Sherlock points his face at Lestrade in the Two-Whitehall-Deaths-And We-Are-Completely-Flummoxed briefing, sets his mind to pick out key words and nod, then drifts off, thinking about last night.

The kissing has made everything more complicated. Sherlock has done kissing, of course, people expect it and it is one of the physical preludes to intercourse that assists with completion of the act itself.

But John kissing him, however fleetingly, has changed everything.

John leaning forward, confident, amused and affectionate. Close, a marvellous closeness and trust. John, a real person who Sherlock knows very well and admires. Then, John calculating and then deciding to do it. What factor made him decide? Did he realise that Sherlock - now certainly and definitively - wanted to?

Sherlock now does not know why he didn't grab John there and then and -

Ok, what? Many options and all rejected as inappropriate.

Has he gained John's habit of self denial, pointless, stupid self denial?

He knows he thinks often about John kissing him. That and the hair stroking.

What next?

There must be a next.

Lestrade's voice says opinions, speculations, feelings. No new facts, good. Sherlock feels connections solidifying in his mind, a certainty about many events, events which began with Theresa and have led him through Avebury and Romanian doll-drug-smuggling to near-depression and civil service murders and now here.

He must get home and find out what else was happening, outside the circle, that night he and John were in Avebury.

And when all that is resolved, he will do something about him and John.

Him and John. A concept which now exists like a fact.

Lestrade has stopped speaking and Sherlock refocuses, looks around. People are looking at him curiously, and Sherlock notices that he has unsettled everyone in the room by smiling.

John is at work, mechanically signing repeat prescriptions and updating patient records with the activity. The surgery is closed to patients now but there is plenty of supporting admin which needs doing. John has deliberately picked the most mindless task he can come up with because his head is all over the place after last night.

Oh God, he kissed him. It seemed like a good idea at the time: a frivolous kiss, in his mind, a bit like the kind of kisses mates give each other after too many pints: I love you mate, I really lurve you...

But now he thinks of the look he gave Sherlock, the tenderness, the way he thanked him for inviting him into his bed... it is mortifying. What must Sherlock think? Possibly, that it is John who has gone a little insane.

That whole striptease business too...it was funny, but ... now he's completely conflicted about it. He is glad to have got his own back on Sherlock for the outrageous, seductive dancing. But he undressed provocatively, in front of his best friend, who was only trying to help, and oh, God, all over again.

And then the actual being in bed. Pretty much naked. It gives him chills both good and bad to recall it. Sherlock, wrapped only in a sheer layer of red silk. Him in his T shirt and boxers. He has dreamed about this and those dreams don't end with sleep. Sherlock's hair on the pillow close to John's head. His long legs stretched out beside John.

But when he woke up this morning Sherlock was crunched up on the very edge of the bed with his back to John, looking tense. He was asleep - never the world's earliest riser - but John took one look and thought that as much as he longed to touch him, even just his forehead, the ultimate non sexual location for a caress - it still overstepped, way overstepped, the line from Probably Ok into Outright Violation. He remained on his side of the bed for a moment and then got up. Stood looking down at Sherlock asleep and so much wanted to touch him, kiss him good morning, tell him ... anything. Anything true.

But he didn't, because Sherlock already existed on a knife edge of turmoil and he didn't need John adding to the strain.

But now John can't stop thinking about it, his lips on Sherlock's and Sherlock's face - stunned, not a face John gets to see very often, actually rendered speechless by John's audacity, and then John moved so quickly back to his side of the bed that Sherlock had no time to show him any other kind of reaction.

What if he had not stopped? What if he had given Sherlock a chance to react?

Then he would know the truth by now and it would all be over. His sweet fantasies of a joyful moment in which Sherlock allowed himself to be kissed, touched, undressed ... made love to ... Those would end in a flash when Sherlock said, in his usual flat manner, that he was not interested. It wouldn't matter then that Sherlock did not mean it personally, but it would make John's secret thoughts unforgivable, prohibited. He might have to move out rather than pretend he has somehow magically stopped loving Sherlock. It is better to be able to deny he has ever imagined anything, certainly never him and Sherlock naked, declarations of love, promises.

But Sherlock might -

Might have what? Gone along with it. Quite possibly. Whether out of compassion for John's obvious need, or just for friendship's sake, or simply, as demonstrated on the dance floor, because he could.

John doesn't like any of those options. And you can't make someone react in the way you wish they would.

Hell, he is not even completely sure that Sherlock likes men. He has just been assuming this is his preference... although to be honest, those many lovers that Theresa was asking him about - Sherlock never said which gender they were. Kind of implied there was a sprinkling of both sexes in his lothario past.

That would be like Sherlock, to be indifferent to the container, only interested in the mind. Or would it?

Because... This part he can't bear either to think about or not think about. Because Sherlock seemed turned on by it. John could see it in his face, in the dilated pupils, could hear and see his quickened breathing. The undressing in particular: John surprised him and he liked that. Another reason why the fantasy relationship between them could never work - endless pressure to be interesting. And with Sherlock, you knew that the same thing would never work twice. But last night, unless he was very much mistaken, which was unlikely given how little either of them were wearing, he had caught Sherlock out and ... excited him.

Does it mean anything?

He just doesn't know, and it is killing him.

He signs the last prescription and instead of placing them in the secretary's tray, locks them in his desk for re-checking tomorrow morning. God knows what he has been doing for the last hour, but concentrating is not it.