Rating's back down to T for this chapter. There's a brief mention of sex but nothing graphic. Fair bit of angst though, but it clears up in the end, I promise.


"Oh, John, welcome home. How was work?" John walks over towards Sherlock, who is perched in his big leather armchair, fussing away with his phone. He leans forward and ruffles Sherlock's inky mess of curls affectionately, still excited by the ability to touch his flatmate – no, his lover – whenever he gets the urge.

"Since when do you care about the surgery? I didn't bring you home anything exciting, infectious, or decomposing, if that's what you're wondering."

Sherlock doesn't look away from the phone, but leans into John's hand, fingers still entwined in his hair. "Actually, I was wondering if little Billy Burton did indeed end up having polio. Do you know how rare that is in this day and age?"

"Sherlock!" John pulls his hand out of the unruly tangle of Sherlock's hair with a start. "How did you— I don't even want to get into the ethical implications of breach of doctor-patient privilege here!"

Sherlock drops his phone and turns to look at John with a gleam in his eye. "If it's any consolation, I couldn't hear everything, just the occasional fractured snippet. It would appear that closeness, either physical or emotional, seems to strengthen my uncanny ability. It seems that I'm developing the ability to hear you from a greater distance."

"What about Mycroft?"

"John!" Sherlock admonishes. "Even you, with your decidedly lacking powers of observation should realise that the relationship between Mycroft and myself may be many things, but it is certainly neither a bond of emotional or" the consulting detective pauses briefly, a shudder running through him "physical closeness. It would appear that so far, you are the only one lucky enough to claim those titles. None of my previous lovers have had this effect on me either."

"So that's it then, I'm never going to have any privacy again, am I? I suppose there are worse fates." He makes a big show of sighing dejectedly.

Sherlock pouts for a moment and then hears the undercurrent in John's mind – he's actually quite thrilled by the prospect of further emotional attachment.

"Oh, marvellous, John! You're learning to mask your surface thoughts!" The glee on Sherlock's face is so genuine and unfettered that John is reminded of a child on Christmas morning.

"I thought you might enjoy the challenge. Give us something to experiment with."

"Excellent. And since you've brought up the subject of experimentation, I realised this might have some other advantageous potential." The look on Sherlock's face is slightly unnerving – manic and gleeful.

John raises his brows quizzically as he moves to sit in the armchair across from Sherlock, his legs a bit sore from the commute home. "Oh? Do tell."

"I was thinking, wouldn't it be spectacular if I could keep track of Mori—"

"NO!"

"John, you didn't let me finish."

"I don't need you to. I know what you were going to say. Sherlock, how could you even consider it?"

John sinks deep into his armchair, burying his face in his hands. It takes him a moment to realise he's shaking. His mind is filled with horrifying thoughts. Sherlock, my Sherlock, naked and sweaty and entwined with Jim Fucking Moriarty's lanky, corpse-pale limbs.The two of them fucking violently, passionately. Even worse, the two of them forming some horrible emotional bond. Bonding over what? How stupid, how mundane the rest of the world is? From there, his mind moves rapidly to Moriarty taking advantage of a suddenly relaxed and vulnerable Sherlock. He feels sick to his stomach.

He looks back up at Sherlock, the hurt written all over his face. Sherlock looks distraught; he shifts his weight uncomfortably in the chair. He's unsure whether he should touch John, comfort him, or leave him be.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock. I can't believe you would even think that, let alone TELL ME you were thinking it. Can you understand why I'm so upset?"

"It's not as if I care about him, John. It would just be sex."

"This, this from a man who has been avoiding sex because of the raw emotions and thoughts it exposes him to." John is shouting now, his face red and contorted. "When you said you were married to your work, I didn't think you meant it literally! And besides, what about the other people you've fucked?" he nearly spits out the word. "Did you hear them afterwards? No. You'd need to get close to him. Not only would you be bloody cheating on me before we've even figured out what we are to each other, you'd be putting yourself in horrible danger."

His mind is flooded with images of Sherlock tied to a chair, Sherlock beaten to a bloody pulp by one of Moriarty's minions, Sherlock wrapped in a god damned semtex vest. At this, the world's only incredibly dense consulting detective finally understands. It's not about the sex. Not really. He's suddenly reliving that moment at the pool all over again. The moment where the one person in the world who truly understands him was put in danger. The moment where he thought he might never see John again.

He stands up, crossing the gap between them in one long stride. He kneels down at John's feet, shuddering.

"John, John, John." He's repeating the name over and over, like some kind of incantation. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." The strangeness of hearing Sherlock apologising repeatedly shocks John back to reality for a moment.

"He can't have you. He can't. Not that way. Not any way. Sherlock, do you understand? He can't have any. Single. Part. Of. You." He puts a heavy emphasis on each word, pausing to make sure Sherlock absorbs them properly. Sherlock tentatively rests his head against John's leg, and the doctor, despite his better judgement, finds himself running his fingers through Sherlock's hair again. It's as much to comfort himself as it is to comfort Sherlock. He'd be worried about Sherlock hearing his thoughts again if there was more in his head than a horrible blackness and a high-pitched whistle.

John pulls in a broken breath before he even realises he was about to start crying. "I feel as though I need to be alone for a few minutes." Sherlock pulls away from John's leg like he's been burned. John gently pulls him back via the convenient fact that his hand is still carding through Sherlock's hair. "But I can't even have that anymore, can I? I suppose we're really and truly in this together now, aren't we?" He sounds resigned, but his voice is more controlled now.

"John, I truly am sorry. I…" Sherlock bites his lip and cringes, as though what he's about to say is physically painful. "I didn't think. I got so caught up in the idea that I might be able to stay one step ahead of him that I got ahead of myself instead and didn't consider all the angles, all the repercussions. The almighty Sherlock Holmes, not thinking something out in advance, and only the most important person in his life here to witness it." He laughs, cold and bitter. The angry whistling in John's head has finally abated, giving them both a moment of peace. He reaches down, wrapping his hands around Sherlock's torso, filling his mind with a picture of the two of them curling together on the armchair. Sherlock pulls himself up gratefully, slotting in around the smaller man. Their bodies are fitted tightly together, John burying his face in Sherlock's neck, but there's nothing remotely sexual about the entanglement, despite the physical closeness. The blackness slowly drains from John's mind, and subsequently Sherlock's, replaced with a desperate need to cling, to possess. They could stay here, like this, for eternity.

"Promise me, Sherlock. Promise you won't even consider that again. I couldn't bear to lose you. Not now. Especially not like that."

"Of course, John. I promise." He says it so quietly, so reverently, that John believes him. It's so rare to see Sherlock acquiesce to anything anyone asks of him that it finally puts his mind at ease. The two of them sigh in unison, breathing each other in. Sherlock pulls them even tighter together, having woven his long fingers through the back of John's knit jumper. John feels like he should complain about more of his clothes getting ruined at the hands of his mad flatmate, but he can't bring himself to mind right now.

John leans into Sherlock. Nothing's ever going to be normal again, is it? Somehow he feels like speaking aloud will cheapen it.

Sherlock huffs out a quiet chuckle. "I should hope not, John. Normal is boring."