Sorry for the long wait but me and my beta had to learn for tests and it's not easing up for her (at least it does for me) and I won't upload without her okay :)
Hope you like this one!

It had been three days since John had seen Sherlock and he had to admit to himself that he was curious if the case had already been solved. On the other hand John was glad that Sherlock hadn't felt the need to shoot up again.

He still didn't like that excuse. Not one little bit.

Of course it had crossed his mind once or twice that Sherlock was just a beer or two away but he didn't like that one either. His sister had made sure of that.

Not only that, strange things had been happening these last few days.

The first day after his last meeting with Sherlock John had found a book on the floor that clearly wasn't his. He would never admit out loud how happy that had made him because John had immediately gone through the flat asking Sherlock if he was there again (while dreading the thought of Sherlock being high again).

John had only been confronted with disappointment because the detective hadn't been there even if his book had been. He hadn't even been able to touch it on that day and so he had to let it stay on the ground.

He had even mused over it. What would happen if Sherlock picked it up right then and there? Would he see the book floating around? Or was the book not in Sherlocks collection anymore and solely in his dimension?

Questions only brought up more questions. At least they filled his hours in between work and going to bed (the time flew by when he started to stare at the book and think about Sherlock).

On the second day John had only tried again to pick it up after Mrs. Hudson had shown up to give him some leftovers of hers and complained that she would have tripped over it if she hadn't seen it in time. Since he didn't want his landlady complaining about a book, the book (she had seen it, what did that mean?!), he had stood up and stared at it again.

"Really, I'm staring at a book because of you..." John had mused to himself and bend down to touch it. To his surprise he could not only touch it but pick it up too. It has been resting on his bedside table ever since.

The second thing that had happened was more embarrassing than a book.

His socks were gone.

After John had showered in the morning he had wanted to get some socks, and had to discover that none of the socks in his drawer were his. They were even weirdly sorted (Was there a system? John couldn't tell).

He probably had mused over this for a good five minutes before he figured that there was nothing to be done about that and grabbed some black socks that Sherlock probably didn't mind him wearing. He really hoped so, because the chance that he was getting out of the flat to get himself a new pair of socks was slim.

But he had do draw the line when he looked for his underpants.

Fate was kind to him and had only switched some of his underpants and boxers with Sherlocks. John still had a few of his and he was glad for that. He wasn't even sure if he could come up with a reasonable excuse to wear Sherlocks underpants (not that he wanted to).

And that's how he found himself three days after his last meeting with the detective. Wearing socks that weren't his and boxers that were (thankfully) still his and Sherlocks book in front of the fire place. The sun had already gone down and John had turned on the lamp on the table behind him.

There was just enough light to read, though he hadn't read much of it. John randomly flipped the pages and kept scrutinizing the book.

He followed his favourite past time and contemplated about it and Sherlock. Was it one of his treasured books? Did he even possess a book that he treasured? It looked used and not new but Sherlock could have gotten it from someone else just the same.

John even had smelled it for a few seconds, trying to deduce (he would have never used that word if he hadn't met Sherlock) if it smelled like the detective. It just smelled like paper.

Judging by the state of their flat, Sherlocks flat, it could be happenstance that it had laid there. Thrown around in a fit of boredom or while searching for another book.

John groaned to himself, letting the book fall into his lap and putting his face in his hand. This stupid book only brought out more questions. Questions he wouldn't get answers too.

He probably just missed Sherlock.

"Brilliant," John sarcastically mumbled to himself. Was he obsessed with the other? Mad about a hallucination that he convinced himself to belie-

"What is brilliant?" came the deep familiar drawl of Sherlocks voice from behind. Directly behind him.

John immediately looked up and stretched his neck to look over his shoulder. What met him was the expanse of a purple shirt with straining buttons. He blinked at them for a moment, musing if Sherlocks shirts had always been so tight, before his gaze slowly wandered to the others face.

The detective seemed to loom over him, his dark curls falling into his face as he looked down on John. He still looked handsome but at the same time Sherlock seemed tired, almost haggard. John frowned.

"Are you alright? Did you even eat these last three days?" Sherlock blinked when John asked his questions, almost as if he hadn't understood them.

"Sherlock, have you-"
"What is so brilliant that has you thinking so loud John?" They both stared at each other, the silence stretching out, only disturbed by the crackling fire.

John decided to stand up (because of his neck) and the book in his lap fell to the floor. Both looked down at it before John bent down and retrieved it. "This book is. It's yours but appeared two days ago in the flat. Well, the flat in my…world," he explained and held it out for Sherlock to take.

The movement seemed normal, something that happened all the time between the two but the truth was that John felt nervous.

And Sherlock didn't make a move. He briefly looked down at the book before staring at John again. "You can keep it."

John must have looked dumbfounded. "What? It's yours, I mean, it hasn't even left the flat, I can place it on the table or something. I found it on the floor," John felt snubbed. What he really wanted to know was if Sherlock could touch it, while he held onto it. Like the table a few days ago.

He wanted to know if he could touch Sherlock when both touched the book. That should be possible. Right? When both would touch the book then that meant it was solid for both of them and while they would stay in contact with it they should be able to touch.

At least for John that sounded like logic.

"Look Sherlock..I-" but he was once again cut off by the other.
"I don't think it will work John. Don't place your hope on this book. Let me demonstrate."

Just like that Sherlock grabbed the book on the other side of it and pulled slightly on it. Probably to show that both had it in their grasp now. When that was done he stared into Johns eyes before looking down on the doctors' hand. He placed his own hand flat on the cover letting John carry its weight and moved forward.

John could feel the pressure on the book while Sherlock stayed in contact with it. The way it dipped to the side when Sherlock strayed a little of his fingertip reached Johns.

For a moment he held his breath, expecting the others fingers to push against his own. John could almost imagine it, could feel it happening and then…and then started the tingling sensation and Sherlocks hand moved through his own where he stopped it. Both hands were for a moment, accompanied by the tingling sensation.

Johns breath left him, defeated, and he looked up to Sherlock. "How could you've been so sure?"

The detective still hadn't removed his hand and blinked at John. "I thought about it. While things seem to appear or merge we both seem to be the only thing that doesn't change. I believe it would've been the same with the table," Sherlock explained, almost bored, but everything John had really registered was that Sherlock had thought about this too.

He had spent his massive intellect to try and figure this out too. (Did he want to touch John too or simply solve this mystery?)

John startled out of his musings when Sherlock finally let go and turned to the couch, flopping down on it. "Just keep the book."
"Alright," John replied, looking down on his hand with the book. If he would close his eyes he could probably still feel the tingling that was Sherlocks hand.

Shaking his head to clear it he moved to the table and placed the book on it before looking at Sherlock. "Did you solve the case? You said you only shoot up morphine if you don't have a case."

John frowned while Sherlock laid his head on the arm rest, only to look at the doctor and raise an eyebrow. "You remember that?"

"Of course I do," he snorted before clearing his throat. "So, what about the case?" John felt as if he always had to ask more than once to get answers. Sherlock obliged after two or three times but why did he have to make it so bloody difficult.

Sherlock placed his hands in a prayer position under his chin while John moved over to the couch table (it had been moved a bit away from the couch) and sat down on it facing the other, minding the almost empty tea cup standing on the edge of it.

"Mhhh…yes. I solved it the same day. Quite easy in the end."After that there was silence and it became clear that Sherlock didn't intent to give what John wanted to know. He really wanted to.

"Sherlock," he simply said in an almost strained tone. The detective seemed to ignore him but John wasn't about to give up. "Sherlock, w-"

"What John, what's so important that.. oh you want to know the rest of the case." Sherlock only deduced the last part when he finally looked at John. A smile graced his lips and even if it was a bit loopy it still was handsome.

John sighed and nodded. "Yes, I really want to know who did it, how you solved it," he admitted, though it had to be written right across his face if Sherlock had seen it that clearly.

The detective didn't move besides laying his hands on his stomach and looking at the ceiling. Maybe he looked at his memories, John didn't know what Sherlock saw when he was high.

"It was a cabbie. He made them all commit suicide by talking to them. They were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. Random people, like all the evidence had suggested."
"And why did he do it? What was his motive?"

Sherlock blinked before he answered, his head moving to look at John. "He was dying of an aneurism and had a sponsor. Someone actually paid him for killing these people. And then there's my fan: Moriaty."

"Who's Moriaty?"
"I don't know but he does sound interesting, does he not? He must be something. Who else would pay someone else to kill random people?" Sherlock mused to himself with a secret smile.

John himself felt something akin to jealousy (no he wasn't jealous, of course not). Sherlock didn't even know this guy. It probably was just the mystery behind that Moriaty, just like it was with him. A mystery Sherlock probably wouldn't be able to solve and that made it interesting.

He needed to shake of that feeling. They barely had seen each other so far and he already felt himself growing jealous of a guy Sherlock only knew by name. As if John had any rights to be. A change of topic is what he needed right now.

"And how did he…how did he convince these people to take the poison?," he asked in a what he hoped curious tone and letting the other feeling go.

Sherlock stared at him now, though John wasn't sure what he saw right then, and didn't answer for a minute. John even became slightly worried for the other. Was he even there with him?

Just when John though that he might make himself some tea did Sherlock speak up again. "He took them with him and sat down with them. There he presented them with two small bottles, each one had a pill in it. They looked identical. And he gave them a choice. The victim should pick one and the cabbie would take the other one and both would swallow their pill." The detective briefly explained but John got the picture, he could practically see them before him, sitting there. Sherlock spoke as if he had experienced it himself. Odd. Sherlock continued.

"Of course he had a backup plan if one of the victims didn't want to who would have done that on their own free will anyway," Sherlock snorted loudly. "The cabbie pointed a gun at them. Either the 50/50 chance with the pills or a bullet to the brain…A pity those people hadn't realized that the gun was a lighter. Nothing more, nothing less."

John sat there in awe, staring at Sherlock at processing everything. "That was brilliant! How did you deduce all that?!"

Sherlock graced John with a strange smile, as if he needed to consider what he wanted to say next. "The cabbie took me with him and we had a little chat. He told me everything while I deduced him." Sherlock grinned at this and John wondered what exactly he had seen about that guy that was so funny. "He didn't really like that but I suppose no one does. Except…," here the detective looked at John again but did not finish his sentence. John felt that he knew what Sherlock meant anyway. He chose not to react to it.

"So..wait, he took you with him. I got that alright. But why? Did he want to convince you to make such a choice too? You talked about the lighter as if he had pointed it at you," John stated with an uneasy feeling in the bit of his stomach.

At least Sherlock hadn't been in danger. He had recognized the lighter for what it was and he surely wouldn't take up such a game. Right? Or maybe he would?

Maybe Sherlock had been so stupid and simply won the game.

The detectives grin didn't falter, it was strange seeing it this constantly but Sherlock probably didn't realize it. "Oh, we played the game alright." His voice turned more gravely than it was anyway making a shiver run down Johns spine. Something sounded off about that.

Sherlock continued. "We talked, exchanged words and then he presented me with a choice: The good pill or the bad pill. Of course I wouldn't choose, I was above that. I'm above everything," he said haughtily and would have almost looked down his nose if he had been in a higher position than John.

"Right you are, git" John softly mumbled but Sherlock ignored him for the sake of continuing.

"Just before I left, leaving him to the approaching authorities, did he turn the tables. He presented me with something…not refuseable. The Work, the Game, the end of it all. A conclusion, a-"
"Sherlock, the point? What did he do?" John pressed, he got the idea.

"The thrill of everything. Did I choose the right pill? Because of course I chose in the end, how could I not, my addictive nature wouldn't allow it. Of course I have been right and yet…"

John wanted to move closer, the suspense had him on his toes and Sherlock kept stalling. He didn't take the pill, John was sure of it. He wanted to be sure of it.

Just when John wanted to ask again, stupidly repeating what Sherlock said to get him to talk but Sherlock did so on his own. Though not with words.

The curly haired man put his right hand into his trouser pocket (had he worn them the whole time? John had been concentrating on the straining buttons and hadn't looked further down) instead of answering and held something into the air.

John failed for a moment to focus on him, still wondering about Sherlocks attire before the soft rattling of something snapped his attention back.

In Sherlocks hand was a small bottle with a single pill in it.

There was a heavy silence after that, both staring at the bottle (John would have loved to study Sherlocks hand but the truth of what he held was terrifying him). John opened his mouth but Sherlock beat him to it, as if reading his mind.

"No, I didn't swallow it, yes, I kept it." His head turned slowly toward Johns direction again, the grin gone. A stern one had replaced it.

John tried to start again but it seemed that Sherlock wanted to do Johns part too. "B-"
"But why did I keep it? Why John, I would have thought you wouldn't asked such obvious questions." Sherlock scoffed, his 'happy' mood completely gone from before.

"I need to know if I had been right. The police would have taking it with them, evidence for something that has already been solved. So I kept it."
"And why haven't you tested it yet? You said you solved it on the same day. If you wanted to know so badly than you would have already done so. No, you kept it and now you showing it to me….you…you don't plan to take it, right?" John felt a flicker of panic rising in his chest.

Did Sherlock want to play the game so badly that he wanted to take the goddamn pill?! It could cost him is life. "Just test it," the doctor demanded.

It became silent again, both fuming with their own kind of excitement. John figured he must be right, Sherlock hadn't opposed to it.

John wouldn't watch this. "Give me the pill."

Sherlocks eyes snapped to John, boring into him, almost taking him apart if they hadn't been dulled by the drug. "What?"

"Give Me TheFuckingPill," John used his military tone, pushing his chest out and straightening his back. He didn't stand up, yet.

Sherlocks eyes turned to slits, trying to threaten John with promises he was pretty sure Sherlock couldn't keep. "You don't know if I wanted to take it. I can easily test the contents of it in the kitchen."

"But you haven't done that yet Sherlock. You've had two days, very long days considering your sleeping habits – don't give me that look, I notice things too – and you still haven't done it. You're high as a kite and lying there with a probably deadly pill in your hand and staring at it. What is wrong?!" John had raised his voice towards the end and he could feel the need to stand up from the couch table. He pushed it down.

Sherlock seemed knew what kind of thoughts were spinning in his head, no matter how sluggish they were for his standards.

He sat up with an energy John hadn't often seen while they had been seeing (meeting) each other, crossing his legs and opening the bottle in a demonstrative way. Only then did he look back at John, challenging him. His nostrils were flaring (the sudden movement?) and his pupils blown wide (wider than before?).

John clenched his teeth, his jaw line moving visibly. He stared right back but didn't stand up, feeling as if he was watching a caged animal. How did this turn over so fast?Weren't they just discussing the case a few seconds ago?

The worst part for John was that he couldn't stop Sherlock anyway. No matter how much he wanted to grab his shoulders and ask 'What the fuck is wrong with you?!'.

"Sherlock-" John started again, still clenching his teeth which made the others name come out as a hiss.
"John," Sherlock mocked him. "This is what I'm living for." He held up the pill for both to see, in front of his face.

"The thrill that keeps me going. What purpose is there if I gain nothing from it? Did I choose right? I believe in this, I know this but I will only know for sure if I try it. This is not the same as testing the contents. It's not even comparable." Sherlock kept John from speaking up with a stern, disapproving look.

"This is everything. There is nothing else." Sherlock seemed out of breath but it was probably just the anger. John just wasn't sure to whom it was directed. Sherlock just sounded frustrated to John.

And John wanted to say 'Yes there is.' Wasn't their mystery enough to just throw this stupid pill away? The mystery was there. John was there.

"If you are wrong, what…what would your friends say?" John said, trying to find a suitable thing to calm Sherlock down. "Give me the pill, please." He stretched his hand out without thinking about it.

If anything Sherlock scoffed just more. "I don't have friends. I have people that need me because of my deduction skills."
"I don't." John replied immediately which made Sherlock look up from Johns outstretched hand again.

"What?!"

"I mean I don't need your deduction skills. I mean, yeah, they are brilliant and amazing but I don't need them. I would just miss you." And if that wasn't one of the most difficult things to say for John. This emotional stuff wasn't his strong suit and he knew that it wasn't' Sherlocks either.

Still, the situation needed to be resolved.

Both stared at each other, neither saying a thing for what felt hours to John. He couldn't say more, John felt as if he would burst if he uttered another word like this to Sherlock and that just couldn't happen.

He needed to wait for Sherlocks next move.

Slowly Sherlocks gaze wandered from Johns face to his still outstretched hand, then to the pill in his own hands. The hand was shaking slightly. Sherlock hadn't noticed, he even though that he had lost all feeling in this hand. He was probably hallucinating.

Sherlocks deep voice sounded quiet and still filled up the room. "I…What do you expect me to do. I can't give it to you." The detective didn't look away from the pill and John stared at his own hand.

Right. Stupid of him to demand the pill.

Dropping his hand in defeat he lowered his gaze to the floor and noticed the cup still standing at the edge of the table. Musing over the idea for a moment he made a grab for it, hoping that he could take it.

Surprisingly, it worked. There had been no indication that Sherlocks cub would be available to him but he had taken his chances. Now he could use the same principle like Sherlock had done with the book. He wouldn't take it with just the pill.

John held out his hand again, this time with the cup.

"Yes you can, please give me the pill," he pleaded again with a softer voice, the military tone gone again and only a tense edge remaining to it.

Sherlock finally looked at John again, studying the cup in the doctors hand before one corner of his mouth twitched, almost as if he wanted to smile.

Slowly he stretched his arm out too and hovered with his hand over the cup, dramatically high. There was still thick air between them, both judging if the other would say something.

Sherlock let the pill fall when nothing came and the clang of the pill landing inside the cub seemed to shatter the silence in the whole flat. The tiniest smile appearing on Sherlock, John would have missed it if he hadn't seen the twitch before.

"Very clever John, very." Sherlock replied, sounding defeated but keeping up the smile. John hoped that he wasn't just seeing a mask, that Sherlock might be a bit relieved too that the decision wasn't in his hand anymore.

John just nodded back and looked into the cup before he turned it over and let the pill fall into his hand. "Thank you," of course he meant the pill and not the compliment but he didn't say that out loud.

The detective simply let himself fall back again, any strength apparently gone. He looked deflated. Tired. Obviously nothing would come from his side anymore.

Sitting there with a pill in his hands John thought of easing the tension that still lingered. Might as well ask another question, just to get his mind of this whole thing. He could think about it later too.

"So, I was…I was wondering if I could write the case down and post it on my blog…," he said into the room, not exactly framing it was a question while putting the pill into his own pocket. He would throw it away later.

At first there was no movement but he could see Sherlock staring at the ceiling and then at him. "What? Why would you want to do that?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"Why not? Like I said your deductions are amazing and easy to follow afterwards. And I have a blog." There, a simple thing he wanted to do, just because he still had that stupid blog from a while ago when his psychiatrist had wanted him to create one. Might as well use it for something interesting.

The other made a dismissive gesture with his hand and nodded. "Do as you like. I don't exist anymore in your dimension, there's no harm I guess…" Sherlock sounded as if his thoughts were wandering away but he still looked at John.

"You know what? Why not change my name, my first name. It is kind of unique don't you think. Some people might find it strange to read it." Sherlock had a tiny grin on his face, very different from the one before. This one seemed more honest even if a bit mischievous.

John grew wary of this idea but it was still Sherlocks story and life, not his. "Sure," he said slowly, turning the thought over in his head. "What do you have in mind?"
"William." The grin grew bolder. "A pretty normal name, it should do the trick."

Sherlock repeated the dismissive gesture and placed his arm over his eyes, clearly ending the conversation.

"William," John repeated to himself not expecting an answer from Sherlock. He still stared at the dark haired detective but shrugged. "Alright."

John stood up and straightened his back, easing the tension in his muscles from the alerted state his body had been in. He headed towards the kitchen.

"Do you want tea?" John dared to ask. It would be logical that it would work now. He simply needed to place the cub somewhere and Sherlock could take it.

What followed him into the kitchen was a grunt and a mumbled thing that might have been a no. Sherlocks loss then.

John prepared himself a cup of tea and sat down in his chair (after turning it towards the window again), this time with his laptop. He might as well get started on the blog post. At the same time he could watch Sherlock falling asleep on the couch.

A while later at some point he just stopped typing and stared at Sherlock, taking everything in and trying to keep the image.

John fell asleep like this, his tea gone cold.