John

Once I'd recovered from Sherlock's well meaning, winding, rib-crushing hug the three of us marched off in search of a beer can. Lestrade kept asking me if I was alright at the same time as shooting Sherlock concerned looks as if wondering if he was allowed to arrest him on behalf of the safety of anyone Sherlock tried hugging in the future. I kept saying I was fine, which I was, sort of. My thoughts were swirling around my head, confusing me. It had felt good when Sherlock was holding me even though he was slowly suffocating me like a boa constrictor would its prey. He had told me was there for him and I had known it was true. It was difficult to admit this to myself but the main reason I had wanted him to let go of me was that I wanted to kiss him.

Anyway, once we reached the bush that Harry had been standing next to on the CCTV footage. Lestrade and I stood on the gravel, Lestrade's eyes raking the ground for clues while Sherlock immediately lay on his stomach in the dirt with his head shoulders underneath the bush, all the while muttering an incoherent stream of observations to himself.

"Are you okay?" Lestrade asked me again.

"Yes." I said, still trying to wrap my head around all the feelings that were filling me up.

Lestrade nodded and called to Sherlock, "Are you alright down there?"

"Fine." Came the muffled reply, "There beer can is still here but I'm analysing it where it is because I don't want either of you two to contaminate it."

I rolled my eyes at Lestrade and he aimed a kick at Sherlock's feet.

"Ouch!"

"Yeah, well," Lestrade huffed, "I am a professional police officer. I'm not going to contaminate any evidence."

"Well," Sherlock said, retreating from the bush with dust all down his front and leafy twigs in his hair, "I'm a professional consulting detective and you enlisted my help on this case. I have finished with the beer can. You may study it if you wish to."

"Nah." Said Lestrade grumpily as I helped Sherlock to his feet, "You're alright, thanks."

Sherlock had found some fibres from Harry's hoodie which was presumably the same sort as the man was wearing to the ring pull of the beer can. He gave the tiny strings of material to Lestrade to get his people onto and took me for a walk around London, just the two of us. I t would have been very romantic had Sherlock not scribbled frenziedly onto a napkin on the bus to Hyde Park and then ripped the paper into about twenty pieces and handed a bit to every beggar we came across as we walked to Baker Street.

"Erm… what are you doing?" I ventured to ask Sherlock as he walked away from an obvious heroin addict tucked in alcove between two office buildings.

"I am simply telling my operatives of our conundrum. They will now all be on the lookout for such a person as we saw with Harry because they'll know money's in it for them. I bet you anything you like we'll track this man down before Lestrade does with his chemical analysis from the hoodie."

"This isn't a contest." I reminded Sherlock as he bent down to hand a piece of paper to a grubby teenage boy holding a coffee cup. "Also, do you go asking help from the homeless of London often?"

"Only on cases such as these when they'll be useful. They give me information and I give them money. Everybody wins."

"Money they'll use to feed their drug habits." I stated.

"Only some of them, and yes. They can use it for whatever they want. Their lives are so miserable and boring I'd turn to drugs."

"You already have." I pointed out to him.

"Yes, Well" He replied, dropping a slip of paper into a tramp's hat. "It runs in my family."

Sherlock had never spoken to me about his family before and I'd assumed his and Mycroft's parents were dead.

"What do you mean?" I asked, slightly afraid that all my perceptions of Mycroft being a good influence were about to go down the drain.

"My mother was a cocaine addict and she killed herself with it when I was eight and Mycroft was twelve. What clean person would call their children Mycroft and Sherlock?" Sherlock spoke hurriedly, not looking at me as we turned the corner into Baker Street, "She had me hooked before I was even born but I got off it by the time she died. The authorities didn't know about us and we didn't want them to so Mycroft and I lived by ourselves until I was old enough to look after myself." There was a pause in which I didn't know what to say, "I wanted to solve the mystery." Sherlock said, and I must confess I was astounded by this sudden display of emotion and I wasn't entirely sure how to cope with it.

"What mystery?" I managed to ask as Sherlock jammed his key into the lock of 221B.

"The mystery of my mother's death. Of course there was no mystery. Mycroft told me what had happened and I knew he was right but I still felt that our own mother wouldn't have left us in such a selfish way…but she did; and that's that." Sherlock used his shoulder to push the door and flew up the stairs to our flat in front of me. I couldn't see his face.

Sherlock

I suppose the only reason I told John is so he'd know that I had felt some of the pain and confusion that he was feeling. Not that I felt it anymore; it was probably around that time that I cut off all my feelings, it was only since knowing John that I'd begun to accept my own weaknesses and humanity once more. Mycroft would be proud and mortified all at once.

It was three minutes past midnight and I was lying in bed with my laptop in front of me on the pillows when I received a text.

John told me you told him about mother.

It's good to see you're opening up to

Someone. Really, I'm thrilled. Just

Disappointed that you didn't chose me.

MH

I assumed that was supposed to be a criticism but it didn't upset me; I was, in fact, rather bemused by this uncharacteristic display of emotion from Mycroft. The whole world seemed to have turned very strange lately. I doubting my competency as a detective because I was too busy trying to embrace my human side and comfort John through his grief. The hug thing had been a complete failure and by telling my best friend about my past I had upset my brother. I didn't care about Mycroft's feelings enough to be worried about this but I did care about John's feelings and I hoped I'd pleased him by metaphorically ripping open my chest and showing him my heart and soul.

John came into the room. I heard him but pretended not to; it was not normal for him to walk into my bedroom at such an hour and I wanted to see what he did as I pretended to concentrate on updating my guide on spotting different types of cigarette ash. I felt John sit on the end of bed and swing his legs over so his whole body was on my silk duvet cover.

"Sherlock?" He asked, leaning in until I could feel his hot breath on my cheek and his rapid pulse drumming into my shoulder from his neck.

I felt my blood speed up as it pumped through my veins and my breath catch in my throat, "John?" I replied.

"Thank you." He breathed and I didn't know what he was thanking me for so I didn't reply; instead I snapped my laptop shut and placed it under the bed. I rolled over onto my back and saw that John had positioned himself almost directly on top of me. He altered his position slightly so one of hands was on each side of my torso and his face was inches away from mine. I could smell alcohol on his breath but I didn't want him to go away. Our noses were almost touching.

He was sweating, his pupils were dilated and his pulse was accelerated. He was aroused. I was sweating, my pupils were dilated, my pulse was accelerated and I was feeling some rush of blood in my penis that I hadn't felt since I was about sixteen and on my own in the cavernous mansion that was my childhood home. John's lips suddenly closed over mine. I had never kissed anyone before and I realised this was yet another thing I had a severe lack of knowledge of. John parted my lips with his tongue and ran it along my teeth. I tentatively reached out to his head and entangled my fingers in his hair as I attempted to reciprocate what he was doing to my mouth.