I'm enormously grateful to those who have commented – but still desperate for more reviews. (I feel a bit like Lisa Simpson jumping up and down and screaming 'Grade me! Grade me!') This chapter is a bit wordy, but I think it needs to be to establish Sherlock's state of mind. Don't worry, its fluffy at the end. Please let me know what you think, even if you think its crap! (And I'm starting to get the hang of the document editor now, sorry for the bloopers in earlier chapters!)

Sherlock woke with the sun. It was a sharp, bright morning, rimed with frost. The building was silent. He crawled into his clothes and crept out onto the landing to press his ear to John's door. A gentle snore came from within. Good. He could have a little time to himself. He went down the stairs, let himself out through the side door, and set out through the village in search of self-knowledge.

He was not the only person about. The school run had begun. A milkman was delivering. Bottles clinked. A ginger cat sat on a doorstep, blinking in the sun. Sherlock slid along the pavements in his city shoes and turned in at the lychgate to explore the churchyard. He was fond of churchyards. This one was a particularly nice example, well kept and elegant with the local honey stone, and a fine twelfth century church, squatting in the middle. The longish grass was crisp with frost, the tombstones crazed with frills of lacy crystals. He stalked about reading inscriptions and calculating ages, then worked out the average age of the dead in his head for an amusement. He sat on a mausoleum to laze in the sunshine and eat the little packet of biscuits that came with the coffee and tea tray in his room. They were sickly and crumbly. He thought how nice a cup of tea would be. A cup of tea in bed. He lay back on the slab and crossed his legs, and reflected on the idea of John bringing him a cup of tea in bed. He had done it so many times, and Sherlock had never considered it as anything worth thinking about, had taken it for granted with the faintest grunt of thanks in response. He closed his eyes and looked through the pink veined lids at the brilliant sky. How nice it would be to wake up with John, he thought, with that warm, cuddly body against him. How nice it would be to have John bring him a cup of tea in bed, how much more he would appreciate it now.

He thought about John in that thick towelling robe that he insisted on taking everywhere. He thought about what it would be like to lift that flocked fabric from those shoulders and slide his hands over what lay beneath it, warm flesh, firm muscle, so satisfyingly resistant to his fingertips. He thought about John's eyelashes, remembering how they had brushed against his skin, tickling. He thought about how that might feel against the skin of his chest. He thought about John's mouth. Oh, yes. That delicious, thin-lipped mouth, a little curved, turned down very slightly at the corners in repose, and how it turned up so beautifully when he laughed. He thought about John's eyes, sad eyes, blue-grey with flecks of ochre in them, and the way they crinkled up at the corners when he smiled. He thought about how wonderful it was to find such joy in the little details of another person's face, how happy it made him to see that face, even when it was grizzled with sleep or twisted with rage at something ridiculously thoughtless he himself had done. Which led him onto the memory of John in the morning, padding around the flat – again, that damn dressing gown – with his hair all spikey and his eyes full of sleep. Sherlock realised he loved the way John's face was pouchy when he woke up, the way he was puffy around the eyes in the morning, his cute, round nose slightly red. And then the memory of John sleeping, or rather John falling asleep on the sofa after a long day, snuffling into the cushions like a small child. Gravity and relaxation softened his features then, Sherlock had noticed, giving him a boyish look.

A magpie chattered in a nearby tree. Sherlock's back was getting cold. He sat up and wrapped his arms around his body, looking about. His breath condensed in the cold air. He amused himself by chuffing like a train, making a stream of little fat clouds that hung around him. But the thought of John was still in his head, like a lingering scent.

What was happening to him? What was he going to do? John did not appear overly concerned by last night's adventures in tonsil hockey. Perhaps the later example was the effect of the whisky. Sherlock wondered if he might get another go soon. But John had been very strenuous in asserting his status as a confirmed heterosexual. And Sherlock, well, Sherlock was frankly uncertain as to what he was. He'd never been interested in finding out. Right now, sitting in the churchyard, contemplating the delights hidden by that wretched towelling dressing gown, this seemed to Sherlock to be a gaping hole in his education. He wished fervently that he had made more effort, so that he might be in a better position to ensnare Mr Right now he had finally appeared. Because Sherlock was in no doubt. John was Mr Right. The love of his life. He had enough self-knowledge to understand that he was never going to feel this close to anybody else. In 34 years, John was the only one who had even vaguely attracted his attention, or remained remotely tolerant of him for more than half an hour. Opportunities like that didn't come along more than once in a lifetime.

But would John accept his advances? Sherlock had very little idea of how one actually made love. Of course he knew the technicalities, but the practical subtleties were a different matter, and the details of sex between men were even more of an impenetrable mire to him. He had entirely relied on instinct and what he had gleaned from John's favourite films for his kissing knowledge. He was sure that would not be possible were he to attempt a full scale seduction.

Worse still, he did not want to risk losing John's friendship with a failed attempt. If Sherlock threw himself at John, and John rejected him, how would he ever face him again? But the fact he had to face was that something had changed within him, and it wasn't going to change back. He was in love with John. He wanted John. It was totally insane but there was no escaping it.

The man in question was sitting at a table in the bar when Sherlock got back, tucking into toast, coffee and orange juice.

'Oh,' he said, looking up. 'I thought you were still in bed.'

'Went for a walk.' Sherlock peeled off his mammoth overcoat and stamped his feet to warm them before he sat down opposite the doctor at the little table.

The landlady bustled up. 'Full English for you, too, Mr Holmes?'

'Oh, yes please, that would be perfect.'

'Enjoy your walk?'

'Excellent, thank you. Perfect way to work up an appetite.'

She laughed. 'Oh, we like a man with a good appetite here!'

When she had gone, John leaned across the table. 'Sherlock, what's wrong?' he hissed.

Sherlock frowned. 'Nothing.'

'You're being nice.'

'Can't I be nice occasionally? It's a nice day after all, and I'm feeling nice.'

John looked sceptical and bit into his toast. Sherlock had to look away. He couldn't face looking at those lips puckered around a full mouth, smeared with marmalade, just begging to be licked off. He had to clear his throat and shuffle in his seat before his hands felt steady enough to reach out for his own toast.

'So, what's the plan now?' John asked, pouring some coffee for both of them.

'Back to London. Next case.' He sank his teeth into the sticky slice he had prepared.

John stared at him.

'What?'

'You have-'

'What?'

'On your cheek-'

'Where?' Sherlock stuck out his tongue uncertainly and slicked it around the corner of his mouth. John's cheeks pinked slightly.

'No, it's just-'

'Here?'

'Further-'

He stuck his tongue out even further. John looked suddenly a little flustered.

'Here, let me-' He reached out and slid his index finger over Sherlock's cheek, scooping up the sticky smear. And then, to Sherlock's disbelief, stuck his finger in his own mouth and sucked it clean.

They stared at one another.

'Here we are!' The Landlady said, putting their breakfasts in front of them. 'Be careful, the plates are very hot. Would you like some ketchup?'

'Brown sauce, please,' John said absently, still staring at Sherlock.

When she had bustled off, Sherlock swallowed loudly. 'Food,' he said, and his voice came out rather shaky and high. John cleared his throat and tore his eyes away, looked down at his plate as if it were an alien thing.

'I need to eat,' he said. 'Too much whisky last night, I think.'