A/N: I'm so sorry for the disgustingly long delay. I do, actually, have every intention of finishing this story. Even if for my own satisfaction alone. Life has completely caught up with me. I found myself in a very toxic situation that, luckily, I am getting out of in the next few weeks so I am finally positive enough to resume this.

Comments forever appreciated and honoured.
As per, warning for grammar.

Enjoy xo

Chapter 7

John

About three months ago, John and Sherlock found a child. Not while on a case, not while intentionally looking for said child, but by pure coincidence. They had been walking back to Baker Street from food shopping and were bickering about the whole ordeal. Sherlock explaining that it would be far easier to do their shopping online and get it delivered to the flat so that they didn't have to go outside, John explaining that he liked to actually look at his food before buying it, thank you very much.

"Besides, it's a nice day and I fancied a walk."

"It is not a nice day. It is cold." Sherlock looked (and sounded) like a big moody teenager with his face pressed deep into the collar of his coat, even managing to somehow shove his hands into the pockets considering he was carrying a plastic bag in each. They dangled awkwardly from his exposed wrists, digging into the sensitive flesh and looking terribly uncomfortable.

"Sherlock, if you didn't want to come you didn't have to. I didn't force you to come with me."

"I needed to make sure you got the right brand of tea."

"What, Yorkshire Tea? The same brand we have always bought?"

"And that you didn't forget the milk."

"When have I ever forgotten the milk?"

"Well, last time you forgot my-"

"Oh my god, I told you, I am not buying you tampons ever again. Stop going on about it."

Sherlock scowled but stopped going on about it.

John didn't really understand why Sherlock simply couldn't go out and buy his own damn experiment supplies but the detective had been particularly needy that morning, constantly asking where John was going every time he got up to go to the loo or in the kitchen. While a bit overwhelming, John secretly likes it when Sherlock gets into one of his 'separation anxiety' moods. It's kind of like having a giant, lanky puppy following him about. While it should be utterly annoying, and is if John is trying to have a productive day of any sort, but on a lazy Sunday like this John didn't mind in the least. It's during these moments that John gratefully realises Sherlock needs him around as much as John needs the detective. It gave him a warm feeling in his chest and he couldn't help but look over at Sherlock, feeling his eyes crinkle in affection.

Sherlock eyed him without turning his head. "What?"

John huffed out a small laugh and shook his head. "Nothing, nothing."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit but then brightened considerably. "Oh! You were jesting! You did get the tampons after all!"

John let out a loud groan and bowed his head, listening to Sherlock babble excitedly about how the different sizes and brands determine this and that and John honestly didn't want to know and effectively tuned him out. Even still, John always found Sherlock's unlimited enthusiasm utterly refreshing, the almost child-like passion that hadn't been damped by age or self-neglect. John often wondered how Sherlock had so much energy, considering his 'I'll Sleep When I'm Dead' attitude to his wellbeing. Then again, the man did drink a hell of a lot of caffeine. Not for the first time, John hoped that was the only stimulant Sherlock was dabbling in these days.

It took him a second to realise when Sherlock suddenly stopped talking, and he glanced up at his friend only to realise the man had also stopped walking. John turned and saw Sherlock standing a few paces behind, staring down into an alleyway with a small frown.

"What are you doing?" John called a bit tiredly. He really hoped Sherlock hadn't spotted a pair of curtains perfect for setting fire to or a ladle perfect for pouring acid everywhere or something along those lines. John had absolutely no desire to go bin diving that morning. Or any morning to be perfectly honest but sometimes duty calls. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible and John frowned and started heading back towards his friend. "What?"

"There's a child." Sherlock murmured again, this time John was close enough to hear and he paused in surprise.

"You what?"

Sherlock simply pointed into the alley and John squinted into the shadowed space. There, huddled into a corner, was a small figure. John took a few steps inside the alley, noticing the tremors running through the tiny frame.

"Is he-" John began to ask, but the man already understood.

"No. I don't recognise him."

John wasn't sure how Sherlock could be so confident of that when the child had his face buried into his drawn-up knees, and he rather suspected the detective didn't know every homeless person in London, but he didn't comment. John started walking slowly towards the child again, holding up a hand when Sherlock moved to follow.

"No, stay here." John murmured quietly, well aware that it wouldn't be a good idea if the child looked up and saw two large men approaching him while backed into a corner. "Hey," John called softly. "Are you alright?"

The child didn't respond or even acknowledge the sound of John's voice. The doctor frowned, wondering if the child was asleep. "Hello?" He tried again, this time a little louder. He stopped about a foot away from the small boy, who up close looked no more than six or seven. Reluctant to touch him in case he startled the child, John crouched down in front of him. "Hey there little man, are you okay?" He asked again, keeping his voice pitched low and gentle.

Suddenly the child snapped his head up and he jumped in surprise at John's proximity. John swiftly shuffled back a few steps, which made him feel a bit like a crab, and he held up his hands.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. We just want to make sure you're okay," John placated, watching as sharp blue eyes jumped from his face to Sherlock's then back again in quick succession.

"What are you doing down here?" John asked. The boy's wide eyes scanned rapidly over John's face and he didn't reply.

"Where are you parents?" John tried again.

The boy simply stared.

John frowned a bit and glanced back at Sherlock. Sherlock was watching the child intently, face eerily blank. The man was obviously not inclined to give any helpful advice so John turned back towards the boy.

"What's your name?"

The boy, who had been following John's gaze to Sherlock, looked quickly back to John and his eyes dropped to his mouth briefly.

John heard a sharp intake of breath behind him and suddenly Sherlock was sitting next to him on the cold, dirty ground with his legs crossed. John watched in bemusement as Sherlock's right hand came up and he rested his middle and index fingers to the side of his brow, before brushing them away and twisted them forward into the air as if he was flicking away an errant hair. He pointed towards the child before wagging his finger in front of him.

The boy, who had been following the movements with keen eyes suddenly broke out into a large toothy grin. His small hands came up into sight and he fluttered his fingers around in such quick succession that John couldn't follow the movement.

Sherlock, however, smiled and waved his hand in a, what John had assumed was a universal, 'hello' before opening his left palm and used his right index finger to draw a curved line from the tip of his left index to the tip of his thumb. He smiled and murmured, "John," as he did so and John blinked at his face.

"What?"

"That's his name. John." Sherlock didn't take his eyes away from the child's face as he pointed towards the doctor, his fingers flying around his face and John recognised the errant hair gesture again. The boy then turned his grin towards John instead and began signing in earnest. Sherlock raised a hand and the boy stopped, Sherlock shook his head as his hands twirled around each other and the boy glanced at John a bit sadly before turning his full attention back to the detective.

John stared at his friend as he communicated silently with the small child, utterly baffled. It shouldn't really surprise him that Sherlock knew sign language, he had never come across a language Sherlock couldn't speak at least some-what fluently, but it still took his breath away every time he witnessed it. The sheer intelligence and talent this man possessed should be the cause of jealousy, but John never could muster up that particular emotion. It was simple awe. And pride. And love.

John blinked. What?

Sherlock was turning back to John now. "He lost his parents in a crowd and didn't know where to go."

John looked back at the small boy and gave him an encouraging smile, couldn't imagine the terror of becoming lost and not being able to use his voice to call for his parents and hear their reassuring reply. The child only had eyes for Sherlock though, who turned back to him and this time translated what he was signing as he did so. "We want to help you find them, will you come with us?"

The boy nodded immediately, moving to stand as Sherlock fluidly rose and held out his hands. One for the child to take and one for John to grip as his leg protested as he tried to rise. John didn't know whether to feel relief or concern over the child's unhesitant trust, but then again he was very young and was just grateful Sherlock had spotted him before an unsavoury sort did.

They took him to the station, where lo and behold, his parents were frantically trying to communicate to a harried looking young officer by scribbling down the boy's appearance on a scrap of paper. The boy ran immediately to them, wrapping his small arms around his mother's legs and she flinched in surprise before whimpering and falling onto her knees gathering the child into her arms. The father placed a hand over his eyes in relief for a moment before gripping the child's face between his large hands and leaning down to place a lingering kiss on top of his head. The three began signing to each other fluidly, much faster than Sherlock had been.

The officer looked towards at John and Sherlock in immense gratitude, slumping down into his chair. John couldn't help the smile that had overtaken his face, and he directed it at Sherlock who was following the family's conversation with keen eyes.

"You amaze me."

The words were soft with reverence and John didn't even realise he had spoken aloud until Sherlock's gaze had snapped to his. He felt himself flush slightly, waiting for a sarcastic reply or the show of bravado that Sherlock usually expressed when praised. It didn't come. The detective just stared at him, reading something in his expression that John could only assume was pure honesty. Sherlock began blinking rapidly, a mannerism John recognised when the man didn't know how to process something he assumed as illogical. He had a sudden urge to gather the man into his arms and flinched slightly towards him before freezing and holding himself unnaturally still.

Sherlock's eyes followed the movement and he took a step into John's personal space. John's heart stuttered and he stared up at the expressionless face inches from his own, not knowing what he wanted except that he wanted.

A throat cleared behind him and John jumped slightly, turning towards the sound. The officer was looking at them a bit pointedly, a vague look of amusement playing around his mouth.

John then noticed the small family watching them also. Sherlock deftly stepped back and towards them instead. The child's parents began signing in unison, a perfect symmetry that John could only admire and Sherlock smiled at them with uncharacteristically warm eyes. Again, he spoke what he was signing as he replied, "You're welcome. I'm glad he is safe."

John pulls himself out of the memory, heart thudding. Of course, he remembers the scenario in dazzling clarity as he does with every memory of Sherlock on his list, but the memory of how he had felt is a new occurrence. As if, only now, he is allowing himself to admit the feelings he had been suppressing for so long.

Maybe it was the kiss. Maybe it was Teddy. He isn't certain, but something has changed. A new clarity has settled into John and he doesn't know what to do with it.

It's been two weeks since Teddy left. Two weeks since John had kissed the bruise he inflicted on Sherlock's skin.

They have been living in a quiet fog of what their life was like before, swirling around each other and not really saying anything. Or anything substantial anyway.

John hadn't allowed himself the luxury of indulging his need to read the list again. He felt out of place, adrift, not knowing what to do or what was acceptable. It hasn't helped that Sherlock hasn't had one case during this time. It especially hasn't helped that Sherlock hasn't delved into a usual and expected sulk. Two weeks is a long time for the man to go unentertained, but he hasn't snapped once. Hasn't even glared or huffed. He is the epitome of politeness and it is unnerving. John has no idea how to act around the man. Every morning he will go downstairs and Sherlock is either up already and immaculately dressed, making tea for the two of them, or will appear within the hour. Immaculately dressed and making tea for the two of them.

John had tried to rationalise what he wanted from his flatmate. But, quite simply, he didn't know. He can't deny that the memory of their kiss burned something deep and primal in his gut, a need so poignant that when he thinks of it he can't breathe. But he also can't deny that that desperate want comes hand in hand with a blinding terror. A snowball of what-ifs and buts.

John can't stand the dynamic between the two of them now. It's as if Sherlock is simply existing in the corner of his eye. Always there, a dark shadow that darts away whenever he tries to turn his full gaze upon it.

It is with this turmoil that John turned his attention back to the list. Hoping for, looking for, he isn't sure what.

"Anything interesting?"

John slams the laptop closed without thinking, his eyes snapping up to see Sherlock leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, face closed. His impossibly pale eyes glance at the laptop before flickering up to John's face. He raises an eyebrow and John wills himself not to flush.

"No," John forces a casual tone, "Just finishing a blog entry."

Sherlock hums, inclining his head in a mockingly indulgent manner.

"I thought you had gone to bed." John rasps, grimacing slightly at the accusatory tone.

"Something was keeping me up." Sherlock steps into the room, stopping just shy of John's knees where he is sat on the sofa.

"Oh?" John can't help but stare up at the man, his face shadowed in the dim light of the living room.

Sherlock doesn't answer, simply stares down at the older man with infuriating calmness. John starts to feel uncomfortable at the scrutiny and darts his eyes around the room.

"Is it the light?" John asks lamely, flicking a hand towards the lamp in the corner of the room. "Because I can-"

He cuts himself off as Sherlock takes another step forwards, his shins brushing against John's knees. John's breath hitches slightly and he moves the laptop onto the cushion next to him automatically. Sherlock steps immediately forward again, giving the seated man no choice but to spread his thighs to allow the detective to settle between them.

"Which one was it?"

John blinks, willing his brain to catch up with the words. "Huh?"

"Which bullet point were you reading?"

John belatedly realises there is no point trying to deny the fact he was reading his list again. He is curious to know how familiar Sherlock is with it, however.

"John."

Sherlock's eyes dart to the right for a second before coming to rest instantly back onto John's face. "The deaf boy. How fitting."

John doesn't know what to make of that statement and so doesn't say anything.

"Do you remember what you said?" Sherlock murmurs.

"You amaze me." John whispers without hesitation.

Sherlock blinks as if he wasn't expecting that answer. Either he was thinking of something else John had said, or he didn't expect John to remember saying it. John assumes the latter.

John clears his throat. "You do, you know. Amaze me," he purposefully adopts a light and casual air and gives Sherlock a small teasing smile. "But you know that, I say it often enough."

John is waiting for the reply of 'I am well aware of how amazing I am' accompanied by a smirk and glittering eyes, but Sherlock continues to just stare. He tilts his dark head slightly to one side, a mannerism that has always unnerved the doctor.

"You do, don't you." Sherlock murmurs at last, lips barely moving.

John is starting to feel quite unsure of himself, wonders what on earth the detective is thinking. As a show of bravado, John spreads his hands up in a shrug and leans further back into the sofa, a perfect picture of ease. It lasts for about a second. As soon as John moves, Sherlock follows and crowds into him. Onto him. Knees pressing into the cushions on either side of John's hips, hands mirrored on either side of his head, gripping the back of the seat.

John's eyes widen and he freezes, leaning as far back into the soft pillows as they allow. Doesn't allow himself to speak. To even breathe.

Sherlock is still watching him with that blank intensity. He leans his face forward. John's eyes flutter as warm, minty breath hits his face and he can't help but tilt his own head upwards slightly.

John's eyes snap open when the warmth air hovering over his mouth bypasses it completely and then Sherlock's lips are resting on his neck. He feels the man inhale and a shot of electricity pangs through him straight to his crotch. John tilts his head to the side, allowing more access without any conscious thought. He waits. For what, he isn't sure. Sherlock doesn't move except to exhale in a sigh and slumps slightly. John raises his arms and hesitantly crosses them over Sherlock's back. If it wasn't for the strain in his trousers, the doctor would take this as nothing but an odd embrace.

They sit like that for a minute. Two.

After a while, John starts to feel the weight of the man in his lap and he shifts slightly. "Sherlock-" he murmurs.

The sound of his voice seems to cause an electric effect on the man, and Sherlock jumps up suddenly. John feels cold without the heat of the other body pressed against him and he snatches Sherlock's wrists in a firm grasp without thinking. The man pauses in his retreat.

"What are you doing?" John asks quietly, not sure if he means the hasty retreat or the moment they just shared.

The taller man's eyes dart from the floor to John's and he grimaces slightly. Either at the question or the daunting prospect of addressing what was happening between them. Sherlock tugs slightly at his wrists. It's the lost expression on his face that makes John let go.

Sherlock doesn't meet his gaze, stands still for a second before turning and calmly leaving the room.

John's eyes close as he hears the man's bedroom close softly, feeling everything and nothing at all.