John felt a bit out of sorts the next day. Maybe he hadn't slept well. Maybe he had inhaled too many odd fumes in the lab. Maybe he just needed a break.

After breakfast, he sat in his office, reading over his experiment notes, looking at his prototypes. But his focus just wasn't there. Sighing, he wrapped one of the torn samples in his handkerchief, and shoved it into his pocket.

When his afternoon appointments were done, he didn't feel like returning to the lab. Instead he found himself in the library.

Molly was already at their normal table. "John, it's good to have you back."

Greeting her at he sat down, John realized he hadn't been there for a week. He had been busy collecting dandelions, and working in the lab. Funny how it had taken over his life like that. Maybe it was good he wasn't going there today. A day away would be good.

"So, what dry tome are you deep into now? Aristotle's Masterpiece?" John ducked his head to try to see the cover of the book she held.

Giving him a fond look, she tilted it up.

"'Great Expectations'? I didn't think you would read anything as frivolous as fiction." John was a little surprised at the book.

Lowering the open book to the table, Molly stroked a hand gently over the page. "Hardly. I grew to love reading because of Dickens." Her large brown eyes met John's. "We didn't have much money, growing up. When my mother died, I had to stay home to take care of the younger ones. But I always saved up to buy the latest chapter of his stories, and read them again and again."

John smiled in understanding. "My favorite is 'A Tale of Two Cities'. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." How often had those words run true in his own life.

"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show." Molly quoted back. "David Copperfield."

He wasn't as familiar with that novel. "Why Copperfield?"

"I always related to it, and later read an interview where Dickens said it was the most autobiographical to his own life, that it was his favorite. Dickens also revealed things about his own life in that interview...that his father was put in a debtors prison and Charles had very little formal education." Molly glanced down. "His family struggled like mine did."

Reaching across the table, John gave her hand a squeeze. Although his upbringing hadn't been easy, it hadn't been as bad as hers. He had managed to get a good education, and a career.

They went on to discuss their other favorite authors; Hugo, Austen, the Brontës, Melville, and Dostoyevsky. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein sparked a friendly debate that lasted until the end of dinner.

"This is what you have been working on so hard?" Mike chuckled, holding the piece of torn film and giving John a puzzled look.

Snatching it back, John glared at his friend playfully. "It took days to produce that! Have some respect."

"Why are you reinventing the wheel? Rubber prophylactics are already available." Mike took a sip of his whiskey, savoring the aged liquor.

John sipped his as well, but wasn't that fond of it. It must be an acquired taste. He hadn't spent time hobnobbing in private men's clubs like this much.

John looked down at his sample. "I'm trying to make a formulation that is strong and stretchy, but thinner."

"Thinner!" Mike shook his head. "Surely the chance of breakage would be more of a factor then."

Shrugging, John stood his ground. "The devices are of no use to anyone if no one uses them. The experts I work with advised me the thick ones reduce sensation too much."

Mike seemed to agree with his point. He waved at John's hand. "So, you are working on your process?"

John nodded. "I don't know if it will ever come to anything, but I'm enjoying the lab work. Once I have more samples, I'll work on how to test them."

"Aren't you quite the little scholar! Three Continents Watson is sure settling down. I wouldn't be surprised if you announced getting engaged to some nice girl next."

John almost choked on his whiskey at that comment. "Nice girl? I work in a glorified whorehouse!"

Mike tilted his head a bit, scrutinizing his friend until John squirmed under his gaze. "You know, you've mentioned that Molly girl a few times. You seem to really like her."

"Molly! She's sweet and smart...but I really see her as more of a sister than anything, Mike." John shook his head. Sheesh, married people were always trying to hook single people up.

Mike gave a knowing grin that was quite irritating, really. "You said she is young. Is she pretty?"

Rolling his eyes, John met his friend's eyes directly. "Yes. Slim, with dark hair and eyes. A nice smile."

"Hmmm..." The insufferable git looked far too pleased with himself. "I think you should invite this pretty Molly with the nice smile to lunch with me and the missus. Next weekend, perhaps?"

"No." Give him an inch, he'd take a mile.

"Come on, what could a simple lunch hurt? She's a friend of yours and I want to know your friends." Mike cajoled.

John kept turning Mike's offers down firmly. But as he headed back home, he considered it. He was really getting to the age he should settle down, and have children, if he was ever going to do it.

Molly was a very kind-hearted woman. Attractive, with a good sense of humor. She understood his work, the whole situation. And she was a pleasure to spend time with. Physically, he had never really felt a spark with her. But didn't that fade in most marriages anyways? Wasn't it better to choose a partner you could get along with? She came from humble beginnings as well, and would likely be quite content with the type of lifestyle a simple doctor could provide. Maybe in a few months, he would have a good nest egg saved.

After being away a couple days, it felt a little odd to be back in the lab. It was so quiet, John was a little surprised to see Sherlock working at his microscope. He seemed to be concentrating intensely, so John let him be.

Exchanging his coat for his lab coat, John spotted a box in his work area. Opening it and moving the packaging aside, he pulled out the test tube on top.

It was massive.

Wrapping his hand around it, his fingers almost didn't touch. It must have been ten inches long, at least.

This is average?

Hearing a stifled chuckle, John whirled around to face Sherlock. His eyes were glowing with amusement.

"Are we going to be making condoms for the horses as well?" John asked drily, looking unimpressed.

Standing up, Sherlock sauntered closer, chuckles he was trying to hold in escaping occasionally at the sight of an irked John holding the massive test tube.

"John, John...," he splayed his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture, "I also got you a box in the average size. But the average will only fit about half the men. What if there's a client in the 90th percentile? Shouldn't we be prepared?"

John set the tube back in the box, and looked around until he saw another box tucked on the shelf below. It had test tubes of a reasonable size, and John's shoulders relaxed.

"In all your years in the business, have you ever had a client like that?" John waved towards the large tube.

Sherlock leaned against the counter near John, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth as he tried to keep a straight face. He shook his head.

Huffing, John closed the box and found a place for it on the lower shelf. "I thought so. These last few months, I have seen a fair number of patients in a tumescent state, likely just excited for their pending appointment with a consort. And they were all close to average size."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side a bit, looking down at John with a knowing glint in his eye. It said Sherlock knew something John didn't.

"What? What great idea is running through that superior mind of yours?" John challenged.

Glancing over John, taking a long, slow perusal over his suit, the lab coat, John's face, and his neatly trimmed hair, Sherlock's gaze ended on his strong hands. "It might not be the consort appointment putting them in that state. It could be the handsome doctor in his suit and lab coat, running his hands all over their bodies during the examination."

"I'm not touching them everywhere! I just perform a normal examination. You make it sound sordid." John sputtered, shocked at the idea.

Sherlock grinned a little. "The fact that you act professional and distant can be a factor in a medical fetish. They are getting aroused by it, and are trying not to. Feeling ashamed, a little dirty." His voice had dropped slightly, with a rougher edge to it.

John looked away, fidgeting with the box. "Surely that type of thing is rare."

Chuckling openly now, Sherlock shook his head. "I'll bet most of the consorts have some medical gear in their closet."

"Gear?" John leaned back against the workbench. When had Sherlock moved so close? John could smell him, a fresh-washed scent, maybe sandalwood soap.

Sherlock spun around; his silk robe swirling with the motion. It wasn't belted today, hanging loosely around him. His white dress shirt was closely fitted, the top few buttons undone, making his neck look quite long. Pale, bare skin showing where most men covered up, wearing buttoned up shirts and elaborate ties and cravats. He seemed perfectly at ease dressed so casually, in his own wing of the house.

Sitting down in his work stool, Sherlock leaned back against the workbench, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Have you never been to the top floor of the main house?"

John shook his head. This conversation was veering all over the place, but he couldn't deny his interest in it.

"It is has all the bedrooms the consorts see their clients in. Decorated by each to suit their persona. Large closets full of clothing to be the most tempting to their clients. Dressers with drawers full of tools of their trade." Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving John's.

John swallowed hard. "Um... And you have a bedroom up there too?"

Sherlock laughed. "Of course. I don't allow clients into my wing of the house. I have the largest bedroom, at the top of the stairs. There are ten bedrooms on each side for the other consorts."

John looked down, his gaze on the equipment of his workspace. They had spent so much time together in this lab in the last few days, Sherlock acting like a regular, friendly man. Teasing and offering advice. His manner always relaxed and seeming very natural. Sometimes, it was hard to imagine Sherlock in his consort role, seducing his clients.

Glancing back at Sherlock, John couldn't deny he was an attractive man. He was slim, but moved with athletic grace. His dark curls contrasted well with his fair skin and light-colored eyes. His mind was sharp, and his laughter infectious.

Nodding his head, John turned back to his work. He just needed to do something normal for a while. At times, he was struck by the fact he was working in a brothel, his coworkers talking on like it was perfectly normal to discuss having a bedroom for seeing clients in.

He didn't have any dandelions and sighed at the thought of collecting more. He had already exhausted the areas close to the house, and even with how quickly the weeds sprang up, he doubted there would be any large enough to gather in those areas for another week or two. He would have to take a horse, maybe on his next day off, and explore some new places further away.

Looking at his prototypes, John decided to try some testing methods on them. Feeling a bit embarrassed, John glanced over at Sherlock. He was deeply involved in his own work, stirring a large beaker suspended over an open flame. Bringing a condom to his mouth, John held it firmly and blew into it. It inflated easily, and John kept expanding it until it seemed near its limit. Letting out a little air, John tied the end closed.

The inflated condom was easily four times its original size. Taking out a tape measure, John recorded its dimensions in his notebook. He repeated the process with another condom. This one didn't inflate as easily, maybe due to being a little thicker.

Next, he went to the washbasin and poured the water from the pitcher into a condom. It spilled into the basin a lot, so John paused to fetch a small funnel. He was able to fill the condom well then, until it held several cups of water. Pleased, he tied the end closed and repeated it with another condom.

Drying them off, he carried the full condoms to a scale and took careful notes of their weight.

John looked at his work in satisfaction. He could check the condoms daily for a week or so, seeing if the water condoms became lighter due to leaks or evaporation through the film. Measure the air condoms to see if they shrunk due to air escaping.

Something flashed in the corner of his eye, and John instinctually glanced up. Before he knew it, he was on his feet and at Sherlock's side.

"Your robe is on fire!" John said fast, looking around for a way to deal with the flame dancing up the thin fabric of his sleeve. In his hand was one of the water condoms he had been holding, and without considering it further, John smashed the distended orb against Sherlock's arm. Water burst everywhere, soaking the side of his body.

Yanking on the collar of the robe as Sherlock stood, stumbling away, John dropped the sodden mess to the floor, stamping on it until he was satisfied the water had soaked into the remaining fabric and the fire was out.

They both gazed down at the floor, chests heaving. The whole thing had happened in just seconds. John looked at Sherlock, his shirt mostly wet as well. "Sit down. I need to check if you got burned."

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock said dismissively.

With firm hands, John steered the taller man to the stool, and pushed him onto it. His hands fumbled, trying to unbutton Sherlock's wet shirt, but he eventually pulled it back. He examined Sherlock's side and his arm, only seeing a slight redness to his fair skin.

Sherlock snatched his arm away when John skimmed his fingers over it, hissing in pain.

"Let's get a cold wet cloth on that, keep it from blistering. Draw out the heat."

There wasn't anything suitable at the washbasin, and John didn't trust the cleanliness of the cloths in the lab. Who knew what Sherlock might have used them for?

Without questioning his actions, John went down the hall and found the washroom. He found a clean cloth and wet it thoroughly, and on the way back saw a blanket draped over a chair. He carried both to the lab.

John had Sherlock hold the cold compress against his arm, and wrapped the blanket around him. It wasn't a bad injury, but shock could set in. Plus, half-naked, it was obvious that Sherlock didn't have any extra padding to keep him warm.

Wringing out the robe, John put it into the garbage and tidied things away. He turned off the Bunsen burner. Sherlock quietly watched John's actions.

"Um...Mr. Holmes...perhaps it would be best if you rested for the remainder of the day. Maybe have an early night. I'd like it if Dr. Stamford could check your burn in a couple days. Make sure it is healing well." John met Sherlock's eyes, hoping he would follow the directions. Take care of himself properly.

Sherlock gave him a long look. "OK, I'll have it looked at in a couple days, as long as you do it. And you call me Sherlock going forward."

John shook his head. "It's not appropriate. You're my boss."

Rolling his eyes at the comments, Sherlock sighed heavily. "Fine, would it satisfy your Victorian sense of propriety if you call me Mr. Holmes when we are around others? It seems stupid to have such formalities here, when it's just us. You just stripped off half my clothes not that long ago, after all."

John's lips curled up in a half-smile. "OK then, Sherlock." It felt good to call him by his first name. "Well, I'm going to get some supper…"

As John stood up, his leg unexpectedly gave out. It happened so fast; he didn't have time to grab hold of the work counter.

He was saved from falling to the floor by Sherlock's arms coming around him. As he looked up at him, a wave of dizziness came over John, pulling him under.

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Oh no... a cliff-hanger! I'll update soon, promise.

-Fun Facts:

- Aristotle's Masterpiece: This book was first published in 1684, written by an unknown author falsely claiming to be Aristotle. It was a sex manual and midwifery book, and was probably the most widely reprinted book on a medical subject in the eighteenth and early nineteenth century.

-Charles Dickens: (1812-1870) Considered the greatest novelist of the Victorian era, he left school when his father was sent to debtor's prison. Despite his shortened education, he edited a weekly journal for 20 years, wrote 15 novels, 5 novellas and hundreds of shorter pieces. In this time of Britain's greatest power, he didn't shy away from demonstrating social injustice in his novels, and had a big impact on changing public opinion. His novels were published in monthly or weekly instalments, popularizing the serial publication of narrative fiction, which became the dominant way it was done during that era. Masses of illiterate poor chipped in ha'pennies to have the monthly instalment read to them, opening up a new class of readers.

This reminds me a bit of fanfiction...how stories are made available chapter by chapter usually. Often the writers are influenced by comments from the readers, and this was the case with Dickens as well.