Okay then. Sorry about the wait for this chapter. I'm not quite sure about it, but I tried rewriting it, and it just didn't work, so I'm taking the plunge and hoping for the best!
In the first week of being back from the flat, Sherlock was fairly quiet. He didn't move much, complaining loudly every time he was forced to do so. John could tell that apart from the pain, Sherlock was finding it hard to be unable to run, and move with his normal fluid and graceful motions.
The bruising was just beginning to go down, and John thought the bone was knitting well. He'd check it everyday, for two reasons.
One, and the more professional one, was that he wanted to make sure no harm was going to befall Sherlock through lack of care.
But also, because it gave him a brief moment to touch that gorgeous, smooth chest. He knew he shouldn't. He tried to tell himself he wasn't. But it was no good.
He was smitten. He'd always thought Sherlock was handsome in a sharp kind of way. Now he seemed to be irresistible. His eyes, like tiny silver circles, and so bright. And his aristocratic face, with the perfectly formed nose, and sharp cheekbones. And his curly hair, which looked so soft... His lips, and he knew exactly how soft and warm they were.
Not good.
It had been those few moments of pure fear. Thinking Sherlock was gone. He knew he wouldn't be able to go on if Sherlock went. Sherlock was his anchor. The person that made him feel alive.
And the thought of loosing that... Nothing else mattered. What people thought. What he himself even thought. Nothing at all, except for Sherlock's cloud grey eyes to look at him again.
And that momentary freedom from all the things that weighed him down seemed to have let out some new feelings. Ones he had been suppressing for a long time.
So now he was in a predicament. He could barely keep his eyes of Sherlock. Wanted nothing more than to curl up in his lap and stroke his hair. And Sherlock was bound to notice at some point.
And then what would happen to their friendship?
Sherlock wouldn't want to keep him around if he knew he was falling for the him. He would be even more of a liability than before. And Sherlock couldn't afford to have liabilities.
He had also been thinking about what the two brothers had been speaking about. Remember what I have said, Sherlock. And remember what a Holmes' strength is. What was that all about? He almost wished he'd eavesdropped on the conversation.
He really had no clue. It could mean anything. He knew what he hoped it was. But didn't dare admit it to himself, in case he was wrong. Which he almost certainly was. Because, as Mycroft had effectively said, Holmes' didn't care.
So now he was trapped inside 221b with the new centre of his thoughts, unable to get away often, and fearing that with every word he spoke, Sherlock would realise he was harbouring feelings.
And despite the fact Sherlock had kissed him once, and almost done the same again, he didn't seem to be showing any interest whatsoever now. It had obviously been some kind of experiment. Because Sherlock Holmes did not have romantic feelings.
By week two, Sherlock was able to move around comfortably, though not get into any of the extreme position's he generally contorted himself into. John felt fairly happy about leaving the detective by that point. He couldn't do himself any major harm, and at the same time, could do what he wanted and get what he needed.
So he arranged a date with Suzie, because he'd not seen her for two weeks. She was, to say the least, annoyed. But Sherlock took priority. Always.
He was hoping that spending time with Suzie would wean him of Sherlock. And hopefully he could forget about these new feelings. He was supposed to be straight, for gods sake. But apparently he wasn't. It was unnerving to say the least.
Sherlock wasn't best pleased when he said he was going on a date, but John assumed that was because he didn't like being ignored.
He met Suzie at the same restaurant as before, and they had a very enjoyable meal together. Though there was not a peep from Sherlock. A fact that rather annoyed John. His phone lay on the table the whole evening, and it didn't buzz once.
Suzie had questioned him slightly about Sherlock, and he had answered as quickly as possible, in case she realised the truth. They parted with a brief kiss, so unlike Sherlock's 'experiment' thirteen weeks ago.
That had been full of feeling and care, dare he even say passion. His and Suzie's kiss was brief, to the point, and more out of duty on his side. In short, it felt wrong.
He returned to find Sherlock locked away in his room, apparently asleep.
The detective seemed even more aloof than usual at the moment. Not deigning to talk unless necessary, and barely glancing at him
Week three, and another date later, Sherlock was going stir crazy. He'd apparently done every experiment possible. John had already been commissioned to go out to the morgue and charm Molly into giving him a digestive tract.
Why Sherlock didn't go himself, he didn't know. The rib was doing well, and he could walk around quite easily. He and Suzie were getting along nicely, though John knew he could never love her as much as she deserved. He would have to break it off at some point, before he went to far.
Sherlock was particularly morose, glaring at the wall for hours on end, and then starting about a mile when John broke his train of thought. He wasn't sure what was wrong with the detective, apart from 'no case syndrome'. And the symptoms of that were generally much louder, and more expensive.
It was a date night when Sherlock gave a snarl of frustration, and rose to his feet.
"I'm going to the yard." he said.
John hesitated, then nodded, grabbing his coat. His date wasn't until six o'clock, and it was currently two, so there was plenty of time. They walked slowly down on the pavement below, Sherlock latching himself on John's arm, a new habit of his. John liked the firm feeling of Sherlock's fingers round his wrist, and had never complained.
He supposed it was something to do with Sherlock feeling off balance because of his ribs. It was the only actual contact he ever got with the detective, except for the rib examination.
Sherlock hailed a cab, and carefully climbed in, John following and slamming the door shut. Sherlock stared dreamily out the window, while John watched him out the corner of his eye. One of the small pleasures he allowed himself.
They arrived at the yard, John helping Sherlock out the cab, a service he wouldn't normally offer, or Sherlock would accept. Then Sherlock took his arm again, gave one the those smiles which were like gems, and steered John up to the building.
They entered Lestrade's office, Sherlock bypassing the normal security measures. Lestrade, to his credit, didn't look surprised to see them, just giving a sigh.
"I've got a case for you. Murder. It'll have to do. I've got one of my officers down there, he'll let you in." Lestrade said wearily.
They got the address, and were off again, finally arriving outside a derelict building. Crime scene tap covered almost every available surface, and a forensics team were routing around in the garden. Sherlock stepped out, waited for John, and together they made their way over.
"Sorry sir, no civilians beyon-" a guarding policeman began.
"Get whoever's in charge here." Sherlock snapped, drawing an steady breath and holding his side for a moment.
The officer sighed and scurried off, Sherlock taking John's wrist in his bony grip again.
"You said it would be better by now." he complained.
"I said six weeks, not three." John reminded him.
A tall, lanky officer with straight brown hair, and a bemused expression walked over.
"Who are you?" he asked Sherlock, giving him a look John didn't like one bit.
It was a hungry kind of look.
"Sherlock Holmes. I think Lestrade will have told you about me." Sherlock said, not noticing the spark in the man's eyes.
An increasingly hostile feeling John however did. That's the last thing I need. He thought moodily. Getting jealous because some policeman gave Sherlock a look.
"Oh yes. He did say. It's an absolute pleasure to meet you." drawled the man, holding out a hand.
Sherlock sniffed, taking the hand, and wiping it on his coat afterwards, a gesture the man didn't fail to notice.
"I'm detective inspector Furrow." he said, giving Sherlock a smile.
"This is John. My friend." Sherlock replied, tightening his grip on John for the briefest moment.
John smiled at Furrow testily, jealousy still turning a hole in his stomach.
They entered the house, Sherlock immediately releasing John's wrist, and staring round the living room. It took him seconds to drop onto his knees, sniffing the carpet. Furrow, with a purposeful glance at John, sauntered over to him, and knelt beside him, resting an 'unobtrusive' hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck.
The pale detective flinched, but apparently subconsciously as he didn't stir from his positioned, raking the carpet gently with his long spindly fingers.
He muttered something, and Furrow leaned closer so that his breath must be tickling Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock jumped to his feet, pacing around with a frown, though not one induced from Furrow's outrageous behaviour.
John gritted his teeth, trying not to let his face betray his emotions. He'd lasted three weeks without letting Sherlock know, and he wasn't about to fail now because he was jealous.
As he had noted earlier, Sherlock wasn't interested in that kind of thing, and detective inspector Furrow wasn't going to change that.
Ten agonising minutes later of watching Furrow constantly 'accidentally' touch Sherlock, and his friend paying no heed, John went into the garden to wait. He didn't want to punch Furrow's face in. It would be a bit of a give away.
He watched the forensics scientists poke around in the grass for five minutes, before feeling calm enough to re enter the house. He heard talking in the kitchen, and headed slowly along, composing his face.
He didn't compose it enough for what he found. Furrow had backed Sherlock into a corner, and was kissing him.
Kissing Sherlock.
The younger detective was looking slightly panicky, his grey eyes fluttering. John snarled, stalking over and shoving Furrow off his friend. Sherlock immediately staggered back, clutching his chest and wheezing, and Furrow glared at John.
"How dare you." he snarled, curling his fists into balls.
Furrow sneered. Not turning, John glanced at Sherlock, who seemed to have recovered himself slightly. The bastard had overpowered Sherlock because of his ribs. It would only take a hard shove to immobilise Sherlock. John cast Furrow a death glare.
"I will be talking to Lestrade about this." he snapped.
"He had it coming. And he wanted it." Furrow growled.
John was about to punch Furrows nose in, when Sherlock lightly touched his shoulder. Just a little touch, and John dropped his hand with a regretful snarl.
"It was a suicide, John." Sherlock announced from behind him.
John would have rolled his eyes if he wasn't so angry. Trust Sherlock, of all people to be totally unaware of the situation.
"Let's go." he snapped, hauling Sherlock from the room.
He would get him home, check those ribs, having a calming cup of tea, and call Lestrade. Sherlock happily babbled about how he knew it was suicide on the taxi ride him, John barely paying any attention.
They finally arrived at the flat, the cabbie apparently endlessly relieved to be rid of them. Then John marched Sherlock upstairs and sat him down. He was making tea, when he felt hands slid round his waist, pinning him to Sherlock's chest.
It was all John could do to actually breath as he felt Sherlock's breath on his ear.
"Are you alright John?" he asked, voice low and soft, seductive even.
"Y-yes." John squeaked, shakily putting some tea bags into the mugs.
Sherlock's grip tightened, and John felt a strand of his curly hair brush his neck. It sent a shiver down his back. If Sherlock didn't let go soon, he was going to fall apart.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, suddenly stepping back, and pulling John round to face him by his good shoulder.
John didn't trust his voice, so just nodded, refusing to meet those grey eyes. Sherlock wasn't having that though, and took his chin, tilting it up so John had no choice.
His eyes were slightly narrowed in concern, the grey depths displaying many different emotions. Each of them proclaiming the fact Sherlock didn't care was a lie. John swallowed nervously, unclogging his blocked throat.
"I'm fine, Sherlock." he said uneasily.
Sherlock stared into his eyes, shifting oh-so slightly. His eyes dropped for a second, before rising to meet John's again, some kind of internal battle making them flutter.
This was it. Sherlock must realise. John closed his eyes, and waited for the exclamation of horror which would surely follow Sherlock's realisation.
What actually happened was quite different.
He felt Sherlock's arms wind round his waist, drawing him close, and after a heart beat, Sherlock's lips met his.
There! Next chapter, I'll get things sorted out :p Reviews are superb and fabulous :D I love them, and they really motivate me to keep going.