Wow, that took a lot longer than I meant it to, sorry! Studying for finals really messed up my whole writing schedule, but I think I'm back on track now. Firstly, let me apologize if this chapter seems a little ADD. I tried to represent John and Sherlock a bit more equally than before, so it may end up being a bit hard to follow. Other than that, I hope you enjoy! Oh and I'm sorry for the ending to this chapter. It's...well, you'll see! - AB

Chapter 6 - The Main Attraction

Today had been too damn weird. The thought flickered across John's mind as he climbed up the stairs to his therapists office. Therapy would be the low point in…could he describe the day as fun? Maybe. Could he describe it as interesting? That was for sure. John was rapidly learning that everyday was interesting around one Sherlock Holmes.

Since three in the morning, John had been jarred from his sleep, gone to a gaol to visit an art thief/bastard/murderer/possible non-murderer, walked around an art exhibit, almost got his hand held by Sherlock, and was soon after going to be examining two flats for art piece names. Therapy seemed even more pale in comparison.

"We don't have to tell Ella about the hand holding thing." John thought quickly. It seemed Sherlock somehow enjoyed pushing him into all these awkward situations.

As he got in front of Ella's door, John checked his watch. 11:59, soon to be 12 on the nose. He turned the doorknob and let himself in. Ella was already waiting.

"Hello, John." she said with a slight smile, "You're actually a bit early for once. Go ahead and sit down. We'll get started."

John forced and smile and sat. He just had one hour to get through. Then he could go right back to thinking about the case (and maybe other things…but John quickly shoved that thought to the back of his brain).

~#~

Once he had been equipped with his microscope and a grand total of four nicotine patches successfully adhered to his right arm, Sherlock had set off for the lab. Honestly, he didn't really care about the saliva samples at the moment. He would have much preferred to go to Nathans' flat awhile to collect the programme or even go back to Isla's flat, but he figured John would bitch if he were left out, so Sherlock pushed that thought right out of his head. Instead he just showed his pass to the security guard, who let him inside quickly, and hurried down to the building's cafeteria to get some coffee. He could've gotten tea, but tea made him think of John and John made him think of the case. Besides, black coffee helped him think.

~ # ~

"So John, how have you been doing lately?" Ella asked, uncapping her pen.

"Good. Very good." John said and for once he wasn't lying when he said so.

"Excellent. I see you're leg is much better."

"Yeah, would you believe it just stopped one day? I dunno how or why, but it just stopped. I think I just sort of forgot about it."

"Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand as if you've forgotten about it. That means it's at least partially psychosomatic." John recalled Sherlock's words from the first time they'd met and couldn't help but smile. He supposed Sherlock was right that the whole thing had been in his head. He knew it had been bugging Sherlock what triggered his limp in the first place, but as long as it was over, that made John happy. He hadn't felt like a cripple in all the time he'd known Sherlock.

"How about your nightmares?" Ella asked, sending John back to Earth on an express flight.

"Few and far between." John answered, "I'll still get one occasionally, but I usually don't even remember it the next day."

"Fantastic! John, you really are making fast progress. What's your secret?"

He wanted to say "My secret is named Sherlock", but caught himself before he did, smiling slightly. Instead he simply shrugged and began to tell Ella about Isla Higgins when she asked him if he had any new cases.

~ # ~

On his way up to the lab, Sherlock stopped briefly to talk to Mike and found Molly to send her on an errand to find him a twenty-two milligram bottle of hydrochloric acid. He didn't mind the interruptions, but he did mind the formalities. It was, after all, usually John who took care of that.

When he was finally settled into his lab, the clock in the corner read 12:15 and he knew he would have to keep himself amused for at least another forty-five minutes before John got home. He factored in another fifteen for the midday traffic and rounded the total up to an even hour. The thought of waiting that long made him bored. Pulling his Petri dish out of the incubator, Sherlock busied himself with making slides, his mind still wandering over to his case.

With one hand he focused and unfocused the microscope to make it appear as though he were working and with the other grabbed his phone out of his pocket. He began to flip through the photos he and John had taken, cursing as he remembered John still had the programme in his pocket. No matter, he'd just go through the photos and write them down for now. He pulled a sheet of paper close to him and wrote in an untidy scrawl at the top: "Paintings in Museum - On Shelf"

Scrolling to the first one, he wrote the names of the paintings one by one, "Mandala", "Calm in the Storm", "Clouds of Rain"…

"Sherlock?" Molly's voice suddenly jarred the detective out of his thoughts and he looked up at her accusingly. Molly, however, just smiled and held out a flask of clear liquid, "I got the hydrochloric acid you needed."

"Ah, yes. The acid. Thanks." Sherlock murmured, crossing the room to take the flask from Molly.

He intended to go back to work on his list, but Molly seemed to have other plans.

"Where's John?" she asked, looking around rubbing her palms together.

"Um…he's out at a medical conference for the day." Sherlock lied. He wasn't sure if anyone at the lab knew about John's therapy sessions, but he didn't think John would take too kindly to them finding out from Sherlock. He flashed Molly a slight and faked smile in hopes that would end the subject.

"Oh, that's a shame." she continued, smiling, "I like John. He's a real sweetheart."

At this, Sherlock's head snapped back up from his microscope and he glared hard at Molly.

"What do you mean he's a sweetheart? What's that suppose to mean?" he demanded a little quicker than he meant to. Surprisingly, Molly's smile didn't fade much.

"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it, don't worry. He's just…sweet. He's a nice guy and he's just…I don't know, he's cute."

Sherlock's brain reeled.

"Cute!" he snapped, his nose wrinkling into a strange amount of contempt towards Molly for saying that.

"No, no, no!" she quick corrected, "I don't mean 'cute' as in I'm attracted to him, I mean 'cute' as in he's a good friend and a nice man."

She smiled again and shifted her weight as she began to speak again,

"Don't worry, I'm not muscling in on your territory. You let me know if you need anything else, okay?"

She stepped out of the lab, leaving Sherlock and his microscope alone once more. He wasn't really sure what had just happened, but he suddenly had one of those strange headaches again. It took him several minutes to get back to compiling his list again as he leaned forward on his desk and rubbed his whole face in his hands. Today had been too damn weird.

~ # ~

"John?"

"Yeah?" John said, suddenly looking at Ella. He hadn't realized he had been so caught up in talking about the case. He began to apologize, but Ella didn't seem to mind. She simply repositioned herself in the chair and smiled.

"John, I'm glad you're doing better, I really am…"

There was a hint of doubt in her voice and John waited for her to contradict herself.

"…but it doesn't sound like you get out much."

John laughed slightly and rolled his eyes. There it was.

"Am I right?"

"Um, sure." John said, thinking. "I mean, Sherlock and I do end up spending most of our time solving cases and whatnot, so we don't really do anything…fun. Sometimes if I'm lucky, the case will take us somewhere interesting. But, I'm happy. It's not like I'm complaining about it." he added hastily.

"Oh no, no." Ella said, scribbling on her pad and giving John a small smile, "I didn't mean to imply you aren't. It's just that you seemed a little overworked."

"Not at all. I'm actually grateful for something to keep me busy." John smiled, "And having Sherlock as company, even though he can get to be damn annoying sometimes, is better than being alone and sulking."

Ella nodded and went back to her scribbling. John didn't know why, but he felt slightly angry at the implication that all the work was bad for him. He'd rather spend his whole life solving cases without a single holiday than feeling the way he did when he first returned home. With a painful lump in his throat he remembered the bitter words he said to Mike that day, "I'm not the John Watson you know." Slowly but surely he was becoming himself again…and he didn't want to go back to the way things had been before when he came home and all he had been was a cripple.

"You know," Ella continued and John realized that his eyes had become slightly misty as he had sat in thought. He wiped the moisture out quickly as his therapist engaged him in conversation again, "I'm really proud of you for working on your blog. Do you feel like it's helping you readjust any?"

To be honest, Sherlock had actually been more of a help to him than the blog had been. It hadn't been the blog that had cured his limp, or that had gained him a new best friend, or that had made him feel the things he felt now. That was Sherlock. But, in a way, the blog and Sherlock went hand in hand. Without Sherlock, he would never have gotten involved with the cases and without the cases, he would never have made his blog into the thing it was. The whole thing was actually kind of a cycle, so in a way, the blog did help him readjust as the cases did.

"Yeah, I think it has. Gives me something to do at the end of the evenings. Write up our cases, you know."

"I have a few other patients that are war veterans who have whole plans to help them readjust. Blogging is great way according to many of the patients and other doctors I've talked to. So is holiday apparently. When's the last time you took a holiday, John?"

"Before service."

"And were was that to?"

John though.

"Cardiff."

Ella laughed, "That's hardly a holiday, John! I mean for an extended period of time, somewhere you've always wanted to go."

"Sounds great in theory, but Sherlock's not really the type to be up on holiday. He prefers the staying home and…"

Ella suddenly cut him off.

"I meant by yourself, John. A holiday for you."

John felt his cheeks flush in an unexpected wave of anger towards Ella.

"Oh." he retorted tersely, strangely averted to the idea of going on holiday and leaving Sherlock behind.

Both men would be hopelessly bored without each other, he firmly decided and put the idea out of his head. Ella cocked her head and looked at John, but after a few seconds she just continued. And she got personal. Her next question completely floored John, not only because of it's unexpectedness but because of what his mind concocted at the words.

"John, are you attracted to anyone?"

Behind his eyes, John's mind went crazy. The words of his therapist set of a little fuse he'd been thinking of all day and the backs of his eyes were imprinted with an image of a tall figure, skinny and serious with soft, dark hair and intensely searching eyes…He panicked slightly, not at the image, but at how much it was filling him up and how long it was taking him to overcome.

"What?" was all he managed to say after several seconds, the image behind his eyes smiling in a mix of affection and mockery.

"Are you attracted to anyone?" Ella repeated gently.

John closed his eyes and shook his head, attempting to shake the figure's face.

"No, no." he said, his thoughts buzzing to the contrary.

"I see." Ella said, scribbling again. John peered over at her pad to see what she was taking down this time.

"Why in the bloody hell is she writing 'trust issues' again?" he thought with a flash of annoyance through gritted teeth.

Once Ella had finished writing the comment, she pulled out another piece of paper and hastily wrote a note.

"Maybe not a full on holiday, but I think a daytrip will really do you good." she was saying cheerily, oblivious that John was trying to combat a cold sweat, "Here, I've got a friend named Rosalie who works at a travel agency downtown. Just go there and tell her I sent you. She'll be able to find you something for an excellent price."

John thanked her wearily as she handed him the note and held his face in his hand for several seconds. He hated it when Ella got that personal with him and now he found his heart had run out the door as quickly as possible in the direction of 221B Baker Street. He glance up at the clock. Fifteen more minutes and then he'd be able to run out of there himself and catch up with his heart back in the comfy armchair where nothing could hurt them. He repositioned himself on the chair once more so he could easily watch the clock as Ella changed gears to ask him about his sister.

~ # ~

At exactly one o'clock, Sherlock flew out of the lab like he had been told someone committed a quadruple homicide down the street with a crowbar and a ladle. He wanted to make it back to the flat before John. He had no idea why, but he wanted to. He felt that getting there first would give him some time to organize his thoughts. Leaving the lab with his microscope and partially complied list, Sherlock had managed to hail a taxi, return home and get comfortably seated at his desk all before 1:10. He knew that John would be home from his therapy session, probably annoyed with his therapist for what ever reason. Sherlock wondered how he would ever endure the complaining when all he wanted to do was tell John this little secret that was nagging in his brain. He was a detective, for God's sake, and detectives were suppose to tell secrets. Albeit, they were usually other people's secrets, but the whole job was kind of to tell secrets never-the-less. But, he'd try to be supportive for as long as he could take the waiting. Which, based on the hollow thumping in his chest, would not be long at all.

"God damn it!" he actually moaned aloud, slamming his hands down, "Emotions are painful! I don't see why anyone would like to have them!"

Sherlock put his face against the desk and pouted in a way very akin to a puppy. A very bored, very jumpy puppy. He glanced at the clock, which claimed it was 1:11.

"Come on, John." he murmured, "Waiting for you to get here is very tedious…and very boring."

The clock, of course, gave him no answer. Sherlock instead looked down at his arm and inspected the four nicotine patches with a sigh. Slowly, he began to peel off one and then a second and then a third, leaving only one right in the center of the arm. What he had to talk about with John was important and while emotions hurt like hell, it wasn't fair to dull them down. He'd just make due.

~ # ~

Homeward bound, thank God. That had to win the award for worst therapy session in the whole world. John trudged up the steps to the flat and turned the door with a sigh. As he stepped in, he spied Sherlock sitting at the desk with his microscope, jotting down some notes. After a few seconds, he looked up.

"John!" he said in an excited tone, before catching himself and shifting his gaze back to the microscope, "Um…I-uh, how did your session go?"

John gave Sherlock a sideways glance. He was very rarely ever tongue-tied. He figured it meant nothing, so dropped it, but continued to eye Sherlock, who went back to shuffling papers on his desk.

"Um…fine." John lied, hanging his coat up. He didn't feel like going into why the session was so awful, especially not with Sherlock, "It went fine."

"Liar."

The abrupt declaration surprised the hell out of John. He took a step forward and gave Sherlock another sideways glance, trying not to lose his temper.

"Sorry, what?" he attempted to ask as calmly as possible.

"I said 'liar'. Your therapy session did not go fine, I can hear it in your voice, therefore, liar."

"What the hell is today? 'Pick on people named John Watson day' and I didn't get the memo or something?" John thought. Between Ella and now Sherlock not leaving his privacy alone, John started to feel as though he were on display.

John opened his mouth as though to speak, but nothing came out. Sherlock took his moment of silence to jump back in.

"Oh." he said in his surprised, deducing voice, "Your therapist asked you an awkward question, didn't she?"

John couldn't believe this was happening to him. He sighed loudly and buried his face in his hands.

"What did Ella ask you, John?" Sherlock pressed.

"Oh Christ, Sherlock. Nothing. She didn't ask me-"

"My God, John. You are such a terrible liar. Why do you even bother trying to get around me, you know I'll figure it out."

"Sometimes people just need their secrets, Sherlock!" John snapped, his cheeks flushing scarlet.

"Don't get short with me, John. I'm trying to have a conversation with you. You all are pulling for me to be normal, isn't that what normal people do?"

"No, it's-" John threw up his hands, not bothering to continue, "You know, never mind."

"What?" Sherlock suddenly came back to Earth with a thud, staring at John.

"Never mind. Forget it. I don't even know why I'm having this conversation with you. Especially now."

John stormed over to the peg he had hung his coat on earlier, grabbed it down with an angry flourish and put it on. He turned and marched towards the door, Sherlock standing behind him, watching.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, his voice still sharp, but with a slightly different edge to it.

"Out. To get some air." John replied briskly.

"Fine!" Sherlock snapped at John's tone and slammed the door as John exited.

It was only once he got outside that John realized he had grabbed his cane without even thinking about it. As he walked down Baker Street in the quick gait of a man full-frontally pissed off, he spun the cane in his right hand absent-mindedly. John didn't slow his pace down until he hit one of the steet's many back alleyways. Even then, he was still storming.

It was some time right there, in between stepping over a puddle and muttering angrily about Sherlock under his breath, that it happened. In mid-step, John felt his whole leg seize up and his feet gave out beneath him like a newborn filly. He fell with a thud against the pavement, the cane flying out of his grasp as his right hand sprawled out in front of him. The fall had shocked him and knocked the breath out of his lungs.

Any normal person would have cursed themselves for not watching where they were going and declared that they had tripped, but not John. John knew better.

"Oh, please no." he pleaded silently, kneeling and pulling his leg up under him, wincing slightly with pain. He rock back and forth on it slightly, debating what to do now, "Oh no, God. No, no, no, no, no."

The leg that had gone wonky on him had been that leg, the leg that had cause him all the trouble with his limping before. This heart thudded against his rib cage at the thought that the limp was back again, even after all this time. John reached forward to grab his cane ruefully, and, letting out a small cry at the effort, heaved himself up to a standing position once more.

John would have preferred to do a million other things besides go back home and face what had just happened head on, but he knew he couldn't just stand around in the alley waiting for the grass to grow. Wincing with the effort and with the cane as support, John limped slowly back to 221B Baker Street.

You know, I think Moffat and Gatiss have infected me with their terrible cliffhanger disease! Don't hate me too much for that one! Poor John...but it can only get better. *wink, wink ;)* Hopefully chapter 7 will be up by Saturday or sooner. See you all soon! - AB