John's worries about the letter seemed to prove unfounded. The weather got colder, the snow banks higher, until suddenly they found themselves in a premature late February thaw that left everything gray and slushy. The letter stayed tucked inside of his book, still unopened and he tried his best to keep his feelings for Sherlock from spilling out.

It was late one Friday afternoon and they were cooped up in their room as the wind outside howled, John packing a duffel bag for London that weekend, Sherlock carving notches into the wall with his penknife.

"You know that one of us is going to have to pay for all your damages to the room, right?" John asked idly, not really expecting much of a response.

Sherlock grunted and drove the knife into his bedpost where it lodged with a solid sounding thunk.

"Bored. Why do you feel the need to leave this weekend? You hate going to London and you always sleep much worse for days after you return."

John smiled to himself at Sherlock's observation.

"Because me and Harry are all my dad's got now that…yeah. You know, if my absence bothers you so bloody much, you could always just tag along this weekend."

Sherlock sat up so quickly that he knocked his head hard against the wall.

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You just have to promise me that you'll keep any deductions about my family to yourself. God knows that I've been telling Dad about you nons- Eurgh, Sherlock, Christ, look at what you've done to your hand."

In Sherlock's scramble to sit up, he'd closed his left hand around the knife embedded in the bedpost. There was now a long, angry slash of red down his palm, from which rivulets of blood ran downwards to his wrist. He blinked down at it, as if surprised by the pain.

"Jesus Christ. Just- just put your hand in your lap and don't pick at it. I'll grab the first aid kit."

Sherlock obeyed and John crossed the room to get the first aid kid from his dresser and then made his way back towards his friend's bed. He sat cross-legged facing Sherlock and carefully pulled his hand, palm-up, to rest cradled between his thigh and his left hand. He dabbed the blood away carefully with a tissue.

Sherlock hissed at the fizz of hydrogen peroxide and John set his mouth in a firm line.

"This is why we don't keep knives in the room."
"Yes, thank you Mother." Sherlock's words were a petulant grumble, but his eyes were affectionate.

When he was done cleaning the wound, John took Sherlock's hand and lifted it up to bandage it. Sherlock had gone very quiet and very still, biting at his lower lip as he watched, pale face slightly flushed. Incredibly aware of how strangely soft Sherlock's skin was, John tried to be as gentle as possible.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered when John was done. "You'll make a good doctor someday."

"How'd you know that-"

"Please," he said with a warm smile. His voice had a familiar tone to it, a you're an idiot and this is all obvious, but it's alright because it's you that John had heard many times before. "You're caring and patient, but you're also clever and quick thinking, with steady hands and sharp eyes. You were born to be a doctor, John."

John bit his lip and looked pointedly at the ceiling, afraid that if he looked directly at Sherlock, his eyes would immediately betray how much he loved him.

(Sometimes, it amazed John that Sherlock didn't think he could care for others.)

It was then that he realized that he was still holding Sherlock's hand and that he wasn't quite ready to let go. Instead, he laced their fingers together, rubbing his thumb in slow, careful circles over the bones of Sherlock's wrist. Somehow, they were leaning in towards each other, Sherlock's head angling downwards, his eyes drifting shut. John's breath hitched in his throat.

"Sherlock," he murmured, his voice the faintest of whispers. "What are we doing here? What is this?"

Sherlock blinked, pulled away. He was silent for a long moment.

"I don't know," he said finally, not looking at John. "I don't know."

When Harry met Sherlock, she gazed up at him with a hard, searching stare and finally said, "Are you John's boyfriend?"

John's face went brick red and he began to splutter.

"No, just his friend," said Sherlock with a flash of a smile. "But I can tell you that you've had eggs for breakfast but didn't like them, that you've had a growth spurt in the past year and that you fancy the girl who sits next to you in Art. She fancies you back, by the way." Sherlock then swept of towards the train in a swirl of dark coat, leaving Harry goggling at him in his wake.

"He's much cooler than you, Johnny," she said in an awed whisper.

"Oh shut up, Harriet."

"I like him. A lot." Harry, for the first time in ages, had entwined her hand with John's and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

"I like him a lot too." When Harry looked up at him, expecting him to say more, he quickly changed the subject. "So, do you want to tell me about this girl from art class?"

"Her name's Clara. And do you want to tell me about Sherlock."

"Well played, you awful little child, you."
Harry smiled and stepped hard on his toes.

John's father seemed to be just as besotted with Sherlock as Harry had been.

"John's told me so much about you. Never shuts up about you, really. From the way my son talks about you, you'd think the suns rises and sets on you. I mean, he-"

"That's enough, Dad," John said through gritted teeth, hideously embarrassed by his family for the second time that day.

(But it seemed, though John was fairly sure that he had imagined it, that there was a faint, pleased flush of pink across Sherlock's cheeks.)

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Watson. Thank you for having me."

Something plump and furry sat down directly on John's foot and he looked down to find a very fat Jack Russell terrier.

"Dad? Since when do we have a dog?"

His father bent down to scoop the dog up in his arms. "A few weeks ago. His name's Henry. Keeps me company. What do you think?"

"He's great," John said with a laugh, scratching at Henry's head. "Cute. Fat."

"He is, isn't he? Although he's not quite housebroken yet. Had an accident on the sofa this morning."

John chuckled at this and then frowned. "If the sofa's out of commission, then where are we going to put Sherlock for the night?"

Sherlock cut in before either of them could speak.

"It's fine, I really don't mind sleeping on the floor."

But Mr. Watson just laughed as he set Henry on the ground.

"Don't be ridiculous. You can just share John's bed."

This, of course, made John choke rather loudly, which in turn led to a coughing fit and everyone in the room staring at him with concern.

"Everything alright there, John?"

"Fine! Fine, I'm fine. I'm going to go put my bags in my room."

His legs feeling watery, he beat a hasty retreat down the hallway to his bedroom, grateful for a minute alone to pull himself together. But he was only just through the threshold of the doorway when there was a dark, low voice next to his ear. He tensed.

"Is it that you're averse to sharing a bed with me?" Sherlock's lips were barely a hair's breadth away from his ear and John shivered despite himself.

"No, I'm not, um. I'm not averse. To you. Um. In my bed."

Sherlock smiled and although on the surface it seemed light and friendly, there was something almost predatory lurking behind it.

"Good."

The rest of the morning went smoothly. John found that it had been pointless to worry about Sherlock deducing anything about Harry or his father. They both seemed to be entranced by it, much to both the surprise and delight of Sherlock. Something about seeing them, seeing Harry and his father laugh as Sherlock looked on with a bewildered but pleased expression, filled John with a strange sort of light.

He had an appointment with Ella later that afternoon and Sherlock had insisted on tagging along.

"You'll be bored the entire time," John had warned as they sat in the waiting room. Sherlock waved him off with a hand.

At the end of his session, Ella scribbled a final note on her pad and smiled.

"You've made some truly remarkable progress since the last time I saw you."

"Have I?"

She nodded, smiled again.

"Could it possibly be something to do with the boy in the waiting room who's been berating the receptionist for the past hour?"

(Shit. He shouldn't have believed for a minute that back issues of gardening magazines could've kept Sherlock entertained and polite for a whole hour.)

"What? No. God no. He's just a friend."

(Just an awful, rude, insufferable, arrogant cock of a friend who John was miserably in love with.)

They went for lunch afterwards in a grotty little café two streets over from Ella's office. John was the only one who actually ordered a meal, and Sherlock just resorted to swiping bits off his plate, despite John's best efforts to bat his hands away. It was warm and affectionate and nice and if their legs touched under the table and neither of them moved away, neither of them mentioned it.

That evening at dinner, which was takeaway eaten off paper plates balanced on their knees in the living room, the flat was full of light and laughter for the first time in what felt like years. Sherlock's face was bright and open and John found himself unable to look away from him sometimes.

But in spite of the easy relaxation of the evening, when it came time to get ready for bed that night, he found himself wracked with apprehension. He undressed quickly, all too aware of the rustling of fabric from Sherlock changing behind him.

Just like any other night, he told himself. You change in front of each other every night, so what makes this any different?

(Because they were sleeping in the same bed tonight and John had to act as if it was totally normal, totally okay. That was a huge fucking difference.)

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a quick flash of pale skin as Sherlock tugged his shirt over his head. He tried to look away, tried to conceal it as an accidental turn of the head, but he couldn't get the image of the flat, muscled planes of Sherlock's chest out of his head.

(This was bad, this was very, very bad.)

He tried to focus on pulling on his pyjama pants. When he was done, he turned to head towards the bathroom to brush his teeth. As soon as he turned around, Sherlock quickly snapped his head away, his eyes dark and his face flushed, as if he'd been watching John out of the corner of his eye the same way that John had watched him.

But he hadn't. Hadn't he?

(Of course not.)

When they had both finished getting ready, they stood uncomfortably on opposite sides of the room. The bed was a bit bigger than the narrow beds at school, but not by much.

"Do you want to-"

"It's your bed, you should go first."

"Right. Right. Yeah, right."

"If it's going to be this uncomfortable the entire night, I should just sleep on the floor."

"No! No, I mean, there's no reason for that. Just. Um. Come here."

Sherlock hesitated a moment and then slid in next to John. The bed was narrow and they were pressed together shoulder to thigh.

"This isn't as bad as I thought it would be," John said, looking at the ceiling rather than at Sherlock.

"John." Sherlock's voice was a low rumble against John's skin.

"What?"

"You're elbowing me."

"Oh. Sorry."

They lay there for a few minutes more, side by side, not speaking. John's eyelids began to grow heavy and he was nearly asleep when he heard Sherlock's voice, hardly even a whisper against the back of his neck.

"You are wonderful."

He woke just once, in the middle of the night, wondering in his sleepy haze what the warm weight wrapped around his body was. Sometime in the middle of the night, Sherlock had shifted over to John's side of the bed, one leg thrown over John's, his arms locking securely around John's middle. A hand had snaked up John's shirt to rest broad and warm on his stomach and his face rested in John's hair, his lips almost but not quite touching the back of his neck.

It was incredibly intimate and absolutely amazing and John felt strangely secure.

(He also felt heat pooling low in his stomach, but he tried his best to ignore that. He didn't even want to think of what would happen if it got out that he found being in such close proximity to Sherlock arousing.)

To hell with the consequences, John decided.

He nestled in closer and in his sleep, Sherlock's arms tightened around him, his lips making nonsense words on the sensitive skin on the back of John's neck.

It was the best that John had ever slept.

When he woke up, Sherlock was already awake, bent over John and peering down at him curiously.

"Did you know that with two people sharing a bed, the shorter partner, in this case yourself, often-"

John rolled over and clamped his hands over his ears with a groan.

"Too bloody early for this, Sherlock. And have you been watching me sleep all morning?"

"Yes. No. Maybe."

"That's really creepy, you know that?"

So they had slept together and yet somehow nothing had changed.

The rest of the day passed quietly and before long, they were on the train back to school. Harry had passed out within the first five minutes, her small form stretched out across two seats. Sherlock sat quiet, staring out the window, John fidgeting with his mobile.

Suddenly there was a weight in John's lap and he looked down to find that Sherlock had spread himself out across the seats and used John's legs as a pillow.

"Don't bother trying to get me to move," he said around a yawn. "I won't."

"Don't worry. I wouldn't try to make you."

"Good."

After a minute, he rested his hand carefully in Sherlock's hair. When he made an approving noise, John began to run his fingers through it. The curls were soft and thick and he could feel himself being lulled to sleep by the peacefulness of it all.

"I meant what I said last night, you know," Sherlock mumbled.

"Mmm? What's that?"

"That you're wonderful."

"Oh."

(John thought that Sherlock was pretty wonderful too.)

When they got back to school, Molly was sitting on a bench outside of their building, face tucked into her scarf against the cold. She waved a hand in greeting, which Sherlock ignored in favor of walking into the building, but John slowed down to talk to her.

"You'll freeze out here, Molls," he said, huffing a warm breath into his hands.

She laughed. "It's fine. I'm waiting for Jim. He's taking me out."

"Oh really? That's nice. Where're you two going?"

"No clue. So, where'd you two disappear to this weekend?" Her tone was teasing, insinuating and John felt himself bristle slightly.

"He…er, he came to London. With me. To visit my family."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Yes. Shut up. I know what you're thinking."

"John-"

"Really, Molly we're not…we're not like that. He's not- well, he's Sherlock."

Molly's face instantly dropped her teasing smirk, softening with concern and a look of exasperation, a why haven't you figured this out yet?

"John. Have you even seen the way he looks at you? He's completely, hopelessly besotted and from the way you're blushing, I'd say you are too."

"It's the cold. And I'm not…he's not…"

"He is," Molly said, fixing him with a firm look. "I've known him for years and I've never seen him act this way with someone. You really should talk to him about it, because he won't, and it's obviously making the two of you miserable.

"Er…yeah. Have fun on your date. I'll see you later." John shoved his hands in his pockets and began to walk away, taking quicker steps than normal.

"Think about what I said!" was Molly's shouted goodbye.

There was no way that she was right about this. This was Sherlock that they were talking about, Sherlock who was cold and who was impatient and who certainly didn't get besotted with anyone, least of all John.

No, she had to have been imagining it and there was no point in getting his hopes up. He dug his nails hard into the ball of his fist as he made his way up the stairs.

When he reached the top of the stairs, there was the loud slam of a door at the end of the hallway, and then a familiar long-legged mass of black curls hurtling at top speed towards him.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

But there was no response; Sherlock pushed past him down the stairs.

John made his way cautiously down the hall to the room, sniffing the air around him for the slightest hint of some sort of noxious chemical that might've caused Sherlock to bolt. But there was nothing, no hint that anything at all was wrong

He pushed open their door carefully, slowly but once again everything was sound and secure. For once, an experiment wasn't monopolizing the room, their beds were neatly made, his desk cleared off with his letter opened and lying in the center.

Wait a minute.

There was a sudden, cold weight in John's stomach that took root and spread its tendrils all across his body and his mouth opened around a silent litany of oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Sherlock had found the letter.

Sherlock had read the letter.

Sherlock knew.

He was worried for a minute that his legs would give out from under him and he staggered out to the hallway, slumping against the doorframe with his head resting in his hands.

Sherlock knew. Sherlock knew and now John had ruined the very best friendship that he'd ever had.

Fuck. He hoped, at least, that Sherlock wouldn't try and force him to move out of the room with only a few months left before the end of the school year. This was bad, this was very, very bad. He groaned.

(So that was why Sherlock had bolted. Didn't want to be around John, didn't want to deal with feelings, emotions. Figures. And it was exactly what John deserved for hoping for a split second that Sherlock might actually return his feelings.)

There was the sound once more of the door from the stairway opening and then footsteps down the hall. He could've recognized the sound of the footsteps anywhere and suddenly his panic was replaced with anger. Sherlock had to have known that the letter was private. It had been hidden, tucked away in his book but he had completed disregarded that and gone ahead and read it.

"I can't believe you," he said in a low voice, standing up as Sherlock approached. "I really fucking can't. That was private, Sherlock."

"You shouldn't have kept in in the room, then." Sherlock's tone was condescending but his eyes wouldn't focus on John's.

John clenched his hands into fists and tried his best not to punch him.

"Sherlock, I thought I was going to die, do you understand? I was a little incoherent and I think I've got more than a little right to keep my dying thoughts private."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"The letter was addressed to me, in case you've forgotten."

"You know what, Sherlock? I really don't give a fuck. I really don't."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Shut up, John."

John took a step towards Sherlock, staring up at him with a blazing sort of anger, jabbing a finger hard into his chest.

"Make me."

And suddenly Sherlock's hands were fisted in the collar of John's shirt and John felt himself being tugged inside the room, Sherlock shutting the door with his foot and pushing John hard up against the wall. They stared at each other for a long, heated moment and then suddenly, just like that, Sherlock's lips were pressed firm against John's.

John could do nothing but stand still in shock for a moment, but then Sherlock's tongue swept across his bottom lip and his mouth opened almost involuntarily and suddenly he found that he was kissing Sherlock back.

Sherlock's hands let go of his collar to rest in his hair and on the back of his neck. The kiss was a wild, frenzied thing and John's hands pressed and moved over Sherlock's back and shoulders.

It was amazing. It was perfect and it was glorious and it was everything that John had wanted and so much more. He had no idea why it had taken him so long to do this, this thing that they should've been doing from the start. Sherlock was wonderfully responsive, making soft little noises every time John did something that he liked, which seemed to be often. What Sherlock lacked in finesse, he made up for in sheer enthusiasm and there was soon a pleasant, low thrum of arousal in John's belly.

Just when the kiss appeared to be becoming something deeper, Sherlock pulled away, still entwined with John, but enough so that their mouths were no longer pressed together. He looked amazing like this, all tousled dark curls and kiss-swollen lips and John couldn't resist leaning forward to press another kiss to his mouth, grinning a little at the pleased flush across his cheeks that it created.

"How could you not know?" Sherlock's voice was hushed and shaky. "From the start, John, from the very start."

John was about to ask him what this meant when his mobile, tucked inside of the pocket of his jacket, started to go off, completely shattering the mood.

"I should…er, I should get that."

Sherlock nodded, his mouth pressed in a thin line. Whatever magic that had been before had been shattered.

As soon as John held his mobile up to his ear, the voice began to speak, not even bothering for him to say anything first. It was vaguely familiar, though he couldn't quite trace it.

"Listen to me, Johnny boy, because I'm only going to say this once. Don't react to this phone call at all. When I'm done speaking, you're going to hang up, take the copy of Grimm's that I know that you and Sherlock have, and go towards the field about halfway between the school and the town. Don't tell Sherlock anything about the call or where you're going and come alone. I'll know if you do otherwise. Now say, 'and why would I do that?'"

John felt a prickle of nervousness in his stomach, but he pressed forth regardless. "And why would I do that?"

"I'm glad you asked. Perhaps you might like to ask your friend Miss Hooper? I'd let you speak to her, but I'm afraid she's out cold at the moment. Come alone with the book if that's all the harm you want to see inflicted on her tonight. Be there within the hour."

There was the click of whoever was on the other end hanging up and John was left standing in the center of the room, feeling sick to his stomach.

He had Molly. He had Molly and he was going to hurt her and oh god this was his fault.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was nonchalant but there was an undercurrent of concern. "Is everything alright?"

John gave a smile that didn't feel quite right on his face. "Fine. Everything's fine. I just need to clear my head. I'm going to go for a walk."

Sherlock made a scramble for his coat. "I'll come with you."

John shook his head, dreading having to leave Sherlock behind. "I'd rather go alone, if you don't mind.

Sherlock slumped a bit, frown tugging at his mouth in spite of himself.

"Oh, that's…fine."

Something in John's chest twisted at the sight of Sherlock like this, but he forced himself to press forward, for Molly's sake.

And when he walked out the door, he didn't let himself say goodbye.

The field was chilly and seemingly empty, covered with a thin layer of slush. John waited for a moment for someone to appear, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat. For whatever reason, someone had taken the time to dig a decent sized hole right in the center of the field and he stared at it as he waited, until he was about to shout for the unseen kidnapper to reveal himself.

"Ah John, so nice of you to join us. Glad to see that you didn't bring your boyfriend along." It was Jim Moriarty, the innocent mask from the previous weeks dropped in favor of something cold and reptilian.

"You?"

He chuckled.
"Yes me. Surprised you didn't figure it out sooner. But I suppose Sherlock is the brains in your relationship."

John fought to keep his voice calm and level.

"Where's Molly? I swear, if you hurt her-"

But Jim just chuckled again and held out his empty hands.

"As far as I know, Molly's safe and sound in her room. Really, you ordinary lot can be so damn gullible sometimes. Ridiculous."

"Jim, this is…sick. Really fucking sick. And seeing as Molly's safe, I'm leaving."

Jim made an exaggerated frown.

"I was rather hoping you wouldn't say that. But of course, that's what dear Sebastian's for."

John didn't even have the time to ask who Sebastian was before he caught a glimpse of the wiry, blond boy from before, who was suddenly in front of him and wielding a pistol. There was a sudden, sharp crack that sounded like it was coming from inside of his head and then everything was gone.

Sorry about the cliffhanger, but this is the last one, I swear!