Well not exactly, I…"

"Why does Mycroft have to stick his nose into my business?!" said Sherlock rising from the couch in his frustration. John feared he may have been losing control of the situation.

"I'm sorry that was the wrong thing to say, sit back down, I'm sorry."

But Sherlock stayed where he was. "I just thought since I'm going, I mean since we're not, but no, you wouldn't have worked it out anyway would you?"

"What are you talking about?" said John, who was starting to feel the effects of that last brandy, and was also suddenly very aware of the shape of Sherlock's mouth.

"Why are you people so stupid?!" he yelled and John looked wounded, and I don't just mean his leg.

Before John could say anything Sherlock had shut himself in his room and was playing his violin.

John slept on the couch that night and woke up with a terrible headache. Sherlock had left. John tried texting him but received no reply. Then he remembered what had happened last night. Had Sherlock really kissed him? Surely not. But he couldn't have dreamt that. And then he had stupidly told him about the encounter with Mycroft, probably because his words had still been ringing in his ears. Even now they wouldn't stop replaying; even you Dr Watson. What did he mean by that? John thought he might be starting to understand.

He had to find Sherlock, he had to apologise and try to get back to that moment when Sherlock's eyelashes had been so close to his own.

He tried Scotland Yard, but no luck, he tried all the restaurants they went to together but there was no sign. He was about to give up hope and head home again when he thought suddenly. St Bartholomew's. Of course, that's where he would be. Probably in the midst of an experiment. That's why he hadn't replied to his message.

As he stepped out of the cab his phone rang. It was Sherlock. He was relieved at first, but then he realised, Sherlock never called, he always texted. Something must have been wrong.

"Hello," said John

"John?"

He looked up. Sherlock was on top of the building.

"Oh god."