A/N: Here you are, my beautiful readers - one to make up for the tiny one I posted yesterday. Reviews, comments and love are all so appreciated, I can't even put it into words. Love to you all, always!

Chapter Twenty-Five

"Eat your lasagne."

"No."

John pointed a fork threateningly towards his friend. "Eat it or I'll confiscate your cigarettes."

"I don't want to eat it. I don't like it."

Rolling his eyes and stabbing a piece of rigatoni far more passionately than was necessary, John shook his head in exasperation. "Then why did you order it?"

Sherlock shrugged, glancing to the side to stare out of the window. "I like your lasagne. This tastes different."

John was torn between annoyance and amusement, something he was quite familiar with these days; he'd spent so much time with the Sherlock in the last month or so that it seemed those two were fast becoming his two primary emotions. "From what I remember, Sherlock, you said that my lasagne was 'mediocre and tasteless'. That wasn't exactly a compliment."

"It was constructive criticism. You should have taken it as kindly advice and taken it as a challenge. That was my intention."

"So…" John thought about it for a moment. "You were actually trying to encourage me to make it for you again?"

Sherlock turned back to his friend, irritated. "Well, yes. I would have thought it was obvious."

John stared at his friend incredulously. "No… no, that wasn't obvious. At all."

Shrugging again and plucking a lighter from his pocket, Sherlock began to click the flame to life in full view of the whole restaurant. John leaned over quickly and grabbed it from his fingers, slipping it in the top of his shirt pocket and narrowing his eyes; Sherlock reacted as expected, throwing himself back onto his chair and folding his arms tightly over his chest.

"I'm bored, John! Let's go and do something, anything!"

"Why is it that you always get bored whilst I'm trying to enjoy a nice meal? You were the one who wanted to eat out tonight, Sherlock. Why do you bother to ask me out if you don't plan on actually eating something?" John violently stabbed a few more pieces of pasta, shoving them in his mouth and practically swallowing them without chewing; he'd learned quickly that if Sherlock was in one of these moods it was unlikely that he'd be there long enough to enjoy – or even finish – his meal. "We might as well have stayed at Well Place."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Interesting way to phrase it."

John chewed frantically on a few more tubes of pasta. "What?"

"Ask me out." The taller man's lips twitched. "I didn't realise this was a date, John, I would have worn a nicer shirt if I'd known."

"Very funny," John muttered, lifting his glass of water and lemon to his lips and taking a sip. "Let's keep those sorts of comments for Mycroft and Greg, though I admire your dedication to method-acting."

"Oh, didn't you know?" Sherlock began to poke at his almost untouched lasagne with a fork. "Greg thinks we're not in a relationship now."

The phrasing was off; it took a moment for John to figure out why. "You mean Greg knows we're not in a relationship now. Knows." He put his glass down and started to eat again, a little slower now that they seemed to be actually conversing rather than on the verge of leaving. "What changed?"

"He's actually not as unobservant as I first thought. He noticed how we were interacting during the drinking game on Friday and deduced that, due to your obvious discomfort and my apparent teasing, we aren't in a relationship." He began using the side of the fork to cut into the lasagne. "Needless to say I've managed to... convince him not to tell Mycroft."

John eyed his friend for a moment before slowly starting to eat again. "Right. Okay. Though, I have to ask…" He hesitated, not sure how to phrase it without sounding like an arse. "Is it really… necessary… to pretend anymore? Mycroft seems to be willing to put up with the idea of you having a friend now, and given that he's stopped being quite so insufferable recently I don't think we really need to keep up the act just to irritate him. You know? I'm sure you can see what I'm saying…"

Sherlock's eyes zeroed in on John's, intense as ever. "You think that we should just be honest with him?"

John nodded, relieved. "Yeah. Yeah, no point keeping the charade going when there's no need to exaggerate the situation anymore."

"Exaggerate the situation." Sherlock seemed to think on this for a moment. "I see. Yes, all right. I'll tell him."

Giving a genuine smile, John found himself relaxing a little more into his chair. "Good."

"Indeed. Are we going to talk about your counselling session yet?"

It had been almost an unspoken agreement between them that they wouldn't talk about it until John brought it up. Apparently Sherlock's patience had run out. "There's nothing really to say. He introduced himself, we sorted out my sessions for the next two weeks before term ends." He shrugged. "Not much else."

Sherlock looked away; John took it as a sign of begrudging respect of his privacy, which he appreciated. "Was he…" The curly-haired genius grimaced. "Nice?"

John's lips twitched at Sherlock's struggle. "It's not like it was speed-dating, Sherlock."

The look that flashed across Sherlock's pale eyes was odd; John couldn't quite identify it. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Quite right. Then did you at least find him acceptable to you as the means to an end of your depression?"

"I don't know. I didn't really go in there looking for a particular type of person. He was friendly enough, if that's the right word for it. A bit like you in some ways. Intense. Smiled a lot."

Sherlock shot him a sideways glance. "I don't smile a lot."

"I meant the intensity."

Once more Sherlock looked away, the usual dance of gazes that John still wasn't used to making him feel as if he couldn't quite keep up. The man was impossible to read sometimes. "I'm not intense, just focused."

"Well when you're focusing on me it feels intense."

As soon as John said it he wished that he could take it back, knowing as he did far too late what would happen; almost as if reacting to the constant use of the word the energy around them shifted and sharpened, a contradictory mass of intensity both binding them and separating them in continuous, undulating waves. John had to take a few moments to recover before he could force his hand down mechanically to the plate in front of him, scooping up what essentially was just creamy sauce and putting the paltry mouthful between his lips, chewing despite not needing to, anything to distract himself. Sherlock had resumed his gaze upon John, a mild flicker of interest sparking behind his eyes as he watched the older man's pointless pretence to eat.

Eventually Sherlock spoke, his tone slightly unsure. "Am I being intense now?"

John did not allow himself to look up, knowing the effect it would have on the tension. "Yes."

Sherlock was for a few moments. "Does it… are you uncomfortable? Does it make you uncomfortable?"

John put down his fork and dragged his palm over his face roughly. They were really having this completely unnecessary conversation. In a dimly lit restaurant. With a bloody candle in the middle of the table (because apparently even if John and Sherlock weren't on a date everybody else seemed to think that they were). It was difficult to think clearly with the heat and the tension and the warm food in his stomach. "I don't know, Sherlock." He looked down at his plate, fiddling with his cutlery. "It's not something I think about."

"You're not looking at me," Sherlock observed wryly, the heat of his gaze hot against John's discomfort, "so I assume that I do make you uncomfortable." He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing infinitesimally. "We need to change that."

"No, we don't need to change anything," John said with a sigh, forcing himself to look up and at Sherlock as if it were no difficult feat. It disturbed him that it was difficult. "It's just… like you said, you're focused. That's all. I'm just not used to people being so focused on me all the time."

"I'm not always focused on you."

"No," John responded patiently, determined to hold his own and be confident about it, "but when you are it's not something I'm familiar with. You know what people are like, they don't make prolonged eye-contact or spend a substantial amount of time trying to read someone -"

"There's no trying involved, I can always read you."

John gritted his teeth slightly. "Right. Fine. My point is that most people are too busy focusing on themselves or what's going on around them to really look at someone. Not everyone has x-ray vision, Sherlock. Not everyone looks at people the way that you do."

Sherlock kept his stare unwaveringly on him. "People."

John blinked. "Yes, people. Human beings."

For a while they simply sat staring at each other, John working hard not to look away and reveal his increasing discomfort and Sherlock seeming equally as intent, though likely not for the same reasons; the waiters bustled around them and took away their plates, the customers around them eating and talking and laughing like nothing was happening. Then again, John's mind said reasonably, nothing was happening. Sherlock was just being intense and John, as ever, was overreacting.

Finally Sherlock seemed to have settled his thoughts or perhaps had made up his mind about something, John couldn't really tell – when could he ever tell? Placing his hands flat on the table, the taller man stood up without a word, pulling his coat from the back of his chair and swinging it over his shoulders and sliding it onto himself with a small sigh of contentment. There was no scarf today; the coat itself was unnecessary, it was warm enough outside not to warrant the need for extra layers… still, Sherlock seemed to be a package deal, him and his coat, and John wasn't going to tease him about it. John had a favourite pair of jeans after all.

Not even bothering to wait for the bill, Sherlock threw two twenties down on the table and turned. "Let's go."

As usual, John had no say in the decision and simply did what he always did: he stood, grabbing his own light jacket, and followed Sherlock out into the dark street.

-X-

John ducked around a huge hunk of metal seemingly sticking out of the side of a building, edging his way around the damp alley with shallow breaths, the smell so terrible he could barely breathe in without feeling the desperate urge to gag. Sherlock's voice carried back to him as the man effortlessly navigated his way through the narrow cesspit.

"Keep up, John. And keep an eye out. If someone comes up behind you here you can almost guarantee that they are not your friend."

Breathing out a sigh of frustration (and trying to ignore the small burst of adrenaline that had been sparked by Sherlock's warning), John made a small leap over a pool of something dark and sticky, glancing quickly behind him before returning his apprehensive gaze back to the pathway in front of him. Well, pathway was a bit of a stretch. Obstacle course was more accurate. "It might be helpful if you could tell me where we're going, Sherlock. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy being taken through backstreets and questionable alleyways any day of the week, but…"

"I need to pick up a package from a friend."

John stumbled over a metal rod, throwing his hand out at just the wrong moment to regain his balance and having it connect searingly, painfully on a rusty something sticking out of the brick wall next to him; he inhaled quickly, hissing through his teeth as he pulled his wounded palm towards himself and tried to see the damage done. It was far too dark. The best he could do was grit his teeth, press his palm to his chest and hope for the best. "A package? What kind of package? And what kind of friend?"

Sherlock stopped at the end of the alley, waiting for John to catch up with him. "Just some information he's been collecting for me."

John repeated himself, the stinging gash on his hand beginning to throb. "What kind of friend?"

"Not the same kind as you."

"Yeah, well, I hardly thought they were your best friend." John finally came to stand beside Sherlock, still holding his hand to his chest. Sherlock looked down at it with a frown.

"What did you do?"

John pulled the hand away and glanced at it, shrugging. "It's nothing, don't worry."

Sherlock's eyes flickered down to his chest. "That's quite a bit of blood on your shirt. Do you want to go home? I can do this on my own."

Shaking his head, John attempted to subtly bring his hand back up to his shirt. "No, course I don't want to go home. I want to meet this friend of yours. Not your drug dealer, is he?" He attempted to make his tone light, breezy, but his mind was suddenly very much considering the possibility that Sherlock was stupid enough to bring him along on a drugs collection.

Sherlock's responding glare was answer enough. "Do you really think I'd be foolish enough to take you with me? If I was picking up drugs, John, you'd be the last person I'd tell, let alone bring along for the hell of it."

He turned to continue walking, but John reached out with his uninjured hand and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve tightly within his fingers – it was highly reminiscent of the last time they had done something whilst fuelled with adrenaline and the irony of his lack of inhibitions coming hand in hand with the rush that only Sherlock seemed to be able to provide these days was not lost on him. "Don't say that."

Sherlock stopped; his shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh, one that John did not miss. "Say what?"

John let go of the sleeve and stepped around the taller man until he could look Sherlock in the eyes. "If you ever are in a position where drugs are an option again, you have to tell me. You have to." He was deadly serious and he hoped that Sherlock could see that. His lips set in a grim line. "I'm not kidding around, Sherlock, I will kill you if you go behind my back to get heroin again, do you understand? It's not an option. It's never an option."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock went to move away again. "All right, no need to get all dramatic on me; you're worse than Mycro-"

"Sherlock." His voice echoed slightly in the darkness; John could feel the tension roll through his body like lightning, adding fuel to the adrenaline he was already experiencing and making him feel as if his skin was vibrating over his bones. "Don't joke. Don't pretend it's not a big deal. Just don't keep me in the dark."

Silence fell for a brief moment, before a single word. "Fine."

"Really? Because -"

"Yes, John," Sherlock interrupted with an audible sigh, turning and slipping his hands into his coat pockets, "that's fine. I will tell you."

John squinted, not completely sure whether to trust him. "…okay. So we're clear?"

Sherlock nodded and motioned towards the open space of darkness in front of them. "Can we continue?"

John moved out of his way. "Yeah."

"And don't shout out my name like that again, if you don't mind," the ever-condescending genius spoke from above him, beginning his stride once more, "who knows who lurks in these parts? I wouldn't want any of my arch-enemies to know I'm here."

John couldn't help the snort that slipped out. "And you think I'm dramatic."

"No, I know you're dramatic. You just don't yet grasp the gravity of the effect my name can have within the underbelly of London."

"Because you're so well known down here…"

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly, rounding the corner and entering what seemed to be a long, dark tunnel. "I am."

The two of them walked in tense silence for at least a mile, John trying not to become slightly concerned that his hand hadn't stopped bleeding yet – the blood was starting to cool against his skin but that in itself was worrying enough considering it had soaked through the material he held it against and was now undoubtedly leaving a crimson smudge on his chest. He hadn't had a look at what he'd actually ripped the skin on, though it was probably likely to have been a nail or a screw or something similar; either way he was heavily risking an infection without proper cleaning and bandaging, and if the slow intensity of the throbbing was anything to go by it wouldn't take all that long to get into his system. He gritted his teeth, however, and said nothing. It went without saying that he shouldn't speak. Anything he said now would echo around the tunnel like he were speaking through a microphone.

Finally they stopped. John found himself starting to feel uncomfortably clammy, a tad lightheaded. His whisper was a little shaky. "Why have we stopped?"

Sherlock motioned in front of them. "He's here."

As if on cue, a figure stepped out of the shadows and began to make its way forward; it was a slow step, cautious, the bulky outline hesitant until they were about three metres away. John couldn't see any details bar the fact that it was obviously a man; the darkness shielded his face completely. He felt the tension start to roll over him again, his instinctual distrust and apprehension kicking in enough that when Sherlock moved to take a step forward he thrust his arm out, blocking him.

When Sherlock spoke, John didn't need to see his face to know that he was smirking. "Calm down, I've dealt with him before."

A voice came out of the darkness, gruff, suspicious. "Who else is wiv you?"

"A friend," Sherlock replied back quietly, just loud enough that the two men could hear him. "He's no threat to you."

"Yeah? Then why's he here?"

Sherlock pushed John's arm out of the way and took two steps forward. The man did not move. "Not for the reason you're thinking, Lewis. We were having dinner and time got away with us. He wouldn't be here otherwise."

The man started to cough, a deep and throaty hack which sounded undeniably wet. John felt his jaw tense as the man spat out something to his side before turning back to the two of them. "How do I know he's not armed?"

"For goodness sake," Sherlock said, his tone utterly bemused, "we've been working together for two years, why would I risk ruining that now? When there's so much more to do?"

"Huh." The man was clearly considering this. "Well if you don't mind, Shezza, I'm gonna have to have a little look myself. Can't risk it, you know. Lotta enemies."

Sherlock sighed. "If you must. James?" He turned, seemingly looking towards John. "Would you mind stepping to join us? Lewis here needs to make sure you're not carrying anything that could do him any damage."

It clicked instantly that Sherlock was being careful not to reveal his name – lucky, really, as any hesitation on John's part would no doubt cause further suspicion and possible harm to the both of them. He took his steps resolutely, walking until he reached the space between them. He extended his arms, knowing that his willingness would no doubt work in their favour.

The man called Lewis walked towards him. "Ah, he's a nice one, Shez. Follows orders. I can see why you like 'im." In the dim light John could just about make out a round, craggy face, scars marring what looked to be at least half of his left cheek. Adrenaline helping along nicely, John's mind quickly processed 'Shezza', 'Shez' and the disturbingly Mycroftesque comment on his ability to follow orders; his jaw clenched again, though he was unsure whether it was to stop him from laughing or stop him from denying his willingness. "Didn't know you 'ad a boyfriend."

"Well, I wouldn't -"

"We're not in a relationship," John intercepted shortly, keeping his voice as calm as possible as the man advanced upon him. "We're just friends."

A little sigh came from behind him; the man who was now directly in front of him stared openly into his face. "Yeah. Yeah. Didn't fink you were gay, Shez. Sorry if I offended ya."

"Not at all," Sherlock said smoothly, staying where he was. "It's not me you need to be worried about offending."

John gritted his teeth and said nothing. Lewis reached out with his hands and began patting him down, eyes scanning his form searchingly until he finally stopped touching the now incredibly tense pre-med student, eyes lingering on the dark stain against his shirt.

"You bumped into one of your friends already?"

Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat. "If that were the case, Lewis, I expect there'd be far more blood on James's person, don't you think?" The two of them laughed in tandem, and the laugh was so unfamiliar from Sherlock that John had to fight the urge not to turn and stare at him whilst Lewis was still so intently looking at him. "No, he cut his hand on the way here."

"That alleyway," Lewis said with a shake of his head, stepping back from John and motioning for Sherlock to move forward, "it's fucking dangerous, it is."

"Indeed." Sherlock came to stand beside John, the familiar scent of him making John's almost achingly tense muscles relax just the tiniest bit. "So. Do you have it?"

Lewis grinned, revealing several gold teeth and more than a few missing. "Course. Went to a bit of trouble for it, too."

It was clearly a hint. Sherlock reached into the inside-pocket of his coat and pulled out a brown envelope, extending it out. "As ever I hope that this token of my gratitude will cover any pains you went to get it, Lewis. You know I appreciate what you do for me."

"Heh," the man barked out a laugh, "yeah, I know. Cheers." He took the envelope within a dirty, meaty hand and shoved it unceremoniously in a pocket. "And here's yours."

John watched with curious eyes as the man named Lewis pulled out a considerably larger envelope from underneath his jacket, full of god knows what – John couldn't even hazard a guess. Sherlock took the envelope and carefully peeled the flap open, peering into its contents and giving a small, affirmative nod. "Thank you."

"No worries, Shezza, anytime. You know that. Anytime."

Sherlock gave the man a small smile. "Yes. No doubt you'll be hearing from me shortly."

Another bark of laughter, followed by more wet coughing; John had to force himself to remain where he stood, his odd sense of loyalty to Sherlock making him utterly determined not to embarrass his friend by unintentionally insulting Lewis. "Lovely, lovely. Sorry 'bout that," he pointed to his throat, shrugging, "comes and goes."

Sherlock eyed the man for a moment. "Have you been to a doctor yet?"

"Nah," Lewis said with a wave of his hand, shrugging it off as if it meant nothing. "The wife looks after me, you know. She's a good girl."

"Mm."

"You make sure you look after 'im as well, awright?" Lewis was talking to John now, another grin creasing the corners of his eyes as he jerked his head towards Sherlock. "Always getting 'imself into trouble. He could do with a pal to look out for 'im."

John nodded stiffly. "I certainly do my best."

A quiet laugh came from his side. Lewis looked between the two of them for a moment. "Awright. Well, you two take care gettin' back to town, yeah? Bad time of year to be 'anging around 'ere."

Sherlock reached out with a gloved hand – when had he put gloves on? – and nodded. "Take care, Lewis. I'll be in touch."

At that, both Sherlock and Lewis turned their backs on one another and began to walk in opposite directions, no further need to talk; John quickly took a few steps to catch up with his tall friend, keeping his mouth shut firmly until they reached the entrance to the alleyway once more before he finally allowed himself a moment to speak.

"Are you going to tell me what's in the envelope?"

Sherlock glanced down at him. "No."

Well. That was unsurprising. "Is it going to get you in trouble?"

The same quiet laugh rumbled in the back of Sherlock's throat as the man took longer strides and ended up in front of John as he had been before, the same grace and purpose pushing him forward through the myriad of objects in their way. "You say that like I'm not already in trouble."

John took a risk and began to practically jog to keep up, attempting to ignore the continuing dizziness and rapid breathlessness that was beginning to become more and more apparent. "Are you?"

Sherlock did not reply; instead he wound his way out of the alleyway without a single word, back through the streets that John would have never gone through in a million years had it not been for his seemingly unperturbed friend and only speaking once they were out onto a main road, lights almost shocking after so much time spent in darkness. "Are you feeling all right?"

John was struggling to keep up, breathless and dizzy and all kinds of not all right as he stumbled out onto the pavement; his hand was still tightly clutched to his heaving chest, his eyes closing and relishing the scent of clean air as he fought to keep himself upright. "Fine. I'm fine."

With a roll of his eyes and a flick of his coat, Sherlock was at John's side in a mere moment. "Lying won't get you anywhere, you're terrible at it. Show me."

John shook his head, nausea beginning to creep into the crevices of his stomach. "I'm fine, Sherlock, really."

"Show me." When John did not respond quickly enough, Sherlock's hand came from out of nowhere as slender fingers found their way to his wrist, wrapping themselves around it and prying it none-too-gently from its place. John fought against it weakly, pathetically, but with a final tug Sherlock brought the hand out into the open and turned it over, eyes scanning the wound.

His entire palm was smothered in drying blood, all the way down to his wrist.

"Sherlock…"

"Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?" Sherlock's voice was low, demanding. "You should have said something, we could have made a bandage and stopped the flow far better than you managed to – look at yourself, your shirt is ruined."

John's voice was ridiculously quiet, almost pleading. "Sherlock -"

Sherlock's grasp on his wrist tightened, though John was fairly certain through his haze of dizziness that the genius was unaware of it. "It's going to get infected, there's no doubt about it. I shouldn't have taken you with me, I should have known that you'd end up getting yourself hurt." Sherlock raised his other hand, fingertips pressing around the wound in a light touch that was almost painfully in contrast with the grip on John's wrist. "Does that hurt? Does it feel tender?"

John could hear an odd roaring noise in his ears. "I… Sherlock…"

Icy eyes travelled rapidly over his face, the intensity almost overwhelming. "You're pale as a sheet… that's it, we're getting a cab and taking to a hospital, you need to see a doctor -"

It was too much - John felt his body give way to the roaring and the dizziness as he began to crumple in on himself, muscles giving out as his shoulder made direct contact with Sherlock's chest; for a moment he was certain he was going to fall, the pavement coming at him too fast to stop himself but just as he closed his eyes to face the impact, out of nowhere a pair of hands were gripping him tight by his upper arms and pulling him against something warm, solid. The scent of Sherlock wrapped around him and the feel of an expensive, soft shirt brushed against his cheek as a low, deep voice rolled and vibrated against him – the concern, the urgency… it was utterly unfamiliar.

"Hold on, John, I've got you – lean on me, lean on me. I'll hail a cab, just wait a moment -"

"No," John murmured weakly, trying his best to regain his footing, "no, I don't want to."

Sherlock's grip tightened, his voice becoming… angry? Irritated? "You need a doctor, you might need blood -"

"No. Take me home."

"I'm not leaving you to deal with this yourself, John!"

John forced himself to raise his head, heavy as it was, raising it just enough that he could direct his words up to his friend so that he would hear and understand his meaning –

"Take me home with you. You take care of it. You take care of me."

Sherlock's body froze. A car pulled up beside them, a cabbie asking the question. John waited.

Finally Sherlock spoke.

"All right, John. All… all right. I'll take care of you." He shifted slightly, directing his next words to the man in the car. "221 Well Place. Quick as you can."