A/N: Hey guys! Here's an extra long chapter to make up for my late update! xoxo

Enjoy!

Mystery: (noun) something that is difficult or impossible to understand or explain:

. . .

1.

The next morning:

"So that's it, then? They've just stopped?" John asks in disbelief, leaning against the wall of Lestrade's office with his and Sherlock's respective coffees in hand. "Forty-eight hours of back to back deaths and now nothing?"

"Radio silence," The DI confirms, sipping at his own drink with a troubled expression. "After Carmichael was offed last night, ten hours came and went without another death. I haven't the slightest idea why they would've abated so soon—I mean, if you're apt enough to kill four people in two days without leaving a trace of evidence, why stop there? Why not take out a whole bloody town while you're at it?"

"Condoning murder, Lestrade?" Sherlock questions drily, finally breaking his standing four hour silence.

"Ah, it speaks!" Greg exclaims, slapping his palm on the table. "And no, Sherlock, I'm just saying I don't see their goal here. Care to enlighten us? You've certainly have ample time to think."

Sherlock unfolds himself from the small chair before Lestrade's desk and begins pacing the office, his hands clasped behind his back. "It's simple. The reason the murderer has stopped killing is because their message has been conveyed. Four people killed within ten hours of each other over the span of two days—each one of those numbers is highly significant. How, I am not yet certain. However, I do know that the first step to unraveling this case is looking at the first victim: January Phillips." He stops pacing and looks to Lestrade. "May I see her file?"

"Yeah, gimme a mo', I think Donovan was the last to have it." Lestrade says, rising from his desk. "John, make sure he keeps his hands out of my things, yeah?"

"On it," John salutes.

However, the moment the door closes behind Lestrade, John chimes, "Coast's clear" and Sherlock sprints to the cabinet behind his desk and begins rifling through files. John hops out of his chair and joins him on the other side of the desk, whistling at the large stack of paper Sherlock unearths.

"What are you looking for?" John asks eventually, raising his eyebrows at the array of photos and documents spilling from Sherlock's arms. "Greg's going to get January's file right now, what else do you need?"

Sherlock ignores him and sets the papers aside, digging through the drawers until his fingers graze the bottom of the cabinet. "Damn," he mumbles under his breath. Without a single word of explanation, he pulls the chair next to the bookshelf and runs his hands over the tops of the shelves, stirring up clouds of dust in his wake.

"Sherlock, really, what—"

"John, hush," Sherlock hisses, patting his hands along the wooden backing of the shelf. His fingertips snag on a few unruly splinters, but his focus is so keen that the pain hardly registers.

"Here we are," he murmurs at last, holding the small black microphone between his index finger and thumb. The instrument is half the size of his fingernail. With great care, he sets it on the floor directly under his shoe and crushes the device to smithereens.

"Bug," he explains when John expectantly raises his brows.

"Is it your brother's?"

Sherlock squats down to sweep the residual pieces into his cupped palm. "No, this isn't his brand. This belongs to a private operation."

"How'd you know we were being bugged?"

"A feeling," he shrugs, depositing the broken chips of metal into his coat pocket, "a hunch, really."

John crosses his arms. "And why did you wait until Lestrade left? I highly doubt he would've minded if you checked his office for bugs"

"Like I said, John, it was a hunch. Wouldn't have done to be incorrect, would it?"

John raises his eyebrows and releases a surprised huff of laughter. "Ah, didn't want to be wrong?"

"Of course not," he replies, affronted. "Anyway, the discovery of that microphone just confirmed my suspicions. Whoever committed these crimes is keeping tabs on us, which means they must still be lingering in London. Either that or their organization spans so widely that they have their operatives stationed here while the murderer themselves stays safely aware from the scene of the crime." He purses his lips and drums his fingers musingly against the table. "I've yet to decide which is the case."

"Well," John starts, "first thing, we need to look through January's file. Then, why don't you talk to your brother and see what he knows? In the meantime I'll head to the Yard and sort out the chaos that hasn't no doubt broken loose in your absence."

At the mention of his brother's name, Sherlock's features reflexively assemble into a scowl, but upon second thought he realizes it isn't a bad idea. Besides, Mycroft has proven to be unexpectedly helpful as of late. "Brilliant plan, John," he beams, digging into his pocket for his mobile, "I'll let him know I'm stopping by."

"Er, on second thought, he might be busy. What if he has company over? Or an important meeting?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Mycroft's personal contact book consists of myself, my mother, and Anthea, and he never holds a business meeting on a Sunday. He considers it bad luck for some absurd reason. I'll hardly be interrupting anything of importance."

I will be at your office in approx. 30 min. for information on the '10 hour deaths' case. January Phillips, Jessica Hepburn, Nathaniel Hastings, and Sydney Carmichael. SH

Ah, am I your personal well of information now? Who's to say I am not currently busy? MH

Me. John already voiced similar concerns and I assured him that your endlessly eventful social life with not be an obstacle. Nor will your business life, as it is Sunday. SH

I'm aware. MH

Undoubtedly. See you in 30. SH

2.

"This doesn't make sense," Sherlock snaps, throwing the papers onto Mycroft's desk with a loud smack, only to pick them up a minute later and continue irately scanning them.

"According to January's file, she was married to Mathew Phillips. He died at forty five of a heart attack. Apparently, he was a wealthy businessman who worked in finances, he'd accumulated a respectable personal worth by the young age of twenty five, and his marriage to January was made official in a courthouse just outside of Sussex a decade ago. Yet for some reason his file is only," Sherlock flips through the thin stack, "four pages long. Most grown adults who've done nothing but sit on their arses for forty years have at least ten pages of information. So why is there so little information on Mr. Phillips here?"

"These are forged," Mycroft replies succinctly, placing the paper back on his desk. "And not just anyone has the ability to forge papers this high up. Clearly, this is the work of a powerful operation."

Sherlock furrows his brow and continues pacing the room, unconcerned that his shoes are wearing tracks in his brother's fine, imported carpet. Unfortunately, Mycroft does not share his nonchalance.

"Sherlock, do keep in mind that rug is Parisian. It costs more than your entire flat so kindly tread elsewhere."

"Mycroft, I am thinking," Sherlock snaps. His patience is already thin and the burgeoning headache that is in the process of forming isn't helping the situation.

"Ah, yes, and what am I doing, Sherlock? Juggling?" Mycroft returns sardonically. "If you would just take a seat, I would be happy to show you the remainder of Mrs. Phillips' file so that we may proceed."

Sherlock scowls and deigns to take a seat, his fingers drumming listlessly against the fine cherry-wood arm of the chair. "I already saw January Phillips' file, Mycroft. I read it cover to cover at the Yard, there's no need to rehash things."

"Oh, Really," Mycroft drawls, settling unhurriedly into his chair with a knowing expression. "So then I suppose you are aware of the eleven years of traceable documents that are absent from Mrs. Phillips' file?"

His petulant expression melts away in an instant and Sherlock sits up in his chair, his curiosity undeniably piqued. "Go on."

"Well, you see, for the latter portion of her file, Mrs. Phillips' life is fairly unimpressive. She quit her job as a children's nurse a month after she met her wealthy husband and lived a life of ease and relative luxury for the next ten years. However, the question is, what occurred in the beginning of her life? Her birth certificate is legitimate and her first few years of adolescence are soundly documented, but then at age eighteen she completely drops off the map. The missing information has gone unnoticed before now because she was clever enough to put 'placeholder' information in the empty spaces, which allowed her to evade the careless eyes of data management for several years.

"I am not yet certain what or who exactly we are dealing with, but judging by the bug you told me about, I think it is in our best interest to keep this to ourselves until we completely understand the situation," Mycroft cautions. "There is no reason to present partial information to the Yard as it is unlikely they will be able to do much with it. Besides, there is a deeper issue at hand—one that surpasses four mere murders. If I thought you would respect my wishes, I would insist that you leave this case alone entirely and allow me to deal with it." His brother sighs and looks up at him. "However, I am far from delusional and thus have no misconceptions about where you stand with your cases. I understand that you intend to be part of this from start to finish, and I, however reluctantly, accept that."

"That is quite decent of you, brother," Sherlock admits, mildly impressed. "And you are correct, I have no intention of leaving this case in anyone's hands but my own."

"So we are in agreement, then? To keep this under wraps for the time being, I mean," Mycroft confirms.

"Yes, January's information will stay within the confines of this office. As for the rest of the victims, there's hardly anything amiss about their information so I shall not hesitate to share my findings with Lestrade and his lackeys."

"Fair enough," Mycroft allows. A beat passes before he lowers his head and begins signing one of the many papers stacked on his desk. Sherlock rises from his chair, aware of the unspoken dismissal.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" Mycroft calls from his desk a moment later, almost as an afterthought.

Sherlock turns away from the door and faces his brother, startled to find that Mycroft's expression holds no hint of condescension or malice. Instead, his face looks completely bare of its usual deceit and sincerity radiates from him in waves. "Sherlock, I'm glad you repaired things with John. You seem much happier now and that…that makes me," he pauses and clears his throat, "pleased."

Caught off guard, Sherlock nods stiffly, surprised at the small shudder of warmth his brother's words provoke. "Thank you, Mycroft," he concedes, inclining his head in gratitude. "If I require anything else, I will not hesitate to text you."

Mycroft nods and pointedly goes back to writing, but Sherlock doesn't miss the faint smile that crinkles around his eyes.

3.

The Yard is, as usual, filled with bumbling idiots and chaos. In the private sanctuary of his mind, Sherlock asks himself why this fact still surprises him.

First of all, the case files are splayed haphazardly across three separate tables, his carefully labeled evidence samples are emptied from their organized bins, and the sound of useless chatter clouds the air like smog. Secondly, there is not a single person who is actually doing something useful; most of the detectives are too busy shouting at each other or scrambling through the mess in search of 'proof' to bother occupying themselves with matters of importance.

Sherlock thanks his lucky stars that John is here because the moment Sherlock sets foot into the building, John meets his gaze from across the room, nods once in understanding, and proceeds to use his patented Captain John Watson voice to bellow, "Quiet, you lot!"

As expected, the entire room stills and every eyes turns to John. "Sherlock is here and I'm sure he has a few things to share," John explains calmly, clasping his hands in front of him and nodding to Sherlock.

As Sherlock walks through the now-silent crowd, making his way to the spread of photographs and evidence, he privately relishes the fact that John silenced the entire room for him. He used his powerful, commanding soldier voice to simultaneously shut the mouths of every idiot within the building all for Sherlock.

He forces himself to bite down a smile.

Once he's reached the front of the room, he turns on his heel and faces the waiting crowd of inspectors and detectives. "First we must look at the victims themselves. After extensively looking into each case and discussing several important details with my brother, I have noted a common factor amongst each of the deaths that undeniably ties the murderer to all four cases," Sherlock begins, his fingers skimming idly over the assortment of evidence containers. "First, we shall begin with the death of January Phillips: the death that spurred all the rest. January was a forty two year old woman married to the currently deceased Mathew Phillips, and she was killed at exactly two in the morning. Cause of death? Her throat was slit with a poison tipped knife.

"Then we have Jessica Hepburn, the twenty five year old intern at the Academy of High Arts, who was shot and killed while sitting in her car in the parking lot of her workplace. The shooter was at a sniper-level distance, which means they must be equipped with long-range shooting skills. Poison was detected in her blood and around the entry wound, but the toxin itself wasn't identified in the official autopsy report due to either incompetence or conspiracy. I am unconcerned with the omission because it takes only a bit of thinking to discern what kind of poison was in the bullet." Sherlock plucks the photograph of the woman's autopsy off the table and examines it with narrowed eyes. For some indiscernible reason, the image wobbles briefly and his headache from earlier returns with vengeance. Refusing to be deterred by his irritating transport, Sherlock ignores the sensations and barrels on.

"First, it depends on the bullet and the chemist who created the poison. Then we must factor in air friction, though that shouldn't be a problem if the bullet tip was made by the type of material that is made malleable by the heat of the gun and disburses the toxin upon contact. One thing that comes to mind is the method used by the KGB and other Warsaw Bloc secret police for the assassination of Georgi Markov. They disguised a gun to look like an umbrella and stocked it with small bullets filled with ricin. And there we have it—ricin. Pricey, rare, and extremely fatal even in minute doses.

"Next, we have Mr. Nathaniel Hastings, the homosexual businessman who met his untimely demise at 10pm as he was topping off his day with a hard earned drink. Unfortunately, his martini had 200mg of cyanide mixed in and he was dead within 15 minutes of drinking it.

"And finally, we have our latest victim, Mr. Sydney Carmichael, a retired businessman living a simple life alone in his 1.7 million dollar home. He was injected with a fatal dose of Dimethylmercury in the carotid artery at 8am. As there were no signs of forced entry or struggle, this means the killer must have been either extremely clever or so familiar and seemingly unthreatening that it didn't occur to the man to have doubts. He/she would have had to get extremely close to the victim to have injected poison into him."

Sherlock stops speaking and turns to the crowd of silent detectives, waiting for a chorus of understanding to greet him. Instead, he receives blank stares.

"Aren't you all seeing the pattern here, too?" he demands, frustrated. "First case, poison tipped knife, then cyanide in the coffee, then the injected Dimethylmercury, and now this, a bullet casing filled with ricin." Sherlock spins back around and stares at the spread of evidence with a calculating expression. "Whoever we are dealing with is an expert in poisons. In fact, it's their calling card," he muses, holding the photographs of the crime scenes up to the light to better view them. "Four different mediums and not a single slip up. I'd go as far as calling them a professional. Let's see, let's see, what else do we know—ah, yes, this means the killer would have had to seem trustworthy, correct? Someone you might not expect to stab you in the neck. That narrows it down to either a close friend of Mr. Carmichael's or a very unintimidating person in general. Someone plain? Or perhaps attractive—roses with their thorns and all that rot, you know. Perhaps someone young?" He closes his eyes and mentally sifts through characteristics that one might deem nonthreatening. "Think innocence, think safety, think comforting. The killer knew these people. The victims maybe even trusted the killer. There's a history here, an undeniable—"

Sherlock stops suddenly as a jolt of nausea shoots through his body and the images before him begin to swim. He closes his eyes and holds one hand against the table to steady himself, the other clutched uselessly at his temple.

"Sherlock?" John asks, leaning towards him in concern.

"I—I'm fine," he forces out, willing away the dizziness rattling in his skull. His blood is pumping far too loudly in his veins and his heart is a wild thing inside his chest.

"Can we get a minute alone?" John requests, having correctly discerned that Sherlock is indeed not fine. When no one moves, John scowls at the crowd of staring detectives and squares his shoulders. "Lestrade? Think you and your lot can stop gawking at him for a minute and give us some privacy?"

"Er, yeah—apologies," the DI hastily replies. With authority, Lestrade turns to the rest of the Yard and gruffly begins ushering them out of the room. "Come on now, give the man some peace. Out you go—yes, and that means you too Anderson."

Once it's just him and John, Sherlock drops his pretenses and gives into the urge to crumple to the floor in a heap. The earth undulates beneath his feet. "I think I've been poisoned," he mutters faintly, his head lolling against his shoulder. John squats down to join him and gently presses two fingers to Sherlock's arced neck, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he takes the detective's pulse. With steady hands, he takes hold of Sherlock's chin, turns his head towards him, and carefully lifts his eyelid with his thumb, scanning the area for signs of narcotic poisoning. After a few more minutes of inspection, John sits down beside him looking thoroughly unconcerned, and states, "You definitely haven't been poisoned, Sherlock."

"Then why do I feel as if I'm on the verge of collapsing?" he grouses, rubbing weakly at his temples.

"Because, you git, you haven't slept in ages. You're suffering from sleep deprivation."

Sherlock blearily opens an eye and frowns at him. "And you're sure it's not poison?"

"Well let's see, are your symptoms headache, nausea, lack of focus, and weakness of muscles?"

"Yes."

"Right, yeah, that's sleep deprivation. When is the last time you got at least five hours?"

"What month is it?"

"Sherlock," John warns, "I'm not joking."

Sherlock releases a sigh of defeat and looks at John from the corner of his eye. "I believe the last time I slept for a complete five hours was…a week and a half ago? Somewhere around ten days. Or was it eleven? I don't quite know."

To his surprise, John remains uncharacteristically silent. Instead of blowing up or scolding him, John says nothing at all for the longest time. Sherlock closes his eyes again, figuring it's the safest option in any case.

"John?" he mumbles eventually, still not opening his eyes.

Nothing.

"John," he says again, this time opening his eyes. Sherlock scans John's face, attempting to suss him out, but there isn't much information to glean because John keeps his expression unbearably neutral.

After a long moment, John relents. "Sherlock, why haven't you been sleeping?" While he doesn't sound angry or on the brink of lecturing, his voice does carry a note of disappointment, which is somehow worse.

Sherlock hollowly recalls countless nights of staring at the ceiling with the weight of the world pressing down on his chest like an anchor, each elongated minute spent trying to figure out which way to turn next in the impossible maze he's come to call his life. At one point, violin was a soothing remedy to his insomnia, but now that he is alone the music feels more haunting than comforting. What's the point of a symphony without an audience, after all?

He bites the inside of his cheek and casts his gaze to the floor. "You are not there to remind me and it's never been a priority of mine, so it's quite easy for the sleepless nights to slip by without notice."

"So, what, now that I don't live there you're just going to kill yourself with neglect?"

He presses his lips into a flat line. "That wasn't my intention, no."

"Right. Well, that settles it," John declares at once, startling Sherlock with the abrupt change in tone. "We're going back to the flat. Right now." He stands up and holds out a hand for Sherlock to grab. "Come on, I'll help you up."

Panic flares in his chest and he immediately stiffens in protest, plastering himself against the wall and as far away from John's offered hand as possible. They are this close to arriving at some sort of conclusion with this case, and to leave now would mean leaving innumerable loose threads hanging at the mercy of blithering fools like Anderson, for Christ's sake!

"But, John, the case—"

"The case can bloody well wait when your health is on the line," John retorts.

"John, I promise if we stay for at least three more hours, I'll go to bed the moment we get home and sleep in extra late tomorrow morning. In fact, I'll even throw in a few naps too! Yes, I have three or four unoccupied slots in my schedule this week and if it'd truly appease you, I'd be more than happy to fill them with rest."

"Sherlock, get up."

Still pressed against the wall, Sherlock continues bargaining, "John, be reasonable about this. I'm sure this headache will abate and surely the dizziness is temporary. If we could just stay for a bit longer, I might be able to save lives, and aren't you always going on about how important that is? Wouldn't you prefer that-"

"This really isn't up for debate," John cuts off, his expression unyielding and firm. "If you don't stand up and leave this building like an adult, then I will be forced to pick you up and bloody carry you out of here. Don't think I won't, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock allows his entire body to go limp with defeat. He knows when he's lost and John's tone clearly leaves no room for persuasion.

"Fine," he concedes. "But you may have to make good on your word because I can't quite stand at the moment."

…

Sherlock imagines that he and John look quite ridiculous walking out of Scotland Yard like a married couple, John carrying Sherlock with an ease that is equal parts impressive and mortifying. Sherlock resolutely looks ahead, determined to maintain his pride, but unfortunately, it's quite difficult to look intimidating when he has his arms linked around John's neck like a blushing bride.

"Jesus, you need to eat," John comments as he adjusts his hand on the underside of Sherlock's thigh, jostling the detective in the process, "You barely weigh anything!"

"John," Sherlock mutters through gritted teeth, abundantly aware of the stares the two of them are receiving. "If you could keep your comments to yourself, that would prevent this situation from becoming any more embarrassing than it already is, thank you."

"Yes, well, I did give you the option of leaving on your own two feet, remember," John replies reasonably. "You're the one who opted for this."

"Opted is a very questionable term," Sherlock snaps.

Untroubled, John continues carrying him bridal-style through the crowd of Yarders who, due to a mixture of shock and perhaps confusion, part like the red sea. Greg catches sight of the two of them and opens his mouth in question but, at John's expression, immediately cuts himself off and presses his lips shut. "I'll, er, see you boys tomorrow then, yeah?" he says instead.

"Bright and early, Greg," John chimes, ignoring the faint growl from Sherlock.

Their cab is in view, they've endured only a few raised brows, and things are starting to look up, when a certain greasy-haired idiot swims into view. Sherlock's heart plummets to the pit of his chest and he nearly leaps out of John's arms right then and there, heedless of his enfeebled leg muscles. "Christ, here comes Anderson. I am not dealing with him right now," Sherlock bites, turning his face resolutely into John's jumper-clad shoulder. He can practically taste the git's stupid comments and in his current weakened state, he's really in no mood to shoot down the moron's incessant drivel.

"If he says anything, I'll handle it, alright? Besides, after the way you shot him down yesterday, I highly doubt he'll be coming back for more," John assures.

Sherlock scoffs into the fluffy material of John's sweater. "Idiots are funny that way, John. A lesson never quite sticks and—Christ, I can smell his cheap cologne from here. Is he getting closer? I refuse to look."

"Well, yes, he's walking over and—hello, Anderson. May I help you?"

Even though he's turned away, he can perfectly picture the leer on Anderson's face. "Yes, actually, I was just wondering when you decided to leave your perfectly sane fiancé for this lunatic. By the looks of it, you two are clearly headed off on your honeymoon right about now," Anderson goads, snickering to himself. "Funny, though, I didn't picture him being the woman in this setup."

Sherlock is seconds from whipping his head around and giving the git a verbal lashing that'll make his head spin, when John calmly replies, "Whether we're headed to our honeymoon or our flat, it's none of your business, Anderson, so if you could kindly step aside and allow us to get into our cab, that'd be lovely."

Because Anderson is an idiot and apparently deaf to the Implicit Threat lining John's seemingly polite tone, he crosses his arms over his chest and remains rooted in his spot. "Really though, how is your fiancé okay with you mucking about with this psychotic—"

"Maybe," John cuts in, his polite tone taking a harder edge, "you didn't understand me the first time. Move. Out. Of. Our. Way. Unless of course you'd like to take a quick trip to hospital? Because rest assured, I can provide that for you, Phillip."

The path to their cab is quite accessible after that.

4.

By the time they've made it into 221B, it's eight pm and the skull-pounding headache plaguing Sherlock has yet to abate. If anything, it's gotten worse, and his vision is a bit more blurred than usual as well.

At John's insistence, he allows himself to be guided into his room. Once they're in the threshold, Sherlock grips the doorway with one hand and stares tiredly at the perfectly creased, heatless sheets tucked over his bed. Dread spills through him like a flood.

Even though he can feel John staring at his profile, he doesn't bother trying to mask his distress.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"I have trouble falling asleep," Sherlock confesses after a pregnant pause, looking at the stiff white sheets with frustration. "I can never seem to make my body relax. There's always so much to think about and get done, it's hard to just shut everything down."

It's always been like this. Sleep has never been something Sherlock can simply ease into or bask in—it has always felt forced, tiresome, useless, and unhelpful. To the detective, sleep means tossing and turning for endless hours in a dark room with nothing to do but think. And because Sherlock Holmes is not an ordinary man, he doesn't think linearly, drifting smoothly from one half-formed thought to the next, he thinks in double helixes and figure eights: his thoughts circle round and round like a snake eating its tail and for every notion to skim his brain, ten more are produced, and from each of those, twenty more branch off into their own experiments, questions, hypotheses, and theories. His mind is a colorful, loud, uncontainable device that runs at all hours of the day. It's a beautiful place, of course, and it teems with knowledge and white-hot brilliance, but he can never switch it off. Only in moments of utter peace and comfort is he able to drown out the noise, and he's only ever achieved such a mental state by two means: cocaine and John Watson.

With both aids absent from his life, sleep has become a distantly important notion with little meaning and even less prevalence. Logically, he knows he's better off without it, but apparently his exhausted transport disagrees.

After a long moment of deliberation, John sighs and steps into the room. "I'll help you, alright?"

Sherlock frowns. "Help me?"

"With, er, relaxing," John clarifies, scratching the back of his head uncomfortably. There's a few beats in which nothing is said and Sherlock quickly realizes that if he allows the silence to stretch on any longer, John will lose the nerve to do whatever it is he plans to do. Without wanting to seem too eager or reluctant, Sherlock seats himself on the edge of his bed and steadily meets John eyes, "How do you intend to help me? I suppose I'm amenable if it means getting rid of this headache."

"Have you ever, er, had your hair stroked?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disdain. "I'm a man, John, not a dog. Why would I enjoy being petted?"

"So you've never?" John raises his eyebrows and Sherlock momentarily feels as if he's taken a misstep by admitting to it. He's on the brink of dismissing the whole situation and locking himself in his room, when John smiles easily and sits down next to him. "It's actually fairly relaxing. Come here, I'll show you." John situates himself against the headboard and drops a pillow unceremoniously into his lap, patting it invitingly. "Put your head here."

Even though he is abundantly aware that assuming any sort of intimate position with John is bound to have bad results, Sherlock lays down and rests his head on John's thigh without a second thought. The smell of laundry detergent and warm skin roll off John in waves and it takes every ounce of his willpower to refrain from burying his nose in John's jumper-clad abdomen and inhaling deeply.

"Here, see?" John says quietly, running his palm across Sherlock's cool forehead and into his tangle of curls. "Relaxing." Soothingly, John repeats the motion, his warm, calloused hands skimming deliciously over Sherlock's skin.

"Mm. That's not…terrible," he murmurs drowsily after a few moments.

John laughs softly. "Oh shut up, you love it. You're practically purring." Sherlock wonders if it's his imagination that is making John's tone sound so fond.

"Good?" John asks.

The feeling is so lovely and intoxicating that he can't find it in him to summon a response, so instead of speaking, he sighs and tips his head back in John's palms, unintentionally revealing the pale column of his neck. John chuckles warmly at Sherlock's response and scratches his nails lightly against Sherlock's scalp, sending white-hot sparks down the detective's spine and turning all remaining tension to liquid.

"Mmm," Sherlock hums, losing himself in the sensation.

He slips into unconsciousness unhurriedly, at loathe to lose a single moment of John gently brushing curls away from his forehead. If he keeps his eyes closed and doesn't think of anything outside this moment, it's quite easy to pretend that this is his life—that John loves him instead of Mary. He can pretend that John will soon lean down and press his lips against Sherlock's temple, then his cheekbones, trailing down, down, down, until he reaches the smiling corner of his lips. He can pretend that he has the option of sitting up and tilting their mouths together, kissing deep and warm and wet, sliding his large palms across the uncharted planes of John's skin and claiming each territory as his own. He can pretend that John will eventually lie down beside him and murmur I love you into his ear, along his neck, and against his heart, repeating the phrase over and over until the letters are branded onto Sherlock's skin like tattoos.

As he drifts off, he convinces himself the pretending is enough.

It has to be.

A/N: Darlings, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to leave comments and feedback. Every time I see a new review it honestly makes my day :) Tell me your favorite lines/moments! If there's something you hope to see or don't like, let me know! Thanks so much for reading, lovelies!

See you next Sunday! xoxo