Notes: Much love to my two wonderful Brit-pickers to fix this up for me. Haylebopp Brit-picked the first 10 chapters and Evildrem the rest, though both were wonderfully helpful throughout. All mistakes and issues are of course my own fault.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock in any incarnation and I'm not making money off of this. My original characters are my own though I'm not making any money off of them either. Written purely for entertainment value. Please enjoy :)

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

Interlude 3b

.

John didn't know how long he rode the train. Stops were called. The doors opened and closed. People entered and left. Eventually the spiking pain in John's leg settled to a dull throb, and he could hear again. He didn't blame Sherlock. John was furious at himself for allowing things to get so far out of hand. He wasn't a teenager, to have his world undone at the loss of an imagined love. In comparison to watching your mate, five paces in front of you, have his arm blown from his shoulder, a broken heart barely registered. In comparison to pulling the shrapnel of a roadside bomb from a child's abdomen only to have her die a day later from a ruptured spleen, an unrequited attraction counted as nothing. When John reached the end of the line, he got off the train, he crossed over to the other platform and started back.

John was tempted to try Harry's solution, find a pub and drink until he couldn't remember his own name. But damned if he was going to let this ruin him any more than it already had. So what, John thought, if Sherlock wasn't in love with him? None of this was news. What he needed, John decided, was a night off. A coffee with a friend. Possibly a movie. Something outside the scope of Sherlock's London battlefield with its brilliance and compelling danger. Someone unconnected to Sherlock bloody Holmes.

It was a testament to how pathetic John's life had become, how wrapped up in his flatmate's world he'd allowed himself to descend, that the only person John could think of who fit the criterion besides his alcoholic sister (and he wasn't desperate enough for company yet to brave that minefield) was Carl, his day nurse from two weeks past. A virtual stranger. John had transferred Carl's number to his mobile when he'd cleared out the overnight bag a week ago, not that he'd ever expected to speak to the man again. Now John flipped through his contacts—half of them he didn't recognize which meant that Sherlock must have added them to his phone—and pressed call on Carl's name.

John almost hung up when Carl answered.

"Hello?" Carl said. An uneven hum of background chatter sounded through the connection.

"You're busy. I'm sorry," John said. Of course Carl had plans on a Saturday night. Most normal people did. "I can call back another time."

"Wait! Who is this?"

"John Watson. We met at The Royal London a couple of weeks ago." God, but this was awkward. "I was a patient."

"Yes, of course. Dr. Watson, how are you doing?"

John said, "I'm fine, I mean, no physical aftereffects."

Carl laughed. "We all know doctor's make the worst patients, so I'm going to reserve judgment on that until I've seen you in person."

"Carl?" A woman, her voice sounded distant through the mobile's mic, "Is that the hospital? They're not calling you in again, are they?"

"It's fine, Miho."

"I'm sorry." John said. "This is a bad time."

Carl said, "Why don't you join us?"

"What?"

"It's opening night of Miho's gallery exhibition. We'll be here until 10:00. Madison House. Do you have a pen to write this down?"

"I'll remember it."

"Okay," Carl relayed the address. "We're on the first floor. Can you make it?"

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"As long as you don't mind my crazy friends."

"You've met Sherlock."

Carl laughed. "Fair enough. So I'll see you tonight?"

John calculated the amount of time it would take to get from where he was to the gallery via subway. "Give me a half hour. And thanks."

Subway connections were good, and while John didn't have a mental GPS of London updating constantly in his head like his flatmate, he still managed to find the Madison House without trouble. The exhibit was only one room, albeit a large one, with wide arching windows, a bricked in fireplace on the right wall and a counter in the far left corner extending a small square to the room's center. It wasn't Modern Art, thank goodness, John had gotten his fill of "it's a pink and blue square cut by a yellow squiggle and titled 'Subway'" with Patrick. Instead, the exhibit was a collection of masks, some brightly colored with bead-work, sequins and feathers, others more subdued, muted colors contrasting abnormal features, exaggerated lips, mismatched eyes, noses flat, hooked, upturned, flat, some made of goards, others beaks, others still in lumps of pastel clay. Most were hung in frames on the walls, though some were affixed to near transparent mannequins, their spindly arms and legs posed with varying degrees of dramatic flourish.

There were still a fair number of people in the place, though the gallery had been open for a couple of hours according to the flier in the front window. John took a program from the end table by the front door: Miho Yoshimura: Identity. It took John a few seconds to spot Carl. He leaned his elbow on the counter and chatted with a stocky Asian woman, her hair bleached blonde done up in elaborate curls with streaks of bright pink that reminded John of his and Sherlock's first case. John's stomach clenched.

Carl flicked his hands in a dramatic gesture and the woman laughed. John hung back, letting his gaze drift over the masks, unsure if an interruption would be welcome until Carl caught John's gaze and waved him over. John skirted a group of three middle-aged Asian women chattering rapidly about one of the paintings in a mixture of English and another language—possibly Japanese, though he couldn't be sure. Halfway there, a man with a tray handed John a glass of white wine. John hesitated before touching the liquid to his lips.

As John approached the pair, Carl exclaimed. "Dr. Watson!"

"Please, call me John. I can't thank you enough for inviting me."

"Just make sure to sign your name on the guest register," Carl said. "The more people come to Miho's opening," he waved a hand at the woman, "the better for her future shows, though of course it's better if you buy something."

"I've only had a chance to glance over your work but it's really interesting." John had attended enough gallery showings with Patrick to understand the basic jargon, this helped by the fact that he actually liked Miho's showing. "I like how you're using a variety of cultural influences. Are those Japanese?" He asked, pointing to a trio of framed masks on the wall behind her. The one in the center was the largest, pale with wide amber eyes, an open-mouthed toothy grin and curled horns rising from its forehead. On either side were equally as pale, though their cheeks and lips were roughed and eyes narrow slits that did not reveal irises.

"Noh," Miho said. "It took two years to make the set using traditional methods. They're not for sale."

"Which is a shame," Carl said. "She's had a number of offers."

"John is it?" Miho asked.

"Yes." John extended his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise." Miho took his hand, raised it to her lips and gave it a quick peck, leaving a smudge of arresting pink. Her trousers were a matching leather, and she wore a white button down shirt under a black velvet jacket that hung to her mid-thigh, flared at the waist with gold brocade trim along the hem and sleeves.

"Down girl," Carl said. "He's gay."

"I'm bi," John said. "Not that it matters. My luck with men and women is equally as horrid."

Miho raised an artfully arched eyebrow. "I see."

John gave her a measured look. She had a strong jawline and blunt features, giving her a slightly masculine appearance at odds with the lush curve of her hips and breasts. John wanted so badly to want her. He ran his tongue over his lips. Had Sherlock ruined him for women too? John said, "People often find me dull."

Carl choked on a laugh. "You broke a man's nose from your hospital bed. I can't imagine you're that boring."

Of course, his night nurse had made the entire incident the floor's gossip. John said, "That was an accident."

"That's what the man said when he ran into Shannon, literally, on his way to the elevator. Kept apologizing again and again and repeating that he wasn't going to press charges. They had to promise to admit him anonymously in order to get him to go down to A&E and have the bone set. Everyone was talking about it."

"Victor genuinely caught me off guard."

Carl said, "Remind me never to throw you a surprise party."

Miho burst out laughing and smacked Carl on the upper arm. Carl winced.

John forced a smile. Maybe he'd been better off riding the trains all night. He mimed a sip of his wine.

"John's as patient as they come." Carl said, "I don't know what Victor did, but he earned what he got, I'm sure of that."

"High compliment, coming from Carl," Miho said. "I haven't seen you at any other recent showings. What brought you out tonight?"

"My date left me at loose ends."

"Stood up?" Miho tilted her head, and a curl bobbed over her forehead.

"I wish." The memory of Sherlock's confession, his fingers glistening with John's tears made John's breath catch in his throat. "It's complicated."

"I'm listening," Miho said.

"My flatmate is an ass."

Miho said, "Dating a flatmate's never a good idea."

"No shit." John fiddled with his glass. "Luckily, the chances of that happening with Sherlock are about the same as me, personally, finding life on the moon."

"You two seemed pretty close in the hospital," Carl said. "Hell, Kathy put you two up for our cutest couple of the week when she went in to check your vitals and found Sherlock balanced on the edge of your bed stroking your hair."

First hand holding, now hair stroking? What internet sites had Sherlock been googling? Probably something about nerve stimulation and blood flow. At least he'd kept his bedside experiments on John benign. John asked, "When was this?"

"Oh, you were asleep," Carl reached on the counter behind him and picked up a mostly empty glass of wine. "And you should have heard how he terrorized the night staff. They finally gave in and let him take the pressures himself. Seems he's certified."

"As a nurse?"

"Nurse's aide. He's in the system. I didn't even know Oxford offered a course."

John doubted Oxford did, but he wouldn't put a little data manipulation past Mycroft, in the unlikely instance Sherlock asked his brother for such a favor. Which meant Sherlock had indebted himself to Mycroft of all people on John's behalf for something so trivial as allowing his flatmate to get a night of uninterrupted rest. It was sweet. Except Sherlock didn't do sweet, not without a good reason. "He must have been feeling guilty," John mused.

Carl raised an eyebrow. "Guilty? Of what?"

"Sherlock thought it was his fault that he didn't deduce Victor would try to poison me," John said.

"Poison you!" Miho's eyes widened. "Good job, breaking that bastard's nose. Are you pressing charges?"

"It was an accident."

"Why didn't you mention this to your doctor?" Carl asked. "The A&E staff were mystified as to how you might have been exposed to Bisacodyl."

"I didn't want to blow things out of proportion. Sherlock was upset enough," John said. "And it wasn't his fault. I mean, I could guess from the photograph that Victor had been in love with Sherlock—Sherlock had no idea and even laughed at me when I suggested it, which is odd because he can usually tell what you had for breakfast by how you tie your shoes, but even so it'd been ten years. Sherlock and Victor barely talked. And in Victor's defense, he had no idea I was allergic."

Miho's thumb ran circles around the base of her champagne glass. "So this guy wasn't trying to poison you with whatever drug that was you said?"

"Just a laxative. Victor somehow got it into his head that Sherlock and I were lovers, even though Sherlock was the one who arranged for Victor and I to go out on the date, stupid git, and Victor felt an all-nighter in the loo would be an appropriate revenge."

"That's..." Miho blinked, her lips parting slightly as she drew the last word out. "Insane."

"I know. Sherlock has a way with people," John laughed. The sound had a bitter edge. "He drives most of them crazy."

"But not you?" Miho asked.

"Oh, I'm not immune." From the first night, darting between cars, leaping rooftops in the wake of a self proclaimed sociopath who in his madness, in his brilliance, had somehow convinced John to cure himself of his self induced wounds, John had been drawn inextricably into Sherlock's orbit. Into the orbit of a man who did not have a care for the origins of the gravity that he embodied. A man who delighted in the mystery of murder. A man for whom John had killed, in cold blood, not even a week into their acquaintanceship. Caught in Sherlock's bubble of madness, John's nightmares paled, and his life gained purpose. Excitement. John was addicted to it, as sure as his sister to the booze, and while the side effects might yield some small improvement to the world - a child saved, a conman condemned, a murderer behind bars or dead (twice by John's hand, and a third, without blinking, should he have his shot at Moriarty) - John was not foolish enough to believe that this was the reason he had tied himself to Sherlock Holmes.

"I need him," John said, "the insanity. Sherlock's always ten steps ahead of everyone. The our first case, the dead woman in pink, he not only deduced that she had been murdered by her own hand, but also where she lived, her career, her adultery, and all in less than three minutes. And then we were on this stakeout, and this cab, and then running..." John's heart beat with the memory, the strength of his legs pumping beneath him. "Five stories up, and Sherlock jumped between rooftops without a second thought. He made it so effortless, and I followed, and it was great and terrifying and wonderful. But it's not just the cases." Though they were a high, like sex with a stranger, or putting a gun in your mouth and promising you'd pull the trigger only if the next song the radio played was Stairway to Heaven. "I guess I was already a little crazy, I mean, I volunteered to invade Afghanistan." He laughed, expecting the other two to share his joke, but they just stared. "Sherlock's insanity compliments mine. I'm alive with him in a way I wasn't even in the war. It's the only thing that keeps me functional," if not sane. "I just..." John pressed his lips together and ran his tongue over them. "I just try not to be stupid enough to expect more from Sherlock than what he's able to give."

"Are you sure," Miho took John's hand and squeezed it gently, "I mean, have you told him how you feel?"

"Any feelings I might have are not reciprocated. He was very plain in regards to that this evening."

Carl laid his palm on John's shoulder. "That's rough, man."

"You can't force someone to feel something they don't," John said. "Sherlock is my closest friend, and I think I'm his as well. Considering he claimed not to have any when we met, that means something. I'd rather have that than some imagined romance."

"Miho and I have been friends since primary school," Carl said. "We tried dating once-"

"And we damned near killed each other." Miho laughed. "Carl's too nice, and I'm too much of a drama queen."

A smile quirked across John's lips. "I can see how that would be a problem." Some of the tension John began, not to dissipate, but at least not seem so crushing. "Hell, I can't even imagine Sherlock and I on a date. We're both bollocks at smalltalk. If we went to a restaurant, after five minutes Sherlock would deduce the life stories of everyone in the place and then he'd get bored, and by the time the meal came I'd have to have it wrapped to keep myself and half the staff from killing him." John laughed, not so much at the silliness of it, but because it was all so normal. "And God forbid Sherlock chose the place, we'd end up picnicking at a body farm, or some museum of natural oddities, and at some point Lestrade would text and before I knew it we'd be chasing off after some serial murderer with a passion for sawing limbs, and Sherlock would clap his hands with delight and say it's Christmas all over again."

And when it was over and they were standing side by side, palms on knees, breathless in some alley, Sherlock would make some sardonic comment about John's blog, and John would grab his flatmate by the collar and press their mouths together for a moment of blissful, blessed silence. Would Sherlock be tentative at first, his tongue exploring in hesitant movements, or would he be as confident and thorough as he was in all things he deemed important? Or some combination of both?

If Victor was any indication, confident and thorough was the most likely outcome. Sherlock did not abide incompetence in himself. As thoroughly as he was with any mystery, he'd deduce John's reactions, manipulate and enhance them, reduce John to his component parts, and perhaps in Sherlock's own detached way even appreciate John's reciprocal efforts, allow himself to be distracted for a time (a long time, John hoped; unlike his flatmate John knew himself to be better with the living than the dead), and would be incredible. Until Sherlock tired of the whole affair. That too was a given. Their friendship was based almost entirely on shared living space and murder. The fact that Sherlock didn't want more was a blessing because John was not the sort who loved by halves, and the war had damaged him. He would do better not to allow Sherlock close enough to destroy him, because without Sherlock, John doubted he'd be able to rebuild himself again.

"It would be agonizing," John said, and his eyes burned. He finished off the wine. "I'm sorry. I've had a pisser of a day, but I shouldn't be inflicting it on you." He put the glass on the counter. "Maybe I should get going."

"Stay," Miho said. "Please."

"Seconded." Carl waved one of the servers over. "I can't in good conscience send a patient off in your condition. The cure, it seems to me, is good company and copious amounts of alcohol."

"White?" the server, a short woman in a suit jacket and loose purple tie,asked, holding up a half full bottle.

"Yes please," John said, and the other two nodded.

When the server had refilled all three glasses, John said, "It'll be fine once Sherlock gets this matchmaking bug out of his system. He's really much better with murder." John sighed. "Sometimes you just need a night off, you know? Though God knows what trouble he's getting himself into now."

In John's pocket, his mobile began to vibrate.

"Sherlock's an adult. He managed to look after himself before he met you," Carl said.

"Barely," John muttered. He pulled out his phone and flipped it open.

Come back to the flat. -SH

John lowered his head and rubbed his middle finger and thumb over his eyebrows. Before he could even get the phone closed, it buzzed again.

I need you. Critically important. – SH

"Is that your flatmate?" Carl asked, peering over his shoulder. "Critically important?"

"That's just Sherlock being dramatic. If it was a case, he'd have sent an address." John sighed. "He's probably lost the remote to the telly, either that or Mrs. Hudson hid the skull again. I haven't seen it around lately."

"Well, I hope you're not going to bow to that kind of manipulation." Miho glanced at her watch. "We have a half hour until the show closes. Let me mingle some, then we can all go bowling."

"Bowling?"

"Always cheers me up," Miho said.

"I can't," John said. "He'll just keep at it all night."

"That's why your mobile has a silent setting."

"And Lord knows what the living room's going to look like when I get back."

John's mobile buzzed again.

I realize my actions may have caused you some distress. – SH

"What's that one say?" Miho asked.

John said, "I think he's trying to apologize."

"Lousy job of it," Carl said. "Apologies generally include the words 'I'm sorry'."

"Sherlock's no good at politeness."

Carl gave a snort. "He could learn. He's a genius, isn't that what you said?"

"I don't mind."

"It doesn't seem like you mind much."

"Carl!" Miho slugged him in the shoulder. "You're not helping."

"Ouch! I'm sorry." Carl rubbed his palm where he'd been hit. "It just reminds me of Aubrianna. I couldn't be an hour out of her sight for an hour without her texting, constantly, even when I was at work, and then I found out she was going through my phone when I wasn't looking, convinced I was having an affair. I can't believe we made it three months."

"I remember," Miho said. "I bought the breakup ice cream and movie."

"The Blues Brothers." Carl smiled.

"It's a classic."

"That year in the States ruined you."

Miho raised her wine and she and Carl clinked glasses.

John envied them. Aside from Sherlock, John wasn't really close to anyone in London. His time in Afghanistan had put up a barrier between him and his previous friends, most of whom had moved to other cities, or started families, or become so buried in their careers that they simply didn't have space outside of them. And after moving into the flat, John had been so busy living in Sherlock's world, he'd stopped making the effort.

His mobile buzzed again.

Please respond. -SH

Miho held out her hand. "Let me hold onto the phone for you John."

"I should go," John said.

"You told us you needed a night off. I'd say you deserve a week, but a night's a good start." John opened his mouth to protest, but Miho barreled on, "Listen, I'll check your texts periodically. If your flatmate sends an address or says something about jumping out of a window or into the Thames, I can give the mobile right back to you. How's that?"

"Miho used to do this for me too," Carl cut in. "She's good for it."

"It's the only way I got to see Carl without it being a double date. That woman actually stalked us to an exhibition. When I spotted her, she tried to pass it off as a coincidence, but she didn't even know we were looking at folk crafts and kept rambling on about archeology."

"At least she didn't almost get you shot to death with a giant arrow," John muttered.

"What!"

Where are you? -SH

"You're absolutely right," John said. "Let me just send him something so he doesn't think I'm dead." John typed out, "Remote is under the pile of case files to the right of the sofa. With friends, be in later," adding, "-JW," as had become his habit after Sherlock had lectured him on the importance of being able to quickly identify the origin of a text without having to be dependent on the phone number of origin. (Data, John. Haven't we discussed this before?) When John was finished, he flipped the mobile shut and placed it into Miho's palm. It vibrated.

Miho opened the phone glanced at the message. "More of the same. And something about making tea."

"We're out of milk." John said, "Thank you for doing this. You don't even know me."

"But I want to." Miho grinned. "I'll be back. Don't you dare leave."

John's guts twisted as Miho wandered off. Soon she was involved in an animated conversation with another group. What if the texts were about something important? John's leg began to throb, and he massaged it with his knuckles. This thing with Sherlock, it had moved past the realm of the odd into the unhealthy. The pain was a sign of healing, John told himself, and willed it to be true.

"I'm really sorry I dumped all of this on the two of you," John said.

"You apologize too much," Carl said. "Come on. You've hardly seen any of the exhibit."

They spent the next half hour sipping wine and discussing art. Carl was able to offer some humorous tidbit or story to go with every piece with none of the pretentiousness that John remembered from Patrick's art circle. John was a bit light headed when they announced the gallery was closing. They waited by the door, nibbling on the remains of a cracker and cheese tray as Miho said her goodbyes.

"How'd you do?" Carl asked when Miho returned.

"Well enough to cover our first round of bowling," Miho said with a wide grin.

When Miho returned his mobile, two hours and four games later, John had 119 new messages. Miho said, "I thought my teenage cousins were good at texting. His fingers have to be killing him."

"He's used to it," John said, skimming through the texts. Most were of the 'where are you?' vein with increasing capitalization and exclamation points, as well as various comments about the tea kettle, John's clothing, his physical fitness (well above average), and even his shaving foam (the pound brand worked just as well as Sherlock's expensive version and even smelled the same, John knew because he'd 'borrowed' some from his flatmate the last time his own can ran dry). John slowed his reading after almost missing one particularly terrifying promise to clean up the kitchen counter.

Why do you persist in ignoring my texts? -SH

We're out of milk. -SH

Mrs. Hudson gave us some nondairy creamer. -SH

And orange shortbreads. -SH

Lestrade has offered an interesting hypothesis as to our mutual problem. -SH

To test it, I will need your assistance. -SH

I called the surgery twice. You're not there. -SH

Sarah's on a date. -SH

She's not nearly as understanding about interruptions as she used to be. -SH

The adult human skeleton has 206 bones. -SH

I suppose you already knew that. -SH

Mike Stamford is at a conference in Cardiff. He insists you have not contacted him. – SH

Your sister is on vacation with her Clara. She told me to stop texting. -SH

How does one define a fluttery feeling in the heart? -SH

All of these websites are unconscionably vague. -SH

A trained medical perspective would be helpful. -SH

Ischaemic heart disease is the leading cause of death in London Males, ages 34-54. -SH

I miss your voice. -SH

What are you doing now? -SH

Sibelius again. I am throwing the violin in the rubbish bin. -SH

I made more tea. -SH

Telly is even more boring without you. -SH

How much space do you need? -SH

This is my third nicotine patch. -SH

Lestrade's hypothesis may require a fourth to parse. -SH

Please be careful. -SH

If you were to die of a myocardial infarction or through other means, I think I would lose my ability to function. -SH

I can't focus. -SH

Nicotine isn't helping. -SH

Would you be disappointed if I tried something stronger? -SH

Yes, you certainly would. -SH

Well what with the heart palpitations it is not a good idea anyway. -SH

Your tea is grown cold. -SH

Again. -SH

Perhaps you are ignoring me because I don't compliment you enough? -SH

You aren't nearly as idiotic as most people. -SH

And you are an excellent doctor. -SH

You have a very expressive face. -SH

Mrs. Hudson supports my assertion that your smile is significantly more appealing than the average. -SH

That was the last. John shook his head and shoved the phone into the left pocket of his trousers. "You read all of these? I can't thank you enough."

"Anytime," Miho said. "Your flatmate's an odd one. Do you have heart disease in your family?"

"My mum has high blood pressure," John said. "But it's controlled with medication. My pressure is fine, and I keep in shape."

"Clearly."

Carl pulled up his sleeve and glanced at his watch. "Tubes have stopped. I live about ten minutes from here on foot. Did you want to crash on my sofa tonight?"

John's mobile vibrated again. "I can't," John said. "I can only imagine what Sherlock's done to the flat already." Or how many homeless people would be wasting their time trying to hunt John down over the course of the night if he didn't return. Besides, further avoidance would be cowardice. Now that he'd had some time to put things in perspective, it would better to face things head on if he wanted to maintain his friendship with Sherlock Holmes. "Don't worry about it," John said. "I'll walk to the station and take a cab."

"You're not walking alone," Miho said.

John said, "I can handle myself." If someone tried to mug him, John thought wistfully, at least he'd get to work off some excess stress. And maybe have a legitimate reason to avoid this confrontation with his flatmate. "It's no problem."

"Carl?"

"It's practically on our way," Carl said. It didn't take a genius to deduce the man was stretching the truth, but unlike Sherlock, John had some understanding of tact so he resigned himself to the company and simply said, "Thank you."

During the five minute walk, John's phone vibrated four more times. To John's relief, a pair of black cabs waited at the taxi rank.

John turned to his two companions. "Thank you both so much. You have no idea how much I needed this."

"We'll do it again," Miho said, throwing her arms around John in a tight hug. Her breasts pressed into him and there was a faint cinnamon scent to her hair. "And listen, if you ever need a nice rebound-"

"You're too wonderful to waste on a rebound," John said.

"Why are the good men always taken?" Miho sighed. "Or gay?"

"Hey!" Carl tilted his head, his brows lowering.

"You don't count," Miho said, stepping back from John. "You're like my brother."

Carl said, "You sure know how to make a guy feel sexy."

John laughed. He and Carl shook hands. John waved at the pair as they left, then took the first cab. He was fortunate he'd visited the ATM before the date with Mark, assuming from the evidence of Sherlock's previous matchmaking attempts that he might need money to leave quickly, bail himself out of prison or something even worse. John watched the cabbie for a few minutes to make sure that they were heading in the proper direction and that the man, slightly built with dark reddish-brown skin and a picture of his wife in Sari with three children pasted on the dashboard, showed no obvious homicidal tendencies. Then John checked the last batch of texts.

I find every part of you to be attractive to varying degrees, though this is merely an uncorroborated opinion unsupported by data and thus meaningless. -SH

Are you planning to move out? -SH

You are the only flatmate for me. -SH

I understand you're angry, just please, don't leave. -SH

Was it drama or genuine distress? Impossible to tell with Sherlock over text. Difficult at times to even tell in person, the man was such a fantastic actor. John typed,. I went bowling Sherlock. That doesn't mean I'm moving out. -JW

And yes, I am on my way back to the flat. In a cab now.

Six seconds later. JOHN! -SH

You forgot to sign your last text. -SH

I told you I would set up the signature function in your mobile. -SH

You text on this mobile more than I do. -JW

An astute observation. Lestrade believes I'm in love with you. What are your thoughts?-SH

John's hand froze and the mobile dropped, bouncing off his lap and to land with a light thump between his feet. It vibrated again. Stunned, John just let it go. Had Lestrade been drunk? Could he be drunk enough? How in the bloody hell had him and Sherlock gotten into that conversation anyway? John could just imagine Sherlock calling up his buddy Lestrade for advice on his love life. And then they sat on his sofa, polished their nails and talked about corpses. Right. Maybe it was the sheer ridiculousness of the image, or maybe it was just the wine and stress, but John started to giggle, then laugh. The mobile buzzed twice more with incoming texts. He laughed until his stomach was ached and his eyes had tears. This entire day had been so farcical, he couldn't be sure if he was dreaming or awake. The mobile buzzed again.

"Are you a figment of my imagination?" John asked the cabbie.

"Sir?" The cabbie asked, shifting in his seat. "You seem a bit unwell. Is something wrong?"

"I'm fine," John said.

He wiped his eyes and leaned over to pick up the phone.

In order to test this hypothesis, will you accompany me to a restaurant or appropriate venue as my date? -SH

Unless there is a murder, of course. -SH

You are not scheduled to work on Wednesday night, correct? -SH

John? -SH

"Baker Street, 221B," the cabbie said, slowing in front of the building.

I'm here. How about we talk about this at the flat? -JW

Acceptable. -SH

John tipped the cabbie well before putting the phone back in his trousers and stepping onto the curb. The seventeen steps up to the flat passed too quickly. His leg barely registered a twinge. The door was unlocked. Sherlock lay on the sofa, legs outstretched, calves on the opposite armrest, his fingers steepled to his lips as though deep in thought. He was still in his street clothes, and five mugs of tea were lined up in a semi-circle in front of the sofa. His violin case had been tossed on the end table. John's laptop was miraculously closed.

"Sherlock?" John said, taking a step towards the other man. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock kept his gaze focused on a vague point in front of him. His face was a mask reflecting nothing, but his voice had a slight tremor when he said, "Will you go on a date with me?"

"Are you sure?"

"I understand this is a foolish idea."

"You really talked with Lestrade about...?"

"He...umm...this evening's concerns came up in the process of work related matters."

"Do you believe him?"

"I think it is unlikely that I am capable of such an emotion, but..." Sherlock laced his fingers, clasping his hands, for a moment an image of grace. "I'd like to test this hypothesis. I know I don't deserve such regard, considering all that has happened." He blinked, biting his bottom lip.

John walked over to his flatmate and balanced on the edge of the sofa beside him. He placed his hand on Sherlock's head and stroked his flatmate's hair. "If we do this," John said. "It can't be an experiment."

"But, how will we know that we've achieved a working theory without challenging it rigorously?"

"This isn't science, Sherlock. Sure, we can just relax and see what happens. And nothing may. But if we spend all of our time trying to disprove the possibility of our love, then it will never grow."

"I can't just drift, John."

"Science requires a skeptical mind to root out what is false so that in the shape of the negative space one can deduce some understand of facts and how they fit together. Love requires faith, an irrational belief in a truth that must then be created. So it can't be an experiment. I'll only accept a sincere attempt." John was reluctant to remove his hand. Certainly he had fanticized about sexual acts with Sherlock, imagined Sherlock's face as he came, but never had John's mind constructed this sort of quiet intimacy, the smoothness of Sherlock's dark curls, the faint quiver of his lips, his half lidded eyes. But John couldn't allow himself to become accustomed to such things, not knowing Sherlock's true feelings or his commitment to the future he'd suggested. John stood. "That's my one condition," he said. "Think about it."

Sherlock whirled around on the sofa so quickly John had to jump back to keep from getting kicked. One of the mugs tipped over and a thin stream of tea pooled across the floor. "But you'll do it, if this condition is met?"

"Yes."

"Agreed." Sherlock smiled, and the expression was so devoid of sarcasm, of mischief, of plotting, of anything beyond joy that for a moment John literally could not breathe.

After a couple of seconds, John managed, "Wednesday?"

Sherlock jumped to his feet and closing the space between them, took John's left hand in his right. John looked up to meet his eyes, and Sherlock slumped his shoulders, angling his head down so that they almost touched. For a moment, they breathed each other. John closed his eyes, running his tongue between his lips. Sherlock's thumb caressed a small circle in John's palm. Then Sherlock lowered his lips to John's ear. Their cheeks touched, and Sherlock's stubble scraped John's skin. Sherlock's breath, warm and scented of tea and orange, tickled as he whispered, "Everything will be perfect."

Then Sherlock released John's hand and stepped away. "There's work to do," Sherlock said, rubbing the back of his neck with an air of tension and mania. "I will have to rework this entire process. And research."

"Research what?" John took a step towards his flatmate, and Sherlock took an equal step back, a bizarre parody of a lover's waltz.

"We will do this properly," Sherlock said.

"Improper is fine." Brilliant. Wonderful. "No problem."

"It's late," Sherlock said, and he gave John a stiff bow. "Goodnight."

Before John could move, Sherlock had side stepped him, and in long strides cleared the hallway to his room and shut the door.