A/N: I am planning to extend this a bit. It's a pleasure to write John and Sherlock. For those familiar with the Sherlock's fall-survival theories out there, you will recognize why I am including the plants black market here... also it has to do with the case of Hansel and Gretel on the fall episode. Not official, just another theory.

A curious author note. Each time I write Mycroft's name, unconsciously I wrote Mycrosoft or Microsoft (C) lots of times... had to use Ctrl+F to replace them all. ¬¬

Oh, did I tell you, that I shamelessly enjoy reading your reviews? =D


CHAPTER ELEVEN – Threshold


The cafe was almost empty. It was nearly ten in the morning and John sipped on his mug and tapped the table impatiently. It wasn't usual for Mycroft being late, and he had to meet Sherlock in about an hour. But if John could obtain some information from Mycroft, the course of the investigation could really change for good.

He saw a figure coming through the door of the shop; Mycroft wore his usual attire, a folder in one hand. When he spotted John, he slowly made his way to the table. John knew he was being observed. He knew Mycroft was scanning him, the same reading his brother does... he was so used to it already that it was a familiar feeling by now.

"I presume you're aware why I called you here today..."

"Oh, no clue." John lifted his brows; he pulled a very innocent expression as he sipped on his tea without taking his eyes from Mycroft's. He knew that look always made Sherlock say 'as always you see but you do not observe!' Maybe it could make the older Holmes to lose his patience as well.

"You have to tell my brother to stop participating in any case Scotland Yard asks him to. Especially if the case goes against my client's wishes."

"Your client." John never changed his innocent expression. Mycroft sighed exasperated. 'Oh yes, it works with both Holmes.'

"I assume you're not aware of everything that's happening here, John..." right in that moment, a waitress approached them. Mycroft remained silent. John asked for another tea, just to prolong the moment; to shake the older Holmes a little off his comfort zone. Mycroft asked for a black coffee, and proceeded as soon the waitress turned her back to them. "I told you before: my brother is a very important personality..." John frowned at that, placing his mug on the table. Mycroft just carried on, "... he is brilliant. But I think you have a better hold of his..." Mycroft closed his eyes a bit, and managed a very poetic face, "...emotional integrity... if you might call it that way."

"I think either of us could tell how Sherlock feels." John exhaled, "I think we discussed this already with Irene Adler's case." The doctor's expression was a serious one now, time for playing innocent was over.

"I am going to ask the same question, Doctor Watson..." Mycroft smirked, "What might we deduce about his heart?" John's eyes were on Mycroft's still. At the question, John thought thoroughly the answer. He furrowed his lips in a nervous gesture.

"Sherlock is a human being, Mycroft. I think he is capable of feeling just like anyone else." Mycroft made a little smile.

"How can you be so sure?" At the question, John had to make every mental exercise he knew to remain calmed, he counted to ten. He was certain that even a flinch in his eye would let him exposed. Again, he took his time to answer.

"I live with him." Both gazed locked. The coffee and the tea arrived but none of them seemed to mind.

"I presume you made your decision, then." Mycroft lifted a bit his chin as he spoke.

"I told you before, I am not going to leave Backer Street."

"And of course, my brother already knows that."

"Of course, yes." John nodded. His thumb toyed with the mug handle slowly. He wanted, badly, this conversation about Sherlock's feelings to end. He was sure Mycroft could even figure out... "You know," John said, casually, "you really should stop treating Sherlock as if he were a kid."

"Oh but he is." Mycroft took a sip from his coffee and continued, "You know he ruined the plan we had for the missile involving Irene Adler and James Moriarty. It took only a minute, even less, for him to spoil the whole plan we had arranged in months!" his voice had risen a bit and he lowered it down again. "He loves to show off, he could – and he would – do anything to prove how clever he is." John felt that last sentence as a kick in his stomach. He had teased Sherlock more than once with that very same phrase. Then he would add because he was stupid enough for that.

"What about the new case? What could he possibly spoil now?" John took a sip from his new cup of tea.

"The case you're working on right now has nothing to do with you."

"Explain."

Mycroft gave another exasperated sigh, clenching his jaw quickly.

"This case..." he said, pointing his index finger to the table, "has the potential of exposing a whole new group of drug dealers. It may even be an international case. If we fail this, we might have nothing at the end to proceed with. You already exposed one of my men to the police. He's on prison now and they are asking questions. I have people working on the matter before he really talks."

John cleared his throat, nervously. He couldn't follow everything Mycroft was saying. Sometimes when talking to Sherlock or Mycroft he felt... brainless, as if they were talking something so obvious for them, but for them alone. He tapped his fingers on the table again.

"Does this have to do with Moriarty?" John asked the question. He had done it and he could hardly believe he had the nerves for it.

"We can't tell..." Mycroft sipped his coffee and saw John expression, clearly unsatisfied with the answer, "...and even if we could, I wouldn't. You just can't know it all, now can you?" Mycroft smiled gently.

John sighed loudly. "Why was the homeless bloke following us the other day?" Mycroft smirked at the question. The gesture was similar to Sherlock's. But, in John's mind, the gesture on Sherlock's features was even appealing – 'Appealing! Oh God...' –, but on the older Holmes, it was closer to a warning.

"Well..." Mycroft said, "...if Sherlock can have his... little gang of informers, I can have mine as well, don't you agree?"

They talked for about half an hour, John noted how Mycroft tried to elude the topic of Moriarty. He asked more than once, but the man in front was too much. Not in vain Sherlock had repeatedly said Mycroft was the British government.

**..**

John took a cab to 221B. It was late already and he had to meet Sherlock at the flat.

When he got there, he greeted Lestrade, who was about to enter the flat as well. As they walked upstairs, they heard a very bright violin melody, sounding much like gipsy music. John opened the door and Sherlock stopped the melody abruptly.

"You know, John, when sleeping on your right side, your snoring is less-" he turned around as he spoke, he saw John's exasperated face and Lestrade's amused one. "Oh."

"Sorry to interrupt, boys..." Lestrade lifted his brows looking at John, who had closed his eyes and thinned his lips, in an attempt to regain his patience back. "I didn't know you had a fixation in your flatmate's sleeping habits!"

"I fell asleep on the sofa, don't get the wrong idea." Was Doctor Watson's firm answer. He threw his jacket at the back of his armchair.

"What do you have for me, Lestrade?" Sherlock was calmed, cheerful even.

"I came to ask you to uh... retrieve... from this investigation." Lestrade scratched the back of his head waiting nervously for the answer. Sherlock glared at him humorously. Then his expression changed to a rehearsed smile very fast.

"No problem." John and Lestrade opened wide eyes and they eyed each other. Were they hearing right? No objections? What was the whole talking for, then? "If that's all, Lestrade, either please go away or give me a new case."

"No new cases today, Sherlock." He sighed relieved. He really didn't want to argue with Sherlock. Even when he found it odd, he just appreciated it and preferred not to give it so much thought. "I need to get some rest. I'll call you if there's anything new. See you later, boys!" Lestrade was already walking down the stairs. John got closer to the window and saw the DI taking a cab. He hadn't come in a police car. John was still confused by Sherlock's behaviour.

Sherlock took the violin again, turned to the window, and resumed the gipsy melody he was playing before. After a couple of seconds trying to put some order in his mind, John finally asked: "Sherlock...the bloody hell was that about...?"

Sherlock turned slowly and left the violin on the desk next to the window.

"I'm sorry, John... I didn't know Lestrade..."

"No, no I don't mean that... Sherlock. You just dropped a case? And you did know I wasn't coming upstairs alone."

"Oh." Sherlock made a side smile. "The case is solved, but I cannot let Lestrade know. I used your snoring as a distracting factor... not that it's a lie though, you should sleep on your right side." John frowned and sat on the sofa, Sherlock sat there as well in the same position he was last night; his legs over John's lap and his back on the armrest. John just sighed, rolled his eyes and supported his wrists over Sherlock's ankles.

"Why?" John asked finally.

"You were with Mycroft this morning, so I assume you already know everything there's to know." Sherlock's intense gaze was over John's face, he placed his palms together and supported his chin on his fingertips.

"I just wanted information, Sherlock. And he is the one that looks for me, you know."

"I know." Sherlock purred.

John sighed and paused. "He told me... we had to step away from this case, also you already cost him the case with Irene Adler... and told me this case has to do with-"

"Drugs." Sherlock interrupted. "It's a whole new group of drugs dealers... a big one, John." John nodded and Sherlock continued. "They are trying to go undercover and they were deliberately changing the drugs in the hospitals. Now the drugs are the usual ones though, but they lowered the price to rise up suspicions from the dealers, so they can lower their facade when they start to look for the guilty that is selling the fake drugs."

"Sherlock..." John couldn't help a surprised smile; he tried to catch how Sherlock had come to that conclusion. So that's what Mycroft was talking about. Why was it so hard to follow. "What about the homeless gang?"

Sherlock made a little frown when John started to toy with a little piece of fabric of his trouser. He was tapping and nailing his skin through it, and seemed completely unaware of his own actions.

"Oh, my brother was just trying to prove a point. The man they took to prison today appears as dead in the records..." Sherlock snorted, "Well, as dead as a man from the government can be."

"So he is not dead, then."

"He was never real to begin with."

John smiled surprised again, he was really interested in the case now. It seemed much more... fun to talk about it with Sherlock than the other Holmes... Wait. 'Christ, I just described a drug dealers' case as fun... I'm definitely damaged...'

"Sherlock... how did you know the drugs were the same, and only with a cheaper price?"

"I tested them in the lab. Molly can be a great help sometimes..." Sherlock allowed himself a little grin "...not good idea to burn them in a secluded space, though..." it was evident that Sherlock tried to repress a bigger grin now.

"Hang on... Sherlock, you can only get those supplies on a hospital, with an ID, a certificate, a signature, a doctor's-"

"Well John," Sherlock's facial expression was between a suppressed laugh, a grin and a smirk. All at once, John smiled just by looking at him, "today I met a lovely lady who was waiting for her son. I'm a gentleman you know, so I kindly offered to take his place... each passing day, sons are more and more unattached to their mothers, it's a shame!" but Sherlock's smiling face said otherwise.

"Sherlock..." John said, trying to make himself look and sound serious.

"It was just a little, John... nothing to be worried about." After a little pause he added, "It was completely necessary."

John giggled shortly at that.

"What happened in the lab?" John asked curious. Sherlock was about to answer when, unconsciously, John moved his thumb behind Sherlock's ankle. The detective startled and stiffed in his sitting position.

"Don't. Do. That." He warned. The words barely made their way out through Sherlock's clenched teeth. John took off his hand immediately from that spot when he realized the way he was touching the other man. With an amused expression on his face, he fisted his hands looking for a place to place them, hopefully away from Sherlock's feet. Finally, he folded his arms on his chest. "No... It's okay, John. Just... not there." Sherlock added.

"Sorry... what happened at Bart's?" John cleared his throat.

"Oh!" Sherlock snorted, "I had the drugs aside with a bunch of processed plants from the case we had before. The same sample you found in Netherlands. I had to burn the chemical to analyze the residue. The plant chemical and the drug from the hospital looked alike. When Molly entered the lab, she asked if I needed some help, and since I didn't have much time to spare, I accepted her offer and asked her to burn the chemical on the desk."

"And?"

"She burned the drug, obviously. Else that wouldn't have been fun." He answered with a shrug.

"Oh my... what happened?" As John got interested in Sherlock's narrative, he unfolded his arms and started to tap on his ankle again.

"Well..." Sherlock let out a little chuckle, "let's just say Stamford was very lucky to be there right at the moment. He has certain favouritism on her for a time now, despite being married, I must add. He'd got to take her home in a very compromising state."

"Oh... did you inhale any of it?" John had a grin on his face.

"No. I was far away, so I had enough time to press my sleeve over my nose as soon as I heard Molly's laughter."

"Hang on... if Molly burned the drug... how did you..."

"I had another sample."

"Sherlock...?" John's fingernail, despite being really short, managed to get deep into Sherlock's skin. The detective startled lightly. John heard a short 'hn!' and took a hold of his playful fingers again. He withdrew his hand quickly and added "...I don't think I need to tell you: if I find any drugs..." John looked around the room and to the mantel, his index finger raised in the air, "...I'll hide your skull and no desert for two weeks." Sherlock lifted his brows quickly.

"You won't find any." Sherlock said, serious. John glared with a hint of humour, but smiled genuinely when he heard Sherlock whispering "I don't do that anymore".

"Good." John cleared his throat. His eyes danced around the room. He really wanted to tease Sherlock after his new discovery. It was too much to resist. "So, ticklish, aren't we?"

"John..." Sherlock glared at him. "I really recommend you to not even t-"

Sherlock had to stop at the thumb that slowly touched the back of his anklebone. John was strong. He managed to get both of Sherlock's legs glued to his stomach with one arm, as he tickled that little spot with the other. The detective fought back, desperate, trying to get a hold of John's wrist but couldn't do it. John was impressed; Sherlock trying to fight a laugh was really hilarious. The way his nose wrinkled and his eyes clenched, clearly trying to regain his control back. But after a couple of seconds, Sherlock was breathing peacefully, his nose came back to its normal state and he was inhaling and exhaling deeply. His chest was going up and down, making the buttons of his shirt to tighten and loosen up with each intake of breath. John frowned at him, but kept on moving his thumb there. Then he joined the other thumb at the other ankle. There was no more fighting, only Sherlock's controlled breathing and really concentrated expression.

"Sherlock?"

"Shh... I'm trying to replace the tickling sensation in my mind." He said as if it was a big, important secret.

"Is that even possible?" John questioned, talking in the same whispering tone.

"Of course it is, John." He opened his eyes and added defiantly "Want to prove it?" John threw Sherlock a very grave expression and prepared to stand up.

"Ah, nope. Sherlock, I believe it would be imp-"

It was too late. Sherlock quickly took a hold of his wrist and stretched John's arm enough to reach the armpit. He moved his fingers teasingly over his jumper and John burst in laughter and gasps. The doctor was trying to regain his arm back, but it was a difficult task being now restrained by the strong, controlled man next to him. That, plus his weakened state caused by the tickling.

"Really, John. Try to concentrate." Sherlock had to speak louder now if he wanted to be heard by John. Then he moved his teasing fingers in a slower way, "If you do, it can come really in handy. If there's any case of pain, for example, to be able to control your body with your mind. Breathe!"

John clenched his eyes and gasped through the laughter and curses. His agitated state slowly subsided, being replaced by a slow and steady breathing. He closed his eyes gently now, as if to prove he was relaxed enough. When he did that, he immediately noticed how silent the flat was. The only noises that could be heard were his own breathing and Sherlock's calmed one.

"I think... that... this is the most stupid thing we've ever... ever done. I was tickled by Sherlock Holmes." He said opening his eyes and taking in the expression in Sherlock's face; it was a calmed expression, his eyes were smiling at him.

"It's not stupid, John." Sherlock released John's arm and giggled satisfied, coming back to his sitting position. His legs never left John's lap. "I told you before. The mind stimulation is necessary for body reactions. Now, involuntary body reactions, like tickles, pain, itching... sexual arousal... they are all possible to be controlled by the mind. It's a very simple chemical reaction, like drugs."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

"Interesting." John nodded while looking at some point in front. "I saw a video on the net a long time ago, about a bloke who entered a giant fridge-like camera. They also put a steak in there. After several minutes, the steak was frozen but the man wasn't... want to watch it? I'm sure I can still find it..." he said pointing to the laptop in front.

"I believe you, John. So what's the point? You already made me watch those little... creepy clips- You were really fond of those last year... remember the cat you made me watch twelve times?" Sherlock asked with a snort.

"The cat falling off the shelf..." John giggled as he remembered it.

"Twelve times, John!"

John grinned. Yes, he remembered they talked about that even in the blog's comments. Sherlock complained a lot for the constant references John used to make about their cases. 'This one is similar to this movie I saw...', 'oh this looks like this other movie', 'I saw something like that in a forensics' related night show'... he even made Sherlock watch James Bond, a 'Bond night'as he called it. All of the movies in one night, John himself had fallen asleep at the last one.

"You don't do that anymore." Sherlock's deep voice brought him back.

"Mm?"

"You used to talk a lot about movies and things you considered fascinating. You don't do that anymore." Sherlock sighed and added quickly: "Not that I miss it, though."

"Well, that was before, last year... I was just beginning to understand you, Sherlock. I wanted to know what you knew..." John smiled, "You know... I even made a list of the fields you have knowledge in."

"You did?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

"I did. My only conclusion was you didn't even know the earth moves around the sun..." John shook his head slowly with a smile, "I still can't believe that."

"Oh for God's sake..." Sherlock sighed, throwing his head back on the armrest of the sofa; the doctor followed his every move. Sherlock was still with his blazer on, but it was opened and now it hung from his sides, a deep blue shirt under that. As always, he had a couple of buttons loosed at the neck, the scarf was over a chair near the kitchen. He had taken off his shoes and socks, and his long feet were now supporting themselves on the doctor's lap.

John looked at him carefully. His neck was exposed and John saw, almost with horror, a faint, little red mark below Sherlock's left collarbone. He blushed at the memory. He had to look elsewhere and clear his throat to avoid his mind going back two nights ago. It felt like a distant memory, but if he evoked the sensations, they were all there, clear as water; Sherlock's voice, his skin's flavour, the grip on his back and arms, the steady rhythm that he – now knew – Sherlock liked, the amazing eyes darkened by his excitement... everything still there.

The detective had closed his eyes and his breathing was steady and calm. John deduced that Sherlock had gone far away deep into his mind. So he took one of the books that had him absorbed last night and continued his reading. He expected that the action kept his mind out of the memories, now threatening to stimulate him more than needed.

As a doctor, he was interested in the drugs and the effects they have in the human body. It seemed like ages he last read a medical book. The familiarity of the action made him feel at peace. He felt a bit like a teenager again; when those books were still a mystery and he had to spend long, sleepless nights trying to figure them all out. He had to read them aloud, have three or four extra books on his lap, a medical dictionary always at reach. Now he didn't need that anymore, he understood every word there, and could follow the book with ease, even when it was from an area that wasn't his expertise at the medical field.

Sherlock opened his eyes for a bit when he felt the movement over the couch and observed his friend. Unconsciously, he made a little tiny grin and his face softened. It was normal for him already to soften his face's muscles when it comes to the doctor in front; he had noticed this, of course. He remembered the first case they had together; John made his features soften that time. Sherlock used to look at people with his brows down, but he found himself smiling when looking at John. Maybe that was the reason behind the constant teasing from people around them. His brother teased him about John and even the homeless did now. Angelo was the first to do so, probably because he saw his relaxed expression that day.

He continued his thinking, when he felt how John's fingers started to move in little circles over his inner ankle bone, his little finger was brushing the base of his toe and ran all the way to that bone. After a couple of seconds, John's fingers ghosted by the rest of his feet and started to tap lightly. Then he nailed a bit. After some more minutes, he toyed with the fabric of the border of his trouser and nailed it too. Then he went back to the tapping. It was almost a nervous gesture John had, but he seemed so concentrated on the book that Sherlock knew for sure he wasn't aware of his actions.

Sherlock's softened features were slowly replaced by a frown again. He didn't want to give so much thought to the case today. He had recognized Moriarty's doing; he knew that, as a consulting criminal, he was behind the drugs and Mycroft was trying to hunt him down. Sherlock knew the criminal mind needed attention, he was aware of that. He constantly said that he loved those... mostly because he loved the expression of deception and triumph at the same time on their faces when they found someone clever than them, someone who was able to track them down. He had become a detective to help out; he knew he could use his gift– as his brother called their minds – for good, like Mycroft.

Mycroft of course had his own ways, but Sherlock was certain that all of his brother's doing was for a good reason. Not that he liked the control the older Holmes claimed to have over his life. But then again, it was his own way to believe that he was doing things right... that's why the detective had been surprised when Mycroft said that he and John could get killed.

As Sherlock went deep into his thinking, it had occurred to him this morning, how maybe all of this was necessary to stop Moriarty. It wouldn't be the first time Mycroft thinks faster than himself; he had been deceived by him twice, even... perhaps what Mycroft had told them was the real concern about his conclusions of all of the criminal's actions. Moriarty was playing a game that involved even The Woman. And Sherlock was the main part of it; a white match against the black one. A chess match; no matter how much the black pieces moved around the board, there was no use if the white pieces didn't move to attack – or to defend, for that matter – as well. The only way to stop the white pieces was to make the main piece, the king, to fall.

Sherlock knew what was coming; the only way to stop Moriarty was being gone.

Really gone.

When he had realized that fact this morning, after a lot of deep thoughts, and many rounds inside his palace, when all of the pieces finally fitted... Sherlock felt a stab right through his soul. There was no use for making the Queen – Mycroft – to fall, since the Queen alone never includes the jack mate. It was a privilege only meant for the king. He remembered the time when they were in Buckingham Palace; he said Mycroft was, apparently, the queen. He had disguised it as a joke, but his mind had come quickly to that because he always had seen things that way. Mycroft, being such a big part of the government, was finally what he represented, the very heart of the British nation: The Queen.

His thoughts were interrupted with a little pinch pain at his ankle area. John playfully and unconsciously, had taken a little hair from there and was playing with it, moving it between his index finger and thumb. The corner of his lips lifted a bit and again, he realized his features had a deep frown. It was even painful to move the muscles of his face. Looking at John made his face to soften again. He knew it, he felt it. Maybe that was the most hurtful thing. Now, he had allowed himself the luxury of feeling – yes, a luxury – and he found himself with the need to feel new sensations. He wanted to be able to control his body over more stimulations, he wanted to be able to let go of the control too, and leave everything in John's hands.

And John wasn't asking for anything. He wasn't asking for anything more than he could give. John wasn't like The Woman. John didn't need to try and seduce him to be with him, he didn't have to disguise himself by no using a disguise at all. He just let himself being scanned, because he had nothing to hide... and most importantly, John didn't do what Sherlock wanted him to do, John just followed what he believed was right and even if he had to step over Sherlock, he would still do it, no second thoughts.

Sherlock felt another pinch, this time almost on his knee. He noticed how John's hand managed to get under his trouser by the feet edge, and was now playing with some little hairs there. Sherlock snickered. He knew he didn't have much hair on his body, but his legs and arms had, and he couldn't help but find amusing how even those little things made him closer to John. His mind felt at peace even with this kind of little nothings.

"Having fun?" Sherlock purred, not moving from his position on the couch, his head was still thrown back over the armrest and his palms glued together still resting under his chin.

"Mm?" John turned to him and his mind slowly came back to the reality outside the book; his hand was buried inside Sherlock's trousers. Little leg hairs were now with impossible knots caused by his finger's friction. His little and ring fingernails left two red half-moon marks on his skin. "Jesus! I'm sorry, Sherlock..." John offered taking his hand away and passing his thumb over the two little marks, as if to erase them "I got a little carried away."

"No... uh... it's fine." Sherlock gulped and cleared his throat.

"Well... hm... it's past lunchtime." John said trying to change the subject and checking the time.

"I'm not hungry."

"We're going out to eat anyway."

**..**

Late at night John stared out the window. It was dark outside but he didn't bother in turning the lights on. After lunch, Sherlock had gotten a text, probably from Mycroft, and they had parted ways at the walking back home. He went to the clinic in the afternoon; they had called him to see if he was available for a shift tomorrow at the emergency room.

John knew why Mycroft wanted to talk with Sherlock. Even he had thought the withdrawal from the case had been way too easy; Sherlock never gave up a case so easily. All it was needed was a petition from Lestrade and he had complied right away. The doctor knew, even when thinking about that would do him no good, but knowing Sherlock was now talking with his brother pained him to no extents. He felt the need to protect the younger man, even in the case with Irene, even when it was tearing him inside, he had told Sherlock that she was alive and under a witness protection program, just not to see him suffer. That time, little red John had told him to say that, meanwhile little white John had told him to tell him the truth; Sherlock is a grown up man, he needed to know the truth. He had opted to lie, just to protect him, to protect his feelings. John knew Irene wasn't Sherlock's love interest, but he could still know he felt something strong for the woman, even if it wasn't love. But it was a sentiment he still had to protect. Mycroft had allowed him to choose. That time, John had the unpleasant feeling Mycroft didn't profess any kind of love for his little brother... but that wasn't quite true, was it?

John noted how, as he was thinking about Sherlock, his features were drawing a frown that went deeper each passing minute. He was doing what the detective used to do; compare data. Now, with the new case at hand, the one they had solved, he knew Moriarty had a plan for later. He would protect his friend. No matter the cost. Even if he had to lie, even if he had to play along Mycroft, he would protect Sherlock. He didn't want to be in the same position again, like that time at the pool. That time, John had felt weak. He had felt powerless against Moriarty, when his accomplices had arranged the bombs all over him, when they dragged him to the pool, when they told him the exact words he had to tell Sherlock 'else your boyfriend will BOOM!' He couldn't protect Sherlock and that nearly cost him both of their lives.

But Moriarty's mind was a mystery beyond mystery; you could say he was like Sherlock and Mycroft, but they had chosen the path to serve people, whilst Moriarty had chosen the path to be recognized, to be tested.

And Sherlock loved to be tested too, he was very aware of that. But Sherlock's self testing was over important matters. He never invented himself things to be tested and that's what made the big difference between the Holmes brothers and Moriarty. That's why he could never believe Donovan when she had said that some day he would get bored and he, himself, would be the one providing the body. That wasn't testing his intelligence... that would be cheating. And Sherlock hated cheating.

John heard the familiar sound of steps on the stairs deep inside his mind. He had gone into a slumber state and he felt too tired to get out of there. There was the common rustle of clothe and then a source of heat next to him, sitting on the sofa.

After a couple of seconds, John felt a known heaviness on his lap and he allowed his hands to rest over the new welcomed weight over his thighs. This time, he found curls around his fingers and he noticed Sherlock had switched his position. John was taken aback by his companion's unusual action, but he was almost sleeping now, so he just restrained himself to stroke the soft hair with his right hand, and rested the left one someplace over Sherlock's chest. Last thing he heard was a soft groan, a whisper forming his name and then chilly fingers over his left hand.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand lightly over his chest. He felt how his own heartbeat started to rise at the contact. He liked that contact. He liked the feeling on his own body at the closeness. The sole idea of losing that burned his soul; the conversation this afternoon with Mycroft had enlightened the big poster at the entry of his mind palace. Even though, it wasn't an awful conversation either. They even had coffee together, talked about government matters, Sherlock suspicions just proved to be correct about the drugs; it was a chess match where he and his brother played in the same side... different methods, but same side.

Unconsciously while he was thinking, he scrutinized every digit in John's hand; he observed his palm, his thumb, he passed his own thumb above a couple of scars. That simple action awoke little things inside his body and he got surprised once again on how he reacted, almost betraying his mind.

He knew that if he wanted, he should be able to control his body; all he needed was a minimum amount of concentration. Soon he realized he didn't want to. He welcomed the sensations, he wanted to feel more... like that night, when he allowed his body to do and react the way it wanted, according to the natural drugs it was releasing.

John's stroking on his hair and scalp was very soft now, Sherlock realized John was asleep, almost going into REM state, according on how his pupils moved below his closed eyelids. The light that came from the street lamp and his own dilated pupils caused by the darkness, were more than enough to have a good look at the doctor above him. His expression was peaceful; his hands were warm, like they always were. Sherlock just stared at him from below. He also noted that there was light stubble growing on his chin. His head was tilted precariously, almost hanging from his neck. His chin almost touching his chest; Sherlock knew the position would be a pain in the... neck, later.

"John..." Sherlock called quietly. The doctor didn't move. "John...!"

"Mm..." John threw his head back on the couch. When he did this, unconsciously his hand stroked the scalp on his lap again. Sherlock closed his eyes at that, but soon it was over. A loud sigh from the detective echoed on the walls of the darkened flat.

The battle that was forming inside Sherlock's mind was alarming. It was the first time he allowed his mind palace to fall into chaos... it was the first time he authorized his body to posses his mind. He didn't like it at first, but soon he found himself enjoying the feeling like a drug; it was nearly as addictive as nicotine. Endorphins, hormones. He had said once that love made a very simple chemical reaction – actually, love is just a chemical reaction; he had seen it in other people, The Woman, for example. And it had proven to be very dangerous for the power it held in the mind of the individual experiencing it.

When using nicotine patches, he felt his mind stimulated; the stimulus helped him to think faster and to make ideas materialise on their own, then he could contemplate them in awe, almost like it wasn't even his own mind. He felt the mindquake – equivalent to earthquake inside his mind – in the mind palace and he could see how the disaster left the answers there, in plain view. Now, with these other drugs, his mind felt the mindquake too, but this time he found the effect reflected all over his body. He didn't know if it started in his body and then it expanded to his mind or vice versa; the pituitary gland, he answered himself, but still, what prompted that little piece of brain to work, the main source of it... he couldn't know.

The detective rose up slowly supporting his palm on the armrest closer to John, his arm making an arc over the doctor's thighs. The action made the hand on his head to fall to his side and the other hand to fall over Sherlock's lap. He observed then John's peaceful expression; he heard his slow and soft breathing. He wasn't snoring, credit that to the current position, Sherlock made the mental note to let him know that tomorrow.

Sherlock supported his forehead on the doctor's shoulder and heard a soft mumble from the other's parted lips and a little sniffing sound. He sighed and his lips formed the word "John."

"Sherlock... your bloody... curly hair is tickling my nose..." the voice was sleepy and Sherlock could tell John was smiling lightly. The detective didn't move but a little snort let John know Sherlock was smiling now, too.

Slowly, Sherlock took John's hand and positioned it over his chest. John felt how the other man's heartbeat resonated inside his ribcage. John felt like trapped in a moment that was very intimate; there wasn't a sound inside the flat besides their breathing and the rustle of clothes against clothes.

Without words and without moving his body, John roamed his fingers from Sherlock's chest to the buttons of his shirt, he toyed with them for a moment. After a couple of seconds, he slipped his hand to entangle his fingers on Sherlock's curls in the back of his head, keeping Sherlock there. John rested his cheek over his soft hair. It felt like a hug. Slowly, Sherlock wrapped his right arm around John's shoulder. His left hand still supported him on the armrest next to John. The position was comfortable; their bodies seemed to mingle together. As John regained consciousness, his senses filled with the usual smell of Sherlock's perfume and his own scent, combined with something else.

"You were smoking..." he stated. There was no reprimand on the sentence, just amusement.

"I was with Mycroft." Was the mumbled reply against the wool of John's jumper.

"I know."

There was a sigh from the detective and John separated a bit his cheek from Sherlock's hair, Sherlock lifted a bit his face to look at the doctor and, quickly, little white letters floated around him: 'How are you feeling?' 'What did he tell you?' 'Were you right about the drugs?'... The detective smirked at John's silence.

"You're not going to ask?" Sherlock questioned staring into the other's eyes, they were extremely close; their noses were inches apart and neither of them seemed to mind.

"Is it necessary?"

"No. I wanted you to deduce."

"You're going to test me." John had a very quizzical look. Sherlock noted this and smiled lightly with a daring nod. "Okay." John cleared his throat and looked away from the distracting glance from his companion. His hand moved from Sherlock's nape to the armrest of the couch, finding Sherlock's hand in the process. Their hands were inches apart from touching and, for some reason, John found it thrilling and at the same time, he felt like a bloody teenager again. "Lets' see... first; you were right about the drugs dealer."

"Good. What else?" John lowered his sight to Sherlock and took a real hold on how close their faces were. He smiled shortly.

"God, you're... distracting... just... tell me what you want to share, Sherlock. I won't make you. Okay?"

Sherlock smiled again and came back to his original position with his forehead over John's shoulder. "I was right about the drugs."

John snorted and tilted his head back on the couch.

"Yeah, you had to show off, first thing."

"Of course I had, is what I do." John giggled and soon the sound was followed by a deeper one.

"You never stop to amaze me..." John shook a bit his head, never changing his position.

"I hope I never do" Was the throaty answer. They both smiled to themselves.

"It is a big thing... I mean the drugs dealing, Sherlock... it might not be the last time we hear of it..."

"Of course not. Now we know they are being tracked, it is essential to be cautious."

A couple of minutes passed and none of them seemed to want to move. Sherlock's forehead still rested on John's left shoulder.

"You comfortable there?" John dared to move his hand and touched lightly the other's arm and rested it on Sherlock's elbow, tapping lightly the bone.

"Very. It was incredibly chilly outside and I had to wait a long time for a cab..." Sherlock sighed and proceeded, "the cabbie who took me in was returning to his home, so he left me around five blocks from here..." the serious tone in which Sherlock was talking seemed incredibly humorous to John, who was visualizing an over grown kid sulking.

"Oh, you poor thing..." John joked and gave a small kiss on Sherlock's head. The detective snorted again.

"Shut. Up."

"You're warm now, though."

"Mm."

"I never thought you liked to cuddle."

"It is incredibly soothing."

"Great. I am Sherlock Holmes' personal teddy bear now." John cleared his throat and moved a little on the couch.

"I told you, you're huggable."

John snickered and Sherlock released the small grip he had on the doctor's shoulders. Again, he positioned himself with his head on John's lap and he stretched there.

"Wouldn't you rather sleep in your room?" The doctor never opened his eyes.

"Sleeping... sleeping is tedious, John." Sherlock took the phone from his pocket and started to browse over police station's sites, probably searching for a new case.

For a moment, John thought about going to sleep in his bed, but soon he decided against it. He was used to sleep anywhere and still manage a good night's sleep... he wanted to be near Sherlock, even if it was just for sharing the space like two kids, like this. Sherlock was right, it was soothing. Soon, he found his hand absently caressing the other's curls again, and the other hand over the detective's chest tapping over a button. He never knew if the feeling was real or a dream, but there were fingers brushing the back of his hand and this time, the fingers were warm against his skin.