It was early in the morning and John was in the kitchen cooking up some eggs for breakfast. He was wearing his typical clinic clothes – faded trousers, plaid shirt, sensible shoes. And he was humming. The central tonal structure (C major) was characteristic of most pop songs. Sherlock didn't recognize the tune.

Sherlock crept in behind him and stood watching, so quiet that John didn't realize he was there until he backed up right into him.

"Next time tell me you're there, you-"

John didn't finish his sentence and his whole body went stiff before relaxing again. Sherlock backed away, hoping John wouldn't demand an explanation to his obvious state of arousal.

"Oh," John said softly.

He turned around and pushed at Sherlock until his back was up against the wall. It was ridiculous that John could overwhelm him like this. He was over a head taller and had a black belt in Judo. He opened his mouth to tell John just that. The words came out as a whimper instead. The eggs were burning on the stove and maybe they would set off the fire alarm or leave the flat smelling of sulfur for the rest of the day. Then John was pulling away.

"I can't do this, not right now," John said, scrubbing his face with one hand.

Sherlock didn't agree or disagree. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to continue, one action destined to follow another in a pattern that broke up only at the end, when they came crashing back down together.

"I need to get to work," John muttered. He turned around and grabbed the ruined eggs, scraping them into the rubbish bin.

"You can't go to work," Sherlock said, insistent.

"I have a life outside these walls. I have patients depending on me."

"Mycroft has 24 hour surveillance on Baker Street. It's safe here," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock I need this. As much as I'd want to I can't sit here snogging you all day. I have to talk to Mary. She's expecting me after work. And don't tell me she'll be a target if I do because I know better. Moriarty is after you, not me. I think he saw something between us long before either one of us could admit it was there. That being said, he's not going to act now."

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock asked. John sounded so confident, as if he were seeing something Sherlock could not.

"Because he's smart. As smart as you. He has to know I haven't actually left Mary. So he probably suspects you're trying to draw him out by using me as bait. You can't force his hand, Sherlock. He'll wait. He waited three years to let you know he was alive. I'm sure he can wait a few more weeks or even months before he makes his next move. Whatever his plans are he'll execute them flawlessly unless you can stay one step ahead of him. And I don't think this is the way to do it."

Sherlock was speechless as he stared at John.

"That was brilliant," Sherlock finally said.

"I think that's my line," John replied, lips turning up.

"Brilliant," Sherlock repeated solemnly as he ducked his head, offering his mouth to John. He took it, swallowing Sherlock's moans as his tongue flirted and teased. John pulled away first.

"I have to see Mary. I can't go on like this. It's not fair to you and it's not fair to her," said John.

Sherlock glanced away. He couldn't protect Mary without hurting John. And John was risking his own happiness for an emotionally challenged and sexually inexperienced sociopath. John deserved more than these stolen moments. He deserved Mary. It would be easy to give John a reason to go back to her. He could think of eleven off the top of his head. They were all lies.

"You should phone her," Sherlock finally suggested.

"No I can't Sherlock. She's my wife. This has to be done in person. I'll be back late, yeah? Try not to worry."

After a fresh set of clothing John was out the door, leaving Sherlock to hunt for his phone. It wasn't in the fridge, or under his bed, or in the shower. He found it wedged between two sofa cushions and set it on the coffee table next to the envelope from Mycroft. He stared at them both with steepled hands then reached for the side table.

Sherlock pulled out three nicotine patches. He peeled one onto his forearm and lay down on the sofa, staring up at the web of lines on the ceiling. He drifted, not really thinking as much as allowing his mind to lead where it would. His ears picked up the traffic outside, moving to its own beat, the sounds a symphony of horns and mufflers and squeaking brakes. He put on the second patch and then the third. If he closed his eyes everything would whirl around in a kaleidoscope of colors. Instead he kept them open as the hours passed. At some point his stomach rumbled but he ignored it and the hunger passed as it always did.

His thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt when Mrs. Hudson backed into the sitting room with a small tray of tea and scones. He could smell the steeping tea from the sofa. Strong. Earl Grey. Yorkshire Gold. Mrs. Hudson was obviously pleased at something he'd done. She seemed frailer somehow, even having made a full recovery. Still, there was the work…

"I'm busy," Sherlock said.

"You haven't eaten all day. Have a scone. They're your favorite."

Sherlock sat up with a sigh, peeling off the nicotine patches. They weren't working for him. He felt more wound up instead of recharged. The fact that he hadn't eaten or slept in the last two days might have something to do with that.

"What have I done?" Sherlock asked. His mind moved through the last twenty-four hours and nothing extraordinary was apparent.

"As if you didn't know," Mrs. Hudson beamed. "You two! It's lovely."

"You two? You two who?" Sherlock said.

"It's too bad he's left Mary. Maybe it's for the best. You seem so happy."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock did take a cup of tea and one scone. Eventually he moved into his bedroom and dressed in his black slacks and a dark blue button up shirt. Curled up on the sofa he watched what John referred to as "junk television". It was late in the evening when he finally heard John's footsteps below. The door slammed shut and there was a loud thump as he missed the second stair and swore loudly. Heavy footsteps up the seventeen stairs and then a pause at the door. Sherlock had witnessed this behavior several times before. John was inebriated.

"Things didn't go well with Mary," Sherlock said as John stumbled into the sitting room. He sat down in his chair looking miserable.

"Do you know what she said?" John asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and John held up one finger.

"It was a rhetorical question. She said you were trying to manipulate me, that all you care about is catching Moriarty. And I thought about Janine, how you asked her to marry you for Christ sake. Is that what you're doing to me?"

"If I was it hasn't worked. Moriarty is still in hiding," Sherlock replied.

"Not helping," John said.

John rubbed at his eyes and then blinked repeatedly. (Impaired vision suggests five pints). They sat in silence until John spoke again.

"When I thought you were dead I saw you everywhere. There was one day when I saw you from across the street. Your hair was cropped and you were wearing sunglasses, watching me. I tried to follow you. I almost got hit getting across the street."

"I wasn't in London."

"I know that. But you don't know how hard it was. And then to have some hope that you were still alive only to lose you again. It made me realize how much I cared about you. And I still don't know if you feel the same way."

John groaned and held onto his head.

"Go to bed John. We can have this conversation in the morning, when you intoxicated," Sherlock snapped.

He knew he sounded disgusted. He was disgusted. He didn't want to have this discussion under these conditions. This was not John's shining hour.

John leaned forward until his hands were on Sherlock's knees. They moved in slow circles up his legs until Sherlock was melting and shivering under the touch. He could feel John's nails digging lightly into his flesh through his trousers. The palms stroked his thighs as they traveled higher and higher.

"Come to bed with me," John whispered in a low voice.

Sherlock sat back in surprise. John continued to massage with his hands but Sherlock couldn't feel it because all the blood had left his legs and was pooling into his stomach instead. Sometimes they slept together and John would curl up into the crook of his arm. They would wake up with their legs entwined and a wall of heat between their bodies. Then John would mutter something about a shower, leaving Sherlock hungry for something he knew John didn't want. In those morning hours he knew John was thinking of Mary, of the small betrayals each stolen kiss had brought. He should feel some guilt like John obviously did. All he thought on those mornings was how much more they both deserved, especially John. And even Mary. Life had thrown them together in some sick triangle where the actions of one influenced them all.

"Why?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Because I want you to, you git."

Sherlock just shook his head, not daring to speak when he was so desperate to say yes. His body was already betraying him. His pulse danced through his veins.

"Why the hell not?"

John stared up at him, breathing hard.

"It matters…you matter more to me than some drunken liaison."

John's bedroom door slammed shut a few seconds later. Sherlock pulled out his slipper from under the sofa and searched out a cigarette with two fingers. He sat smoking in his chair, exhaling with slow deliberate breaths. By his sixth cigarette he was blowing elaborate smoke rings, sending smaller circles through the larger ones. An hour later they were gone.