Humble thanks to everyone who has made this story a Favourite, and to everyone who has reviewed. I was dancing around the sofa last night, hooting, when my husband came in and demanded to know what had got me so happy! This story just won't quit, it seems. I spent all weekend pounding away at it, and I dread to think how many chapters its going to run to… Anyway, here's a bit of fluff to keep you going.

'What the hell?' John leapt to his feet and scrambled towards Sherlock in horror. The detective let him pluck at his bloody collar.

'Bit of a problem with a beaker at the lab,' he shrugged. (A simple little lie – a nick of the finger with his pocket knife had provided a sufficient amount of blood.) 'Turns out they explode if you-'

John had pulled back the collar and discovered the dressing underneath. 'Dear God! What have you done?'

'It's okay, the doctor at the A&E-'

'Let me see.'

Sherlock's hand shot up. 'No!' Then he saw the look of shock in John's face, and recovered. 'It's a new kind of dressing, an experimental one. It has to stay on for seven days. Impregnated with enzymes, speeds the healing process so you don't scar.'

'Rubbish! I'm going to-' John was already picking at the edge of the adhesive strip with his nail. Sherlock pushed his fingers away.

'Absolutely not! You're always telling me to follow doctors' orders, so now I am. No argument. Seven days.'

They glared at one another. John relented.

Sherlock's heart lifted. 'Anyway, never mind what I've been up to, what about you?'

John looked at the cigarette in his fingers as if it was news to him. 'Oh,' he said.

'You got that out of my drawer,' Sherlock accused.

He shrugged. 'I wanted to do something really self-destructive,' he said. 'Haven't smoked since I was thirteen.'

'If that's your idea of really self-destructive, then I am very relieved you have such a dull imagination.' Sherlock took the fag off him and took a long drag, sucking his cheeks in deliberately. He blew smoke at the ceiling.

'God, I miss that.'

'Don't get used to it,' John said. 'I'm going to pour acid on the rest.'

'It's my back-up pack!'

'No, Sherlock!'

'That's rich, coming from you!'

Sherlock realised his arm had snaked around John's waist entirely of its own accord. John's hand strayed up and his fingertips ghosted across the faint bruise on Sherlock's forehead.

'I'm sorry,' he said, gently.

'Not as sorry as I am.'

'I'm still angry at you.' Sherlock frowned, trying to look serious.

'I know.'

'Let's not talk about it now?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Mmmm.'

They kissed very softly, for a very long time, or as long as it took the cigarette to burn down below the filter, and singe Sherlock's fingers.

'Ow! Bugger!' He stabbed it into an abandoned mug on the coffee table.

'Here, let me see.' John examined the slender fingers carefully, and then licked them.

'John, I really, really love you, but do we have to have making-up sex, because I don't think my ring-piece can stand any more.'

John giggled. 'You just said 'ring-piece'!'

'It's not that I don't love you-'

'Because you do.'

'Because I really, really do. But can we just cuddle?'

So they cuddled. On the sofa, watching crap telly, eating Chinese take away. And in John's bed, because it was a king size, and because he had put clean sheets on it. And it was a further storey away from Mrs Hudson's quarters, so as they were choosing a room to begin their life together in, they figured that soundproofing was going to be a significant factor from now on. And then they slept. Blissfully. In each other's arms.