Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

Conversation

Once tea and telly was over it was time to prepare food – or at least to exploit a delivery boy and order Chinese from the place around the corner. With food came pain pills, which made John prone to long, slow blinks and the odd muttered complaint under his breath. Sherlock decided that John had spent enough time in the front room on the couch and decreed that his flatmate spend the night in an actual bed. He knew that moving John to said bed would take the edge off the pain pills, which would mean he was more coherent for the Conversation to come.

Sherlock bribed Mrs Hudson to change the sheets in his bed while he fed John, helped him to the bathroom to change his dressings and get him ready for bed: which he assisted his flatmate to quite sternly, settling onto the other side of the double bed once John was reclining comfortably.

"You've had something on your mind, Sherlock," John prompted once he'd caught his breath a bit, "Perhaps you should tell me."

Sherlock caught John's hand in his again and twined their fingers once more. John moved his arm obligingly, making sure they were both comfortable. This was one of his more appealing habits, his desire to ensure the comfort of others.

"That is hardly an incredible deduction, John," Sherlock muttered, "After Mycroft's little visit…"

"I know," John interrupted, which usually made Sherlock snarl, "I also know you, though. The whole job research thing? That was you trying to avoid the issue, just as you will now if you get up and leave, so stop tugging on my hand. You're not a toddler, Sherlock, but I will smack your bum if you insist on acting like one…"

Sherlock subsided against the pillows and glared, but when John made a tsking noise he sighed and gave in. John was cleverer than him when it came to emotions: Sherlock knew himself well enough to know that it was emotions that were muddling his thinking now.

"Moriarty offered me a job, basically, at the pool," Sherlock sulked, rolling John's fingers gently in his, "All that double talk and not so witty repartee was his way of enlisting me."

"I see," John nodded, "Why is this a problem?"

Sherlock forgot himself enough to actually gape at his flatmate, who raised both eyebrows in that 'what?' look that was so universal. That look covered a wide variety of situations, from medical to personal.

"Isn't it obvious? A criminal has offered me a job!"

"And… that's a problem because you're above all this sort of thing? You can only be offered work by people who aren't criminals?" John frowned, "Is this one of those times when we're talking about something else entirely?"

"John. A criminal, who almost killed you and has certainly killed scores of people that I care nothing for, has tendered to me an offer to enter into full time employment with him," Sherlock stated clearly. John looked him over closely, examining his face as if looking for clues.

"No, sorry, I'm not following you," he sighed and Sherlock groaned, rolling to bury his face in John's chest in frustration. He promptly lost all interest in the Conversation they were apparently failing to have as he realised that not only did John smell so very good, he was warm as well. Sherlock could feel his heartbeat under his cheek, a sensation that was not only unprecedented but alarmingly soothing. Sherlock promptly gave up on the Conversation and concentrated on cataloguing the sounds and smells he was currently immersed in. Things only got better when John freed his hand from Sherlock's grip and then ran the fingers of said hand lightly over Sherlock's curls. The light, rhythmic touch was better than any chemical stimulation that Sherlock had ever experienced – and he'd tried a few things in his day.

After what seemed to be a short eternity of perfect comfort John made a noise that indicated some sort of epiphany and tugged at Sherlock's hair until the thin genius twisted to look at him.

"It's not that he offered you a job, it's that he offered you a job," John nodded, "He offered you something that would be endlessly engrossing with a dash of danger on the side. Have you responded yet?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, curious as to what John thought his response would be. John frowned in thought, his hand returning to Sherlock's curls where surgeon's fingers twined gently in black locks. They flexed idly, making Sherlock's scalp tingle in a very pleasant way.

"You've been pretty busy with me and your own recovery, so I'd say no, unless you did it while I was asleep. In fact, I'd say that you wanted to discuss the wording of the reply with me at the start of this conversation, though after my display of obtuseness I'd guess you're wondering why you ever did," John grinned, "I blame the pain pills."

"What's your excuse the rest of the ouch! I'm attached to that!" Sherlock pouted for effect, but truthfully the tug on his hair had been quite light. John was giving him that warm look that never failed to exasperate and please Sherlock, so that was alright.

"Be nice, Sherlock, or I'll go to sleep," John warned him and Sherlock snorted in response. He tucked his head back onto John's chest, making an approving noise when John went back to stroking his hair. He had absolutely no idea why this felt so bloody good – so vital – but now was not the time to pursue it.

"Well, obviously we want to word this in such a way that implies acceptance to Moriarty," John began and all the warmth leached out of Sherlock in a second. He had thought that John would be better than that, would understand him better than all the others who had assumed that he was going to chuck his consulting agency away and just become the monster that they all suspected he was. This was a betrayal that hurt even more than Mycroft's.

"That way we have a better chance of entrapping him for the Yard," John continued on evenly, "There's no chance we'll lure him out into the open for anything less than that: if you just turn him down he'll have no reason to risk further personal contact."

"What?" Sherlock gasped, looking up. John's face was calm and sincere, a look that faded quickly in response to Sherlock's own expression.

"Sherlock," John reproached, "Surely you didn't think that I… you did, didn't you? You thought that I'd be like them."

His flatmate sounded so disappointed that Sherlock sat up properly, twisting to sit facing John, capturing his good hand in both of Sherlock's and squeezing tightly.

"I misunderstood, that's all," Sherlock vowed, "I'm sorry, John. Don't be mad. It's just… the Yarders and Mycroft all seem to think that I'm a monster, barely held in check by them as they monitor me. You've argued with me over my lack of emotion for the victims before…"

"Yes, but I also listened to what you said. Dispassion is not the same as a complete lack of emotion, Sherlock. I know that," John offered a crooked smile, "You're not as sociopathic as you like people to think, Sherlock. You just choose not to allow emotions to cloud your thinking like the rest of us."

"And you base this diagnosis on what?" Sherlock asked, diverted for a moment from their main argument, "Some of the best professionals in the field endorse Mycroft's diagnosis."

"They haven't lived with you like I have," John replied, "Or do you think I don't know how you feel about me? You've spent the last week looking after me, you're trying to get me a job that will let me earn money but please myself at the same time, and you were so worried about this conversation that you put it off quite a few times."

"John, anyone else would say that I was selfish and controlling – that I only chose jobs that would leave you at my beck and call," Sherlock pointed out, "In fact some would say that those actions confirm the diagnosis of sociopath."

"Sherlock," John said in a very gentle voice, "Even Moriarty recognised that you have a heart."

Sherlock blanched, his eyes dropping to the hand he held in both of his.

"You are my heart," Sherlock whispered, "But I don't understand it. I don't understand why you feel so good against me, why I trust you the way I do."

"That's not something I can explain either," John sighed, "All I can suggest is that you give it a bit of time. You'll figure it out eventually."

"John, do you love me?" Sherlock forced his eyes to John's face. His flatmate was flushed, uncomfortable, but nodded in reply. Evidently John enjoyed discussing emotions like this about as much as Sherlock did. Sherlock closed his eyes, savouring the heat that was flooding slowly through his body in a gentle wave. He unfolded himself and curled up against John once more, wrapping an arm carefully over his flatmate's torso and pressing his cheek to John's heart.

"That… I cannot describe what that means to me," Sherlock confessed into John's pyjama shirt. John snorted softly and rubbed his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades in a comforting motion.

"It's ok, you don't need to," his heart replied.

TBC