A/N: I would like to acknowledge the influence of the story by Skyfullofstars entitled Journeys End in Lovers Meeting. I should have mentioned this in the last chapter, but I honestly forgot! (hangs head in shame). If you haven't read any of her work go read it, right now! No wait, read mine first and then read hers, because hers is so good you might not come back:)

Just to clarify I understand that John did not go for drinks with Mike before the incident at The Pool, he went over to Sarah's, but in this universe, they met and broke up before John moved in with Sherlock.

Warnings – some swearing, lots of angst and hints of bad things happening to John (poor John – it's so much fun to abuse him).

Don't own, wish I did.

3. Experiments

The true worth of an experimenter consists in his pursuing not only what he seeks in his experiment, but also what he did not seek.

Claude Bernard

2 Weeks Later- starting just after The Great Game, but before Scandal in Belgravia

It really began for Sherlock on the cab ride home after The Pool. He had gone through such an overwhelming gamete of emotions that his hard drive of a brain was threatening to crash. His excitement of The Game, his absolute sureness that using the Bruce-Partington Plans was exactly what Moriarty wanted, seeing John come out of the change room and in that micro second of confusion and hurt and fear believing, actually believing that John was Moriarty, the horror of realization that John was the fifth pip, John's willingness to sacrifice himself for Sherlock, for him, when there was surely no one else who would do that, the emotional high and low of Moriarty leaving and coming back and leaving again and the knowledge that John meant far more to him than anybody else on the planet ever had or ever would. There was also the fear and unknown of what had happened to John during the missing hours between when he had left for drinks with Mike and when Sherlock had shown up at The Pool. He would have to make arrangements to plan a discussion with John some day but not now. Now he was almost dizzy with everything pressing down on him and all he wanted to do was go back to the flat and lie down, organize his chaotic thoughts and delete some of the emotional overload.

And that's when it happened.

John, who was sitting beside him in the cab, who had been lost in his own thoughts, had tentatively reached over and brushed Sherlock's hand in an attempt to get his attention. He had wanted to know if Sherlock was all right.

What happened to Sherlock was a jolt of electricity ran up his arm from the touch, he jerked slightly and turned to face John. He went back in memory to that first meeting, when he first really looked at John and a similar charge of energy had passed through them. There had been limitless possibilities open to them and Sherlock had dismissed it as lack of food or sleep.

Here it was again.

There was an unforeseen side effect that hadn't been noticed at the first meeting, quite simply because it had happened at the end of the case and his mind was blessedly quiet for the moment. This time, oh this time, his mind, since he had stopped using or without the bliss of a completed case, his mind quieted. Simply because the man beside him had reached out and touched his bare skin with his bare skin. Hand to hand. Simply because of that.

He also noted a marked increase in his own respiration and pulse. Was that important? Why was that important?

Oh!

Sherlock nodded sharply and turned away from John, which was an unbelievably difficult thing to do, but in the matters of emotions John was far more clever than he and he didn't want him to see his face while he contemplated this new and shining puzzle.

What had just happened? Could it be repeated? Did this mean there really was an attraction between the two of them? Sherlock had noticed that whenever John had smiled at him a certain way or giggled that infectious giggle, which oddly didn't seem out of place on his normally quiet face, and with the doctor's serious demeanor, his pulse rate increased slightly and his breathing became more erratic. He was positive if he'd been able to check a mirror that his pupils were dilated as well. He had also noted similar reactions in the doctor, although John seemed to be trying to either hide them or ignore them and Sherlock wasn't sure if that was because he was trying to avoid making things uncomfortable for the detective or if the doctor was embarrassed by an obvious attraction to a man.

It bore thinking about. Now that his mind was quiet he set aside a small space to contemplate this new information.

They arrived back at the flat; Sherlock raced ahead and left John to pay for the cab. By the time John had exited the cab and entered the building Sherlock was already hanging up his coat. John slowly made his way up the stairs, stiffness settling into his frame as the adrenalin crash came. He noticed his hand was trembling slightly and his leg was misbehaving, but that wasn't the worst. Not by a long shot.

John could just see Sherlock entering his bedroom as he came up the stairs. He hung up his coat and debated what to do next. He longed for a cuppa, but he felt the urgent need for a shower first. He felt grimy and unclean and thought that a long hot shower might be good for the ache in his muscles.

He called out to Sherlock "I'm just going to pop in the shower."

There was no reply from the detective, so he made his way into the bathroom.

20 minutes later feeling slightly better or at least a little more human, he stepped out of the shower. He slowly toweled himself off carefully, conscious of the new bruises and abrasions mapped on his skin. He looked down at his lean, muscular frame and picked out which were fist marks and which came from boots. He'd been lucky Moriarty had only wanted him marked and not hurt badly.

"Can't have the pet collapse during the show, can we," he'd hissed in his ear, just before…

Don't.

He shied away from the next memory. He'd deal with it when he was up in bed, where he could hide from the light.

He raised his hand and wiped the steam off of the mirror and looked into his eyes. They were tired and shadowed. That was hardly new. There was also confusion in them.

He had been sure from the moment of his kidnapping to Moriarty's second return that this was it. That tonight was going to be the end of it all again. But it hadn't.

He figured being rigged out in enough Semtex to bring down the building would constitute as being involved in the murder of Sherlock Holmes.

That's how it had to happen.

Maybe they were having a reprieve?

No.

There must be something else at work here.

He shook his head. He'd been standing here too long lost in thought and he was beginning to get cold. He needed to get up to bed.

He realized at that moment his housecoat was upstairs.

Damn it!

He didn't want Sherlock to see the bruising and swelling.

He sighed.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and picked up his clothes. He supposed he could put his vest on. It would cover most of the marks. He was just too tired. He decided he'd take his chances. Maybe Sherlock had gone to bed or at least was in his room.

He slowly opened the door. He didn't hear any noises coming from the flat. He quickly made his way across the living room to the stairs.

"John?!"

He stopped and closed his eyes.

Shit

He heard Sherlock come behind him and around until he was standing in front of him.

Silence.

John opened his eyes. Sherlock was standing there his eyes raking over the smaller man's frame. His hand was raised as if to touch John's bruises or to ward off the knowledge of what might have happened to John during those missing hours.

John looked past Sherlock and stood stoically staring into space. Hoping to get this over quickly so he could go to bed.

"John," he whispered and John could hear the confusion and hurt in his tone. "I had no…what di… shit!'

John's eyes widened in surprise. It was rare for Sherlock to swear. He glanced at his flatmate and saw what Sherlock was trying to hide from him. Sherlock was livid. Anger was present in the clenched jaw and the flashing eyes. His hand was trembling in counterpart to John's own.

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, really looked for the first time that night. What the detective saw there made his stomach clench. It had been a long time since he'd felt this much rage.

"What else?" the words came out around the clenched jaw.

"Sherlock…"

"What else did they, did he do to you?"

John felt a burn of shame creep up his cheeks. It wasn't really as bad as all that, he thought. If Sherlock would let it go he could forget about it.

John looked down at the ground, thinking. There had been worse things in Afghanistan.

He felt Sherlock tentatively, carefully place his hand on John's face, raised his chin and gently forced John to look up. John took a deep breath.

"Mostly… mostly was what he said. Knew more about me than I did, about things that happened during the war. Just stuff really."

"John"

"Sherlock just let it go."

"No John."

John started shaking not from the memory of Moriarty licking up the side of his neck or the hard thrust of his tongue in his mouth, but from the words whispered in his ear of all the things Moriarty wanted to do to him, would do to him, but hadn't. Not yet, he said. He would save it if John survived the night for another time. It didn't matter that things like this and worse had happened in the past, the far past. He didn't always have an emotional connection to everything that happened…before. He really only remembered the things that happened between him and Sherlock.

"He used his mouth on you didn't he?" Sherlock was having difficulty maintaining coherent thought. He wanted to leave the flat this minute and hunt down Moriarty and kill him very slowly. The actions of the night and what had happened in the car had stirred up feelings of extreme protectiveness in the detective. He was furious that Moriarty had dared to lay hands on his John.

"Please Sherlock… I don't… I can't do this right now. It wasn't as bad as you think. Just … just, " he heaved in a lung full of air. " Please…I'll deal with it my own way. Just not right now."

He watched as Sherlock made a conscious effort to swallow his anger. John was stunned to realize that this was for him, both the anger and the hiding of it. Sherlock was making an effort to clamp down on it so John wasn't feeling any more uncomfortable than he already was.

Sherlock lowered the hand that was hovering over John's chest and slowly nodded.

"Get up to bed. I'll bring you some tea and some painkillers."

"Sherlock…"

"Shut up, John. Listen to someone else for a change," he smiled at John, but it was a sad smile.

John nodded, giving in to the craving for a little comfort and care that both of them seem to need.

He left the room and made his way slowly up the stairs.

He threw his clothes and the towel in a pile on the floor and grabbed his track pants and t-shirt. He was too tired to tidy up. He'd deal with it in the morning.

He climbed into bed and pulled the duvet over top of himself and waited.

A few minutes later he heard Sherlock climbing up the stairs and there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

Sherlock came in carefully, carrying a tray that held two mugs, a bottle of ibuprofen and a book. He'd changed into his pajamas as well and was wearing the blue silk housecoat.

He set the tray down on the bedside table, handed John a mug and opened the bottle and upended two pills into John's hand.

"What's the book for?" John asked, swallowing the pills.

Sherlock frowned at the book and said, "There is a high probability that after tonight's events you will experience some difficulty in sleeping through the night. I expect you to have nightmares and I thought perhaps some company might help to, if not drive them off, at least provide you with some security. If you know someone's watching out for you then perhaps they won't be so bad."

He glanced at John and John was slightly amused that Sherlock, although he seemed a bit embarrassed by this display of sentiment, was also a bit smug at his conclusion.

John decided to forgo teasing him as it really was a very nice gesture and he was quite touched at the thought.

"All right," he simply said.

Sherlock prepared to sit down in the chair beside the bed.

John shook his head. "Get into bed you idiot. You might as well be comfortable."

Sherlock looked surprised and then nodded and climbed in beside John. He opened his book and looked at the doctor. "Will the light bother you?" he asked.

"No," said John " I can sleep pretty much anywhere and have, in far worse conditions."

With that John rolled over and fell asleep rather quickly.

Sherlock didn't read much of the book. He spent the night watching John and guarding him from nightmares.

oOo

The next morning found John waking up to an empty bed. Sherlock had left at some point. He was grateful for the taller man's presence during the night. The nightmares hadn't stayed away completely, but they hadn't been as intense as they could have been. He had a vague memory of a hand running through his hair and someone whispering that it was okay.

He wasn't sure if that was an actual memory or wishful thinking.

He slowly got dressed and tidied up the pile of clothes from last night. He was stiff and sore this morning.

He made his way downstairs to find Sherlock up and dressed and reading the paper.

"Morning," John said, stifling a yawn.

"Morning," said Sherlock from behind the paper.

"Coffee?" John asked.

"Please."

John didn't notice that Sherlock's eyes followed him into the kitchen. When he came back in with coffee, they carried on as if nothing had transpired the night before.

It stayed like that for most of the week until Lestrade called with a new case, just in time to prevent Sherlock from climbing the walls.

There were two noticeable differences in the interaction between them after The Pool. One was that Sherlock tended to hover over John more. Not a great believer in personal space to begin with, he was practically joined at the doctor's hip. He was reluctant to leave his side for extended periods of time and if they had to be separated he sent frequent texts to John. He never came out and said he was checking on John, to make sure something untoward hadn't happened, but John knew that was the reasoning behind it.

The other thing was that Sherlock felt the need to touch John more frequently, usually his good shoulder or his hand and only ever briefly, but it happened time and again. Again John didn't mind, although he had to concentrate on clamping down on his heart's need to lurch in anticipation every time he felt contact with the detective.

John came to the conclusion that Sherlock was feeling oddly protective of the doctor since The Pool and the revelations at the conclusion the incident. Which was true.

Sherlock would probably never tell him was that he was conducting a series of experiments. He was trying to determine if close proximity to John would a) help his mind clear and focus his thinking and b) was he sexually attracted to John and inversely was John sexually attracted to him.

So far the conclusion was a resounding yes on all points.

Sherlock decided it was time to glean further data.

oOo

John came down stairs one morning to find Sherlock dressed in nothing but his pajama pants, his chest bare and gleaming in the sun from the newly installed windows. He was playing the violin and his eyes were shut as he concentrated on pulling every emotion from the strings. John didn't recognize the tune, but it was heartfelt and beautiful. He stood there listening and trying very hard not to stare at Sherlock's bare chest.

Sherlock concluded the piece, put away the violin and bow and turned to face his flatmate. He cocked his head to one side and John felt his eyes as they swept him from top to bottom. That did not help him try to get his racing heart under control. Sherlock smirked a little and made to walk past John on his way to the kitchen. He stopped and looked deeply into John's eyes and said "Good morning John."

John swore that Sherlock's voice was deeper than usual and it did something to his stomach muscles.

"M…M…Morning," he stammered and attempted to get his breathing under control. This is not good, thought John.

Sherlock meanwhile jotted some notes down in the journal in his head about John's reaction to certain stimuli.

The following week continued in much the same vein. Sherlock's touches, before had been light and hesitant, were now firm and lingering. He'd come up behind John when John was either sitting in his chair or at a crime scene and he'd lowered his voice and whisper in John's ear, his breath tickling the outer rim. He insisted John remove his shirt at one point to check on John's healing wounds. He skimmed his hands over John's torso, his eyes darting around. He paused over John's pectorals and brushed lightly over his nipples. John thought he might hyperventilate.

John looked at him and said,

"Sherlock, what the hell?"

Sherlock had simply smiled, slowly, languorously and looked deeply into John's eyes, he leaned closer and spoke directly into John's ear. "I'm just checking to see if you are all better?" and then he tilted his head slightly and pressed his lips against the cheek in a very chaste kiss that didn't feel chaste. And he walked away while John stood there, his brain misfiring. There was an added benefit to his discomfort over Sherlock's examination. The touch of his hands erased any lingering taint from Moriarty, as did the kiss.

Sherlock was very pleased with the results of his conclusions.

What Sherlock didn't know was that John was becoming desperately worried.

oOo

1 Week Later

John was becoming more morose. His resolve was cracking and Sherlock's antics over the last week hadn't helped. The detective had been spending his time doing some rather bizarre things, even more bizarre than usual, even for Sherlock. It seemed that his flatmate was either trying to drive him mad or was simply conducting a series of experiments that would ensure in his early demise.

His biggest worry was he knew where this was all leading; he simply couldn't recall it happening this way. He knew he was on the cusp of a very black hole and he would willingly go over the edge for this man.

As much as Sherlock scoffed at John's obtuseness when presented with evidence that to Sherlock was maddenly clear, Sherlock was just as obtuse when it came to John's own observational skills.

There was no way Sherlock could possibly know that John had been observing Sherlock's behavior far longer than the detective would have believed possible. He easily recognized the signs that Sherlock was becoming more attracted to the short doctor with the bad shoulder and the dodgy leg.

He also knew it had been inevitable from the first day they had met.

Even then, even with Sherlock walking away from him that night, which John now knew was Sherlock's way of dismissing something he didn't believe in, John knew it was only a matter of time before they'd meet again.

He'd once or twice tried avoiding meeting the person he was tied to. It didn't work. It only postponed the inevitable.

That was the madness that John lived in, had lived, Goddess forbid, would continue to live in until this whole mess that his choices had set in motion was finally cleared and swept away.

Sometimes the weight of the years was so great that John thought he would suffocate under it. Most of the time he was able to dismiss the memories. He was able to box them up and forget about them for a quiet, few, precious moments. This lifetime had been particular pleasant as far as things went, barring his time in Afghanistan. He usually met his counter part much earlier during a lifetime and it usually ended much more quickly. Usually. Not always. There were times when he went almost as long before the wheel turned and the cosmos lined up and the fates aligned or whatever cheesy metaphor you wanted to use, happened. Or there were times like at Gettysburg, when he simply looked across enemy lines and saw him and that was it over, quickly and always, always, always deadly. That was part of the curse they lived under. They met, they usually felt some attraction, someone was betrayed and someone was killed, then the other died, end of that story, but not end of their story. It would just begin again and again and again.

And it was John's fault.

He had hoped, really hoped that maybe this time he could be forgiven and it would end well.

There was something different this time. There was something new this time. He wasn't sure if it was because he had decided the last few times he'd started to become a better person and started to erase some of the black marks on his soul. Or because he'd done some research in his teens and decided that after cursing the gods, he'd start praying to them, asking for their will, for their forgiveness. The gods he prayed to weren't known for forgiveness, but it had happened occasionally. He mostly concentrated on the one who had been the crucible to his catalyst. He prayed she would accept it, but bowed to the knowledge that she would or she wouldn't. If she even still existed. It had been a long time since the days of temples and sacrifices and who knew what happened to a god when they had been ignored for millennia.

And there was the spiral into futility once again. Maybe there was no end. Maybe it was eternal damnation.

Sherlock came up to John as he was sitting in his chair. He knew he'd become more agitated over the last week, ever since Sherlock had started his series of experiments. As someone who's own black moods threatened to engulf the entire flat, he knew that it would take a lot to snap John out of whatever it was that was bothering him.

He found he wasn't sorry for causing this reaction in John. He was becoming increasingly fascinated by the doctor. His thinking was that John just needed to come to terms with the fact that they were attracted to one another. Sherlock felt he couldn't find a more perfect partner.

He decided to try something new to help John take the next step.

He approached John's chair. He knelt in front of it and laid his hands on John's thighs and leaned forward.

He said John's name, modulating the tone, so his voice deepened to a rich, dark chocolate, almost smoky.

John looked up at Sherlock and Sherlock looked back. He saw something in John's eyes that held a glimmer of what Lestrade had been trying to tell him weeks ago.

Something there was dark and ancient and anguished, something that should not exist in someone as young as John and it wasn't simply his time in Afghanistan. It was more than that. Lestrade had been correct. And Sherlock, who did not believe in the metaphysical, finally recognized that there might possibly be some such thing as a soul, because he could see it, see it in John's eyes.

Now here's the remarkable thing. Most people, ordinary people, people even like the good and brave Detective Inspector, would be afraid of the darkness present in John's eyes. Not Sherlock. He recognized it as a compliment to his own darkness and he didn't run from it. He embraced it with a thrill.

John reached out and did the thing he'd wanted to since that first night. That he was compelled to do. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's unruly hair and felt the silkiness of his curls. He continued to frown at them as he lifted and weighed each curl in his fingers as if they were more precious than gold. He looked at Sherlock as he moved his hand down to cup his exquisite face, his touch tentative, with the hint of a promise of ownership. A face designed to tempt even angels.

He cleared his throat and he spoke, his voice husky and rough. Sherlock's pulse sped up and his heart lurched in his chest.

He wanted this, he wanted this in a way that made the cocaine and heroine lust seem tame by comparison.

"Sherlock, if we go down this road," he cleared his throat, because he knew what was going to happen next because it had already happened a dozen, a thousand times and it was hard to control the rush of blood in his veins as he anticipated the moment, but he had to say this, he had to at least attempt a warning. "If we go down this road, there's no turning back." And John's eyes looked so sad and lost that Sherlock could already feel cracks develop in his heart as it prepared itself to break, a heart he had just discovered actually existed.

John leaned forward and ghosted his lips over Sherlock's perfect, perfect ones and he said, "Believe me when I tell you there is nothing but pain and hurt down there. It never ends well, for either of us."

The roar in Sherlock's ears drowned the content of John's words and even if he had heard the part of it never ending well he would have dismissed it and committed to this course of action regardless.

"John," he breathed, closing his eyes. "I don't care. Shut up and kiss me."

And John did. And it was more than Sherlock had believed possible and the roar became louder and he was drowning in John's lips and touch and tongue.

And it was beautiful and glorious and more than he had ever anticipated.

He closed the notebook in his head, the one he'd been using to jot down both his and John's reactions. It was a good thing they had this time together because it would be all that Sherlock could do to keep them alive over the next little while, let alone worry about the results of an experiment, the conclusion of which, if he had known, had been forgone from the start.