A/N: Fast update, because of you fab reviewers. ;)

Ah, you guys have absolutely no idea how much fun I had, writing this Part IV. I think I was giggling the entire time I wrote it. Hope you guys end up enjoying it as much as I did!

Thanks to the loverrrrly reviews from Always a Bookworm, kk, Chocolate Wolf, Mcbnotredame7, Mia, roxxihearts, PeanutTree, Merthurtilidie, Dorryen Golde, charlie-becks, Chromde, BrieStarWarsQueen, Gaming Girl, ValykirieRevolution, Alex Remington, lucyrgic acid, UbiquitousPhantom, Positively, mabaroshi16, oi!, StarrFirre, Stick-Em-Up-Punk, Dr Black. MI, SetsuUzumaki, Smoochy, Black Wolther, Allarine, Jabberhut, Hulabaloo, theGreyPebble, Shella, passionfornight, saph-kira33, rowen raven, Kyla45, itSoaL, Lucy'sDaydreams, NeverFree, myoceanblue22, Elly Black, Basia Orci, JigokuHana, Faye Violette, Koluno1986, SutaakiHitori, and Anneka Neko!

Please don't forget to review this one! ;)

IV. In the Name of Science

Watson whole-heartedly believed, as he was wont to do, that it was all Holmes' fault from the very beginning.

Of course, this was not entirely fair on the detective; he was not conscious at the time, so by necessity he had no manner of defending himself. Usually, in such situations, Holmes kept up a snappy stream of excuses – misleading arguments, paradoxes, irrelevant (and more often than not, utterly dubious) statistics verbally polished to sound authoritative; even bare-faced denial, if all of the above did not achieve their desired effect of shifting the blame onto somebody else. Many a triumphant occasion of Justice had been marred by the petty squabbling of her two leading champions.

Many more had been marred single-handedly by Holmes.

The night in question had started innocently enough. They had solved the perplexing case of the Kensington family of East Sussex, and had returned to Baker Street by train and hansom cab; they had supped, both in excellent spirits, in the usual sitting room. Mrs Hudson had lit the sitting room fire. Holmes had taken out his violin, as per usual, and had scraped a few of the usual chords; and then, at around about eleven o'clock, as if struck by a sudden overwhelming whim, he'd laid the instrument down on a nearby table.

"I say, Watson," he'd announced, "I do believe I've stumbled upon a very interesting theory."

In too much of a good mood to recognise this familiar precursor to trouble, Watson had laughed indulgently.

"How so? You must tell me all about it, Holmes."

The detective had picked up his violin bow with his right hand, absently tapping it against the palm of his left. "You observe, Watson – this crystal decanter I have here. You observe the amber liquid within."

"The scotch, you mean."

"Er, yes. The scotch. Now, if you do recall – we both took a draught of this earlier, immediately prior to supper. You took one glass, and I took two."

"Quite correct."

Holmes bent at the waist, peering closely at the bottom of the decanter with a look of scholarly interest on his face. "I may now have reason to believe that this liquid is not scotch."

Watson jerked out of his good humour in an instant. "What?"

"I stated, old boy, that I may now have reason – "

"Good heavens, Holmes! If it's not scotch, then what is it?"

"I don't know," Holmes answered pleasantly, straightening again. "I have my theories, however."

Watson exploded from his chair, striding over to the offending decanter and pulling the stopper off to sniff at its contents. He frowned. "Are you sure it's not scotch? It smells – "

"You misunderstood me. What I meant to say was, I do not believe that it is purely scotch." Holmes gave the decanter one last curious glance before moving nonchalantly back to his violin. "Oh well. Now, what would you have me play, Watson? A Scottish air? I know you enjoy those especially."

"Holmes."

"A French one then, perhaps?"

"Holmes!" Watson set the decanter down heavily, his eyes thunderous. "What, exactly, is in this decanter?"

Holmes picked up the violin, trilling a few notes before lowering it from his shoulder again. He did not seem very worried, which Watson hoped was a good sign – however, he had lived with the detective long enough to know never to make assumptions about that sort of thing. Watson had no doubt Holmes would lose a limb with good grace if it afforded him some particular insight on the process of amputation, or blood clotting, or anaesthesia, or all three.

"To solve that little mystery, Watson," Holmes said now, tipping his head to the side, "you may lift the decanter to eye-level. A little higher, Watson. Yes. Good. Now, direct your gaze towards the bottom of the decanter – do you see those small colourless crystals clustered near the bottom?"

"Yes."

"Well, there you are. Now, back to the topic of French airs – "

"What are they?" Watson interrupted, still staring at the little clumps in the liquid.

Holmes blinked. "Why, Watson! What a very base question! You should be ashamed of yourself. I would have thought that after living with me for such a long time, your knowledge would have improved enough by now for you to know what a French air is."

"No, Holmes, not the blasted air, what are these crystals?"

Holmes actually had the audacity to look annoyed.

"Sometimes, Watson, I think you are exceedingly morbid. Those crystals, if you really must know, are most probably strychnine crystals isolated from a tree native to India, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia – the nux vomica, of the family Loganiaceae, to be precise. An associate of mine from the Coromandel Coast sent them to me to sample. Naturally, I had been curious as to the physical and chemical properties – "

"That is all very well," Watson said, the volume of his voice rising with his exasperation, "but I fail to see why it was necessary for you to place them within the decanter of scotch!"

"Dissolution, old boy. I had been attempting to determine the solubility of strychnine crystals in ethanol – "

"You do know, I hope, Holmes, that strychnine is a well-known convulsant."

"Of course," said Holmes, looking slightly offended.

"And that it is possible for someone to die of strychnine poisoning."

"Ah, but you need not bother yourself with that fact. If any poisoning should occur, it would most likely occur to me, since I took a higher dose than you."

"Oh, I am not bothered in the least," Watson said cuttingly. "After all, should you suddenly keel over, I would have the great consolation of knowing that your death was all in the name of Science."

"Precisely, good fellow."

Watson shook the decanter gingerly as Holmes began to play again, noting how the crystals did not dissolve. A little placated and hopeful that not much had dissolved into the scotch to begin with, he said, "You will let me take your pulse however, Holmes."

"There is absolutely no need for you to do so."

"I insist, Holmes! I will not have you fight me in this. Or, if you persist in fighting me, I shall have no choice but to summon up Mrs Hudson."

At the thought of all the gasps and flustering and fuss that would necessarily follow such a drastic course of action, Holmes' grey eyes widened. "Oh, Watson. You wouldn't."

"On the contrary, Holmes, I wouldn't hesitate. Now put that violin down and let me take your pulse."

Holmes obeyed sullenly, shooting Watson a dark look all the while. The latter placed his well-trained fingers on the inside of Holmes' wrist, looking vaguely towards the opposite wall as he dutifully concentrated on the count. Once he had satisfied himself that Holmes was not about to suddenly expire on the sitting room floor (indeed, all the detective had was a very slight elevation of heart rate), he stood up from the settee on which they had been seated and rolled down Holmes' sleeve for him.

"You have an increased heart rate," he told the still-sulking detective. "But it is not very serious."

"Of course not," Holmes scoffed, jerking his wrist back. "I was already aware of such a fact."

"Well, excuse my concern, Holmes. I don't know why I was worried about your consumption of an ingredient commonly used to rid buildings of vermin."

"The dosage I inadvertently took was not nearly as high as that needed for such a dramatic effect, doctor. Indeed, I believe I can safely predict that the only outcome of this unexpected experiment will be a sleepless night for both of us, due of course to strychnine's stimulant effects."

"Yes, indeed," Watson echoed dryly. He moved to the decanter and, with some regret at the wastage of such fine Scotch whiskey, tipped its contents into the fireplace. "I don't think I would've trusted you enough to let myself fall asleep anyway, after tonight. You might have neglected to tell me that you'd poisoned my sheets, or lit a fire under my bed, or set a carnivorous exotic lizard free in my room."

Holmes waved the violin bow at him jauntily.

"If it is any consolation, doctor, I will give you my word that if I have any of those aforementioned inclinations in future, I will most certainly take pains to notify you in advance."

"You are most generous."

"That I am, old boy; that I am."

Watson sighed at his friend's complete disregard for personal wellbeing, sinking heavily into the armchair nearest the fire.

"A sleepless night, did you say, Holmes?"

"Unfortunately, yes. You can attempt to sleep, of course, but you will undoubtedly find you efforts utterly fruitless."

"How are you planning to pass the time?"

"I have the solace of my violin and several books which I have been of a mind lately to take the time to peruse. You have – rather unwisely, might I add – thrown out my strychnine crystals; so I can no longer finish up that experiment, at any rate."

"And a very good thing, too."

"I'm afraid I cannot agree with you. It would have been a most intriguing study of poisons, Watson."

Watson said nothing as Holmes launched into a sad French air, most probably a reflection of this lost opportunity. The clock struck twelve halfway through the piece; Watson shoved his hands into his waistcoat pockets, staring with sudden melancholy at the faded hearth. Holmes had played this same air for Mary, once – before the marriage, upon the late lady's steady insistence. The soft notes only served to remind him of her and he found himself thinking about those dreadful last months once again, the way her wrists had seemed to him paper-thin, breakable.

The violin choked off suddenly, and he looked up in surprise. Holmes was eyeing him sharply, the bow limp in his hand.

"I'm sorry, old boy," he said quietly. "I forgot. So very careless of me."

"It's alright."

"Shall I play something else? No – don't answer that. I'm sorry again, Watson. I really am."

"It doesn't matter. It's been almost a year since she – I should not be so easily affected, Holmes, so it is no fault of yours. Pray continue playing, if you wish."

Holmes put the violin aside, the colour of his eyes deepening as he sought to analyse the look on his friend's face. "Shall I fetch you a drink, old boy? One without strychnine crystals, of course."

"Do we still have some of that brandy?"

"Yes, I think we do."

Holmes' eyes didn't leave him as the drink was poured, though they softened as the minutes wore on. Watson swirled the liquor gently before downing it. The fierce warmth of the brandy settled into his stomach and Holmes took the glass from him wordlessly, filled it up once again.

"Do you think about her often, Watson?"

"Less than I used to, now." Watson tried to shrug, but his shoulders couldn't quite pull it off. "Mostly, I wake up in the mornings with my mind clean as a slate; and there are days when I don't think of her at all. But then sometimes I'll go out, and there will be a young lady at Harrods, or standing at the front of some shop, in a grey muslin dress and I – I'll think of her. I try not to, Holmes – is that the right thing to do? Is it right for me not to want to think about her?"

"I can't say," said Holmes, with some stiffness, avoiding Watson's eyes. "I have not ever felt that way before."

"Not once?"

The detective hesitated, remembering the same strange, unreasonable hope he'd experienced not so very long ago, every time he'd gone out and seen a grey-suited man leaning on a gold-tipped cane.

"I – no, not once," he said. "You are being morbid again, my dear fellow. Here, have another drink."

"Do you miss Irene?"

"Miss Adler? I suppose I do, a little."

Watson took the glass from him. "I still remember what you said to me all those years ago, you know, Holmes. When you said that we had a natural – chemistry, was it? Yes, chemistry. Did you ever feel that way with Irene?"

"No."

"I wonder if you still feel that way towards me."

A few moments of silence passed, Watson's words hanging unresolved in the air. From the fireplace, little embers spat and fell onto the carpet, burning themselves out feebly.

Watson sighed when it became apparent Holmes was not going to say anything.

"Never mind," he said. "It doesn't matter. I don't know why I felt the need to bring that up again – it was too long ago, I suppose. I only thought, Holmes, to – "

The kiss, when it came, knocked the breath from his lungs.

And then, almost immediately, Holmes had pulled away again, turning away quickly as if to avoid Watson's face. Watson watched, still not able to comprehend what had happened, as the detective took several long strides to the door; and then the dim light of the corridor had spilled in just a crack, paving a golden splinter that pierced the floor underneath Holmes' shoes, a sharp stab as if to impale him. So vulnerable. Holmes was half out the door when Watson found his voice.

"Holmes!"

It didn't stop him – Watson saw him hesitate, once, perhaps for the better half of a second; but then he was gone, his sharp footsteps moving down the hall. A moment later, there was the sound of a closing door.

0-0-0

Holmes was asleep.

This fact – discovered the following morning by Watson, of course – did nothing whatsoever to improve the doctor's sour mood. The night before, after Holmes had speedily departed the room, Watson had sat in the armchair with his thoughts all a-muddle, doubts and fears and hope and confusion pecking themselves busily away at each other until his head had felt like a bloated balloon. He hadn't been worried, of course, because – no, that was a lie because damnit, he had been worried. He'd been worried about Holmes, he'd been worried all night, worried because it had been his fault after all, he'd brought up that damned topic of conversation – he'd launched into it out of a sense of self-pity, out of a desperation to wipe Mary Morstan's death from his –

"Oh, damn," he said vehemently to himself, frowning down at Holmes' sleeping form. "Damn, damn, damn."

Which was just the moment Holmes decided to crack open an eye, peering up at Watson benevolently.

"I say, Watson, it is by all accounts very early. Shouldn't you be in bed, old boy?"

"I think," said Watson, ignoring Holmes' question and keeping his voice heavy with sarcasm, "I recall you mentioning sometime last night that strychnine was supposed to be a stimulant."

Holmes blinked. "Why, it is, doctor."

"And I think I also recall you stating, quite clearly, that as such, neither of us would get a wink of sleep the whole duration of last night."

"That was the natural conclusion, given the circumstances."

Watson leaned forward, prodding Holmes' chest with an accusing finger. "Then why, in the Devil's name, are you asleep?"

"I am not asleep, old boy. I am talking to you."

Watson threw up his hands and tried again. "Very well, Holmes, if you wish to play that game with me. Why then, in the Devil's name, were you asleep?"

"I'm not sure," said Holmes. Rather inadequately.

Watson poked him again. "It wasn't strychnine, was it?"

"Well, old boy, I'm not sure if you remember, but I did tell you that I had a number of theories as to what was in the – "

"What was it, then?"

" – decanter," Holmes finished, then gave a huff. "I'd say, if it was not strychnine, then it was scopolamine. But really, doctor, I do not see the issue. As long as you are not dead, which you most certainly are not, and as long as I am not dead, which I most certainly am not, then what should it matter – "

"Because I said something I would not normally have said!" Watson cried, with some feeling. The unexpected burst of passion succeeded, rather unpredictably, in shutting Holmes up. "Because you did something you would normally not have done! Don't you see, Holmes? Your scopolamine has changed everything between us, and now I no longer comprehend what you are to me, and I to you! And furthermore, not only have you managed to achieve all the aforementioned with your chemical blunder, but you have also succeeded in keeping me up the entire course of the night worrying about your damned well-being and your damned mental state, when in actuality, you had been asleep the whole time, rendering all of my damned worrying completely and utterly redundant!"

Silence. And then, with a muffled whistle, Mrs Hudson's kettle went off downstairs.

Finally, Holmes laughed. "My dear Watson, you can really be quite absurd. If you like, you can indeed blame everything on the drug in question. Scopolamine is well-known to lower inhibition, you know."

"Was that why – "

" – I kissed you?" Holmes settled back on the bed, closing his eyes again as if he wanted to go back to sleep. "Perhaps."

"Holmes."

"Yes, Watson."

"I need to know – "

"Oh, for God's sake," Holmes broke in then; before reaching up, grabbing a neat handful of Watson's shirt, and yanking him down to meet his lips.

0-0-0

The first time this had happened, Dr John Watson had been too paralysed by the moment to really respond.

This second time, of course, was no less shocking – one moment he'd been upright, giving a complacent Holmes the most searing glare he could possibly muster; the next moment he was not-so-upright, giving a not-so-complacent Holmes a not-so-searing glare, which in principle was necessary, but was practically irrelevant, as said Holmes had his grey eyes firmly shut and so couldn't see said glare anyway.

This second time, it was Dr John Watson who broke the kiss and pulled away.

This second time, it was Dr John Watson – hands trembling, lips trembling, his blue eyes wide; half-indignant, half-incredulous, half-breathless, half-glad; half-distracted by Holmes' furtive half-smile that it took him half a minute at least to find that all the half-emotions he felt added up to quite a bit more than one whole.

(And it only took another half-second to know that he didn't give a half-Goddamn.)

Mary Watson – her mouth had been pliable. Holmes yanked him down again, almost impatiently. Mary – Mary had been – soft, very simple, her kisses had felt like whispers, had felt like light fingers brushing over his skin. Translucent. As if he could see his own way through each one. Holmes kissed him like a freight train, like the sound of a gunshot, like buttons coming undone all the way up his waistcoat and him not caring. Not really. Not really – not at all. Holmes kissed him like the London rain, pelting down on everything, wearing everything out. Unstoppable. Opaque. Inevitable.

And then morality slammed itself brutally back, and Watson found himself struggling to pull away.

"No," he said, and he put a hand on Holmes' chest. "No, Holmes. I – I don't know what I'm doing."

The detective merely tilted his head, provokingly, and arched his twin eyebrows. "You are, I believe, kissing me, Watson."

"Am I? Strangely enough, I hadn't noticed that, Holmes."

"Have I ever told you that I adore you when you're being obtuse?"

Watson opened his mouth to argue the point when Holmes shifted his grasp to the front of his belt, jerking him sideways with the sole purpose in mind to make him lose his already-precarious balance.

Holmes succeeded. Impeccably. Watson fell onto the bed.

"That's better," said Holmes, sounding satisfied.

Watson, on the other hand, did not feel so secure. Sherlock Holmes had many personal attributes – such as a blatant disregard for others' personal space and a steadfast refusal to wear his own clothes – but the possession of an upright conscience was not one of them. Sherlock Holmes felt the Roman-Catholic Church a hoax, and a waste of perfectly good high-grade marble. Sherlock Holmes – content to tread the line of the Law, nonetheless treaded it very fine, and only did so not out of a sense of duty but out of the understanding that Scotland Yard was unimaginative. As a criminal, with Inspector Lestrade as an opponent, Holmes knew he'd get away with absolutely anything; and there was little, if any, intellectual stimulation in that.

But John Watson – John Watson was Catholic. And although he could not deny that he felt attracted to Holmes, and had admitted as such in previous situations, the fact remained that Holmes was undeniably –

– male.

Admission of attraction was permissible; indeed a kiss (if it went no further) was permissible, also. But what Holmes had in mind; what was there in his eyes – the result of having waited half a decade or so – was frightening, was alien, in its intensity.

"No, Holmes," Watson said, suddenly very confused, "I – I must have time to think. I had not meant for this to happen. I – "

"The key to superior intellect, my dear Watson, is not to know when to think – but to know when one needs to stop thinking."

Watson held out a hand as if to fend him off. "You've decided to twist facts to suit arguments, once again. I distinctly recall you using that statement in a previous dispute, albeit the other way around."

"I never twist facts. I merely – embellish them, Watson; but only, of course, when I'm arguing with you."

"I cannot." Watson caught Holmes' wrist as it moved towards his shirt, gripping it tightly in his hand. "I cannot. There is a line, Holmes, which once crossed leads to eternal damnation – oh, don't laugh, Holmes, I'm being serious – "

He broke off in surprise as there was a loud clunk, his belt falling heavily onto the floor.

"Holmes!"

"You did not restrain my right hand, Watson, although you have done so with my left. It is no fault of mine. It was your own oversight, you know."

"Holmes, you must – "

"Is everything alright up there, Mr Holmes?"

The struggling on Holmes' bed ceased immediately, both men instantly snapping their eyes to the door. The sound of Mrs Hudson's footsteps, making their ponderous way up the stairs, could be clearly heard. Watson drew a sharp breath. Discovery – his waistcoat open, his belt on the floor – not to mention the fact that he was on top of Holmes – would be considered indecent by anyone's standard, and Mrs Hudson's standard was higher than most.

His gaze flicked back to Holmes, who – to Watson's astonishment – had a scheming little smile on the edge of his mouth.

His eyes narrowed. That smile, he knew, foretold trouble.

"Mr Holmes?"

"I hope you locked the door," Watson hissed.

"Of course not. If I had, you would never have been able to enter. Did you lock it behind you as you came in?"

"I don't recall," said Watson, desperately trying to.

"Mr Holmes! Are you awake yet, sir?"

"Mrs Hudson," said Sherlock Holmes to the door, "that is a preposterous question. Of course I'm awake. It is barely ten-thirty, and you have woken me up."

Watson jumped as warm fingers suddenly brushed his stomach, and he jerked back from the touch with a heated glare at Holmes. The sharp, abrupt movement jarred the steel bed and the edge of its frame collided with the bedroom wall.

"Good Lord, Mr Holmes! What was that noise?"

"Stop fidgeting," Holmes whispered, sounding amused.

"And you stop – "

"Mr Holmes – is something the matter? There have been – rather disturbing sounds from your room, and I was concerned, because Dr Watson is not within his room. I knocked and knocked, but there was no reply."

Watson froze at his name, a fact which Holmes dutifully took advantage of by pulling his wrist out of the doctor's grasp. Before Watson was able to work out what had happened, Holmes was already at work on his many shirt buttons, making a neat part in the material over his chest.

"Stop that!" Watson kept his voice low, but didn't dare to yank himself away. "Holmes, stop it – "

"That is most peculiar," Holmes said, not pausing. "He is not in his room, you say, Mrs Hudson? Very peculiar, indeed. Have you checked the sitting room?"

"Holmes, that is my shirt – "

"Yes, but he is not there, either!"

"Perhaps a walk, then? Dr Watson is fond of walks," followed by a soft: "Watson, old boy, you are making this most difficult. Do stop squirming."

"Send her away," was Watson's hissed reply. "Send her out, Holmes, or I'll – "

"I think not. Mrs Hudson is being most useful, for perhaps the very first time in her life. I would hate to prematurely cheat her out of such an achievement."

"But he has left his cane and his hat behind, Mr Holmes, and he did not take breakfast!" There was a loud shuffle from outside, and Mrs Hudson's voice suddenly became embarrassed. "To be candid, Mr Holmes, I thought – I thought that, perhaps, he was in there with you."

"In where with me?"

"In – in your room."

"Well, if he is, he is not being very co-operative." Watson bristled at the deliberate double meaning, goaded further by the evident amusement on Holmes' face. "By which I mean, of course, that he has yet to make his presence known to me. Mrs Hudson, I do believe you are overcomplicating this matter. I'm sure Dr Watson has a very good reason for being wherever he currently is."

"But Mr Holmes – "

"Now if you please, I would like to return to sleep. I was kept up last night by various... endeavours, Mrs Hudson, and you have disturbed me at least two hours earlier than I would have preferred."

"But sir – "

"Dr Watson, I am sure, will return soon enough."

Mrs Hudson hesitated, obviously still unsure. "Shall I prepare breakfast for him, then? Or move straight on to lunch?"

"You may do both, or neither, as far as I am concerned, provided you do not disturb me for the remainder of the morning."

Watson held his breath as Mrs Hudson finally gave up, her confused-sounding footsteps tapping back down the hall. There was a brief silence, presumably as she turned back at the top of the stairs; but then they dutifully sounded on down the wooden staircase, finally petering away as she moved around downstairs.

Watson immediately tried to lever himself up.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that, old boy," Holmes said cheerfully in response, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. "You can't leave right now."

"Yes, Holmes, I can, and I will. This – situation – we are in is most indecent, and I – "

" – will only make it more indecent, if you were to go downstairs now."

Watson paused, scowling. "What on earth do you mean?"

"You would have to face the dear Mrs Hudson, if you were to do so, Watson. She would naturally conclude that you had indeed been within my room; that I had lied, when I'd stated that I was alone. You understand what I'm trying to imply, doctor."

"I – "

"Your best chance would be to wait the whole hour and a quarter, until Mrs Hudson goes out on her errands at twelve. Then you could appear downstairs in whatever manner you liked, stating that you'd returned to the house while she had been out – with an excuse of some sort for your absence, of course."

"Very well-played, Holmes," said Watson bitterly. "You have trapped me within your bedroom for at least an hour."

"Quite true."

"With no manner of raising my voice with you, or indeed making any indication that I am actually here."

"Of course."

"I always said, Holmes, that you had no moral scruples whatsoever when it came to exploiting others for your own personal ends."

"Naturally."

Watson sighed, exasperated, and suddenly tired of it all. Sherlock Holmes was so very, very difficult to handle. He was like a thoroughbred that, at times, was perfectly docile but could, without warning, buck you into a lake. There was no real way of curing this problem – and, indeed, all previous effort had undeniably failed. If anything, they had rather managed to make everything worse.

"Don't look so put out, Watson," Holmes said with a smile. "If I've exploited you, then that's a perfectly flawless excuse. Eternal damnation would then, logically, fall only on me."

"I'm not sure that's the correct way of looking at it, Holmes."

"It's the rational way of looking at it. The only sensible way. It's the only way that stands up to analysis, and you, my dear fellow, cannot deny that."

Watson was silent, resisting the nagging urge to smile at such a characteristic refusal by Holmes to accept that something could not be ruled by reason. Holmes was Holmes; and Holmes, he knew, would always be Holmes. Annoying, pedantic, manipulative, stubborn, underhanded, immature, unrelenting, and shameless.

Struck suddenly by a surge of affection for him, Watson leaned down and planted a kiss on the waiting mouth. Sherlock Holmes, who had seen the kiss a long time coming, only managed a soft, muffled laugh in response.

0-0-0

Mrs Hudson was in the middle of making more tea when there came a loud thump from somewhere upstairs.

She paused, kettle still there in one hand, her ears strained. There it was: a thump, yet again. She frowned, looking up at the white-washed ceiling as the thumps became rhythmic and grew quickly in volume, as if someone were trying to hammer their way through the floor.

A minute passed. Perhaps it might have even been two. Mrs Hudson put the kettle down on the bench, getting ready to mount her indignant way upstairs.

Then all of a sudden the rhythmic thumping stopped, and all was blissfully silent again.

Mrs Hudson shook her white, oblivious head in disapproval of such an uncouth level of noise.

"Mr Holmes and his experiments again, no doubt," she said to herself as she picked up the kettle once more.

A/N: Good old Mrs Hudson. She is, I believe, invaluable... I have tried to make the slow progression between Holmes and Watson into the physical as subtle and as gentle as I can – which is why I gave them at least half a year, from Mary's death, to reach this point. I didn't want to rush them; I didn't think they'd be the type to rush. (Well, not really. Holmes might. Watson wouldn't.) Anyway – I hope it was, once again, realistic; and that you and I and Holmes and Watson all had fun along the way.

(Speaking of which - damn is Watson's conscience a hard hurdle to get over! I swear I wrote that sitting room/bedroom scene transition twenty times, unsatisfied with the way each turned out before I finally got the current version. Gah. Damn you and your morals, John Watson. :shakes proverbial fist:)

There is an Epilogue coming – a cute bit of fluff. I would recommend reading it, because in my opinion the story does not feel entirely finished without it. So stay tuned! It will be put out soon.

Please don't forget to review, my dears! I am forever indebted to those who do.

PS. Some random question - what is the difference between bromance and slash? Are they the same thing? I've always been confused on that front...