They ended up at an all-night diner John never even knew existed, despite the fact they were only ten blocks from home. Somehow over the remainder of the walk, John's grip had shifted and they ended up holding hands the rest of the way. It was definitely not something John would have ever done before - probably still wouldn't have done, if they hadn't had the streets to themselves because it was the middle of the night and almost-but-not-quite raining - but it didn't feel as odd as John's brain kept reminding him it should have. And it did seem to be helping Sherlock, who slowly transformed from a barely-contained mass of energy back to his usual effervescent, sardonic self.

The diner was small, dark, and smelled like stale cooking oil. John and Sherlock were ushered to a booth in the back by a bored-looking waitress (too old to wear her makeup that heavily and too jaded to care, John observed) and left alone with their grease-spotted menus. John glanced at his, then pulled out his phone to call Lestrade.

"Anything more you want to add about the case, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pointedly looked away.

"Fine." The conversation wasn't as awkward as John had feared - Lestrade was happy for the help, belated as it was, and expressed sympathy for John having to deal with Sherlock while he was In One Of His Moods like that.

"I wish I had something more for you," he said, his voice sounding flat through the bad connection, "but it's been relatively quiet here for the last week or two. And I'm leaving for a little getaway with the wife tomorrow, so it will be at least three or four more days until you two can expect a call from me."

John blinked and frowned. "Thought you two were having a bit of a rough patch - everything settled then?"

He could hear Lestrade's hesitation over the phone. "Not quite, no, but she thought it would be good for us to get away for a few days. Turn off the job - and the mobile - and spend some time together. We'll see."

"It's not going to work," Sherlock said flatly from across the table. "She's still seeing her yoga instructor."

John shot him a dark look, praying Lestrade hadn't heard, and wrapped up the call. Lestrade promised to call them when he got back. John got his phone back in his pocket just as the waitress came back to get their orders. Under the weight of John's steady glare, Sherlock finally consented to order a glass of juice and a side order of pancakes. And then, with a glance at John for verification, he ordered french toast with strawberries for John as well.

"Excellent," John said after the waitress had left. "I won't ask how you guessed -"

"I never guess."

"Right." John hid his smile behind a forced cough. "I was just going to ask what you deduced my second choice would have been."

Sherlock's gaze went blank a second - John knew he must have already had the whole menu committed to memory, including misspellings and grease spots - and then he smirked. "Belgian waffle, plain, side of bacon, usually would have been your first choice but the french toast sounded warmer on a night like tonight. Despite the fact that both are usually served at approximately the same temperature."

And John was once again struck by a moment of how the hell does he do that? "You're amazing, you know."

He expected Sherlock to shrug off the compliment, to say something annoyingly arrogant about how everyone else was an idiot, but Sherlock just swallowed hard and looked away. "I - thanks," he said quietly.

"Want to talk about it?"

Neither of them needed to specify what "it" was.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the weathered wall next to him, drumming his fingertips on the table. John held his body perfectly still until Sherlock finally licked his lips and slumped a bit against the back of the booth. "Can we go again?" he asked.

"You want me to say the words, or you just want to think them?"

"Whispering would be best, I think."

John felt Sherlock's fingers grope for his own under the table. He caught them with a light squeeze and curled his own around the backs of Sherlock's hands, once again pressing his thumbs into the sensitive skin of Sherlock's palms. Their knees nearly touched under the scarred wood of the tabletop.

"Focus on me," John whispered, locking his gaze on Sherlock's. "Focus on me. Focus on me. Focus on me."

There was something different about doing this in public, even in a nearly-deserted diner in the middle of the night during what was turning out to be a regular rainstorm, if the sound of the droplets hitting the front window were any indication. John found himself praying that their food would take a little longer than normal, just so they wouldn't be interrupted.

They were, unfortunately, but it turned out to be fine. The waitress brought their food, looked like she wanted to make a comment about how they were gazing devotedly into each other's eyes, then clearly thought better of it. She plopped their plates down with a thud and left them alone without a word. John gently disentangled his hand from Sherlock's and picked up his fork.

Sherlock shook his head and started on his own plate a few seconds later. He still had a bit of a dazed look on his face, like he wasn't quite sure what he was doing there, but John kept his mouth shut and eventually Sherlock stopped looking like he was waiting for John to say something.

They finished their meal in silence. Sherlock paid without a glance at the bill, then pulled out his phone and actually called to order a cab. The two of them wandered outside to stand under the awning to wait, listening to the buzz of raindrops hitting the electric lights overhead and breathing in the smell of wet pavement.

"You want me to set my timer?" John asked quietly.

"No."

John looked up at his flatmate's face.

"I don't need a timer," Sherlock said. "I want to - to do this until the next case comes in. I need to. To keep me -"

"I understand," said John. And he did. "That's fine."

"Is it?" Sherlock looked right back, undoubtedly reading every detail of John's expression and body language. "You say you don't mind, but surely this isn't normal? For a flatmate to be so needy?"

Before he could think better of it, John was standing on tiptoe and pressing a quick kiss against Sherlock's cheek. And then even when he did think better of it, he couldn't make himself feel sorry for the gesture.

"Oh." Sherlock's voice sounded both tiny and awed. "I . . ." He licked his lips and trailed off into silence.

Shitshitshitshit. John hadn't meant to push, hadn't meant to make this seem like it needed to be more than it was. "Delete that," he said, his voice sounding rougher than it should have.

Sherlock licked his lips again. "I don't think I will," he said slowly. "I understand what you're trying to say - you didn't mean to push me into anything sexual - and I understand that you're concerned about how I might react to an overture of a physical nature. But you're allowing me to deduce what might make you happy, and right now I see an eighty-two percent chance that you'd be happier with me following up on that overture than with me dropping the subject."

John raised an eyebrow. "Eighty-two exactly?"

"Possibly as high as eighty-five. Hard to be sure."

John let out of huff of laughter and shook his head. "I pity the man who ever tries to keep up with your brain, Sherlock."

"That would be Mycroft."

"I suppose." John took a deliberate step away, determined not to be sidetracked by the Holmes brothers' feud. "In all seriousness, though - I don't want you doing anything you don't want to do, just because you think it will make me happier."

A crease appeared on Sherlock's brow. "Isn't that the point of this? I wouldn't have cleaned, otherwise."

"No, I meant -" John sighed. "Physically. Touching each other."

"Ah." Sherlock stared at the rain for several minutes in silence. John was just about to change the subject when he said, "I want to."

"Pardon?"

"I liked touching you in a non-sexual way. And I want to touch you in other ways, too. There's a wealth of data to be collected on how your body reacts to stimuli, John - I want to lose myself in that research."

John tried to hide his fond smile. "That is probably the most un-sexy way of propositioning someone in the history of ever."

"And yet you're aroused again."

John shifted his weight, feeling the telltale heat in his groin. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Good."

And then the taxi saved them from having to discuss it further. Sherlock said "Baker Street" and they rode the rest of the way in a pleasantly tense silence.