SORRY FOR THE WAIT! I cannot apologise enough for taking so long. It has been a hard couple of weeks with Easter and Uni work piling up on me and I needed to focus on that for a while. However I managed to get another chapter out for you guys! I will try to update more regularly if I am able! SO please, if I have any readers left! Please read and let me know what you thinking by sending me a review! Thank you!

After last nights' epiphany, Sherlock had decided that he needed to act as quickly as possible. He cannot wait. He cannot let John's feelings for Mary develop and ultimately decide to leave Sherlock alone and with all these confusing emotions.

Sherlock feels himself release an unwanted sigh into the silence of his room as he sits on his bed. Mycroft was probably still smirking from last night's conversation. The notion that Mycroft knew something before he did was intolerable. He hated feeling this way. He longed for the simplicity of the ordinary mind. To simply reach inside himself, examine the little venomous creature that stirred his insides and identify it with a cool accuracy. Jealously. Anger. Adoration. Happiness. Attraction. Want…Love. But Sherlock simply found… he could not.

For the first time, he was hesitant, perhaps even fearful that he may be mistaken in his affections for John and to jeopardise their friendship in any way was simply unacceptable to him. Sherlock always hated to admit that he lacked expertise in any field however feelings were regrettably one of them. Sherlock already knew he cared for John deeply but he needed to see if he was attracted to John and not just experiencing mistaken brotherly affection. Something else he was foreign to. He had always thought it was impossible; to rouse his body in the ways of the average man. Even Irene Adler, in all her naked glory, only stirred him through her intellectual challenge and depth. It was another reason why his emotions toward John continued to confound him. He was in EVERY way ordinary and yet he was so UTTERLY unique.

He gets up and begins to pace the room; yet again. He lets the morning light wash over his skin, his fingers press together in their usual position at his chin and a small frown line forms between his brows. He hadn't slept. He had been devouring every scrap of information available to him; to formulate his plan. The plan he had formulated, in essence was simple. An observation. A case of observing his own physiological and behavioural reactions to the stimulus (John) and see. John would be unclothed and then he would see if even a self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath could be reduced to…want. It both terrified and intrigued Sherlock in a perfect dichotomous symphony.

He leaves his room after showering and changing into clean clothes. He had instinctively chosen one of his more flattering shirts, dark blue, as if his subconscious knew something he didn't. He makes his way to the kitchen and prepares, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards at the sound of John making his way in heavy thudding footsteps down the stairs. It begins he thinks to himself with something akin to glee.

John rubs a warm hand down his face trying to wipe the exhaustion from it although Sherlock would undoubtedly see it anyway and plods heavily down the stairs. He rolls his neck around on his shoulders a couple of times trying to ease the crick in his neck and loosen the tightly wound muscles of his upper back. His sleep had been restless to put it mildly. For whatever reason Mary's words kept replaying over and over in his mind. He felt as if there was something important…vital, even, that he had missed. It was as if Mary had meant something else. That look on her face kind but ultimately sad and resigned.

God, I need a cup of tea he thinks despairingly and moves into the kitchen to seek his salvation. However he comes in and sees that the kettle has already been boiled and Sherlock is standing at the counter in the process of making…tea. John finds himself staring at Sherlock who looks up, his bright blue eyes made even bluer by the colour of shirt he is wearing and smiles. Not a smirk. Not a grin. Not a small twitch of his lips. Just a smile. John returns it like an idiot shaking his head dumbfounded. However the words Mary spoke float, very much unwanted, at this moment in time into his thoughts making him uncomfortable.

He loves you very much…

His eyes dart nervously around the room attempting to find some other purchase apart from Sherlock and clears his throat once for good measure.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" he asks half bemused half nervous in case he is going to find himself hallucinating giant hounds. Again.

Sherlock hums and gives him a disappointed 'even you can't be that thick' look.

"I'm making tea, John" he says and hands him his cup; his favourite cup no less full of hot, none lethal looking tea.

He still sniffs it for good measure, ignoring the roll of Sherlock's eyes and sips it; surprised at the pleasant taste on his tongue.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He smiles and goes to sit in his arm chair; Sherlock however has other plans. John feels that sudden jolt shudder through his body. The kind you get when you dream of falling and jump awake in your sleep. And suddenly he finds himself in Sherlock's arms , halfway to the floor, an empty mug in his hand and scalding hot tea burning his chest and stomach. With a yelp he leaps up, with slight help from Sherlock and all but rips off his tea-soaked t-shirt. He drops it hastily on the table and begins to rub at his already reddening skin drying to dry himself and hisses slightly at the sting of it. Sherlock grabs a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, deciding that John would appreciate those against his skin more than the bag of frozen fingers and toes and wraps them in a towel pressing it against the red skin of his torso. John makes a noise of protest at the cold object pressed against his skin. He suddenly feels rather like a specimen under the microscope; stood there shirtless and hair mussed from where his t-shirt had ruffled it.

"Sherlock you don't have to…" he starts in surprise as Sherlock moves his hand and gently presses the peas against the heat of his skin. John stoutly suppresses the shudders the coldness brings to his spine and watches Sherlock. Sherlock's flicks his eyes to John, taking something like affirmation from John's face before turning his attention back to his torso. John's body hums with coiled tension but he stills stands there. Everything about this situation; makes him want to turn and run. Sherlock's closeness to his body. His chilled fingers, pressing gently against the red marks; quietly analysing. John had never felt so naked. His hand twitches with the urge to cover the scar that mars his shoulder. He can feel his breathing quicken and he is also sure that he can feel a red blush creep up from his chest and begin to stain his cheeks. Perhaps not so noticeably to anyone else but to Sherlock's piercing gaze…it immediately makes John's gaze focus on some point on the wall and try to block out how Sherlock's sweeping fingers feel on his bare skin.

Sherlock's quick mind is processing everything he sees in front of him. John's body is stocky but solid and firm. The weight he had lost has stayed off, undoubtedly due to the fact that John still exercised regularly maintaining his routine; a fine example of his soldier's discipline. He presses the peas against a strong chest and a surprisingly well developed abs region. Sherlock watches in fascination at the way John's muscles contract and relax with every breath. The redness is fading now, under the feather-light sweep of his finger tips. He experiences a strange tingling at how his movement cause the smallest unwilling shudder from John. So very like John; trying to remain disciplined at all times. It made Sherlock want to push the boundaries of that discipline and break them.

A small shift from John makes him redirect his attention back onto what he is doing. He lets his eyes trace over his upper body which is almost completely smooth except for the small trail of blonde brown hair from under his belly button, an in-ny not an out-y, which trails down beneath his jeans. A path Sherlock finds himself following. His other fingers, which are not touching John, itch to unveil more skin, to see more of John. Sherlock pushes those thoughts down and moves his gaze back up. John has short, strong arms but his gaze soon finds itself fixed on the large scar that tarnishes the smooth skin of John's left shoulder. Sherlock finds himself wanting to touch it, memorise every ridge and bump of the damaged skin the bullet had left behind; almost taking John's life with it.

John clearly notices his shift in attention and shifts his body nervously under Sherlock's intense scrutiny. His hand rises up to rub distractedly at the former wound. He looked almost vulnerable and Sherlock felt the illogical urge to protect him; which was truly ludicrous because he knows that John is very capable of ensuring his own safety. However seeing him stood shirtless in front of him, hand over his scar, eyes cast to the floor and a pink hue colouring his cheeks... did unreasonable things to his insides. But his thoughts were interrupted by John's voice; low and thoughtful.

"…A man had been wounded during a patrol…he kept crying out for help but we were under enemy fire and we were cut off. We received an order to retreat but all I could hear was his voice screaming out in…in agony! I didn't think. I just ran out towards him. I don't think I was even looking and I took a rifle round to the shoulder for it. The other solider had died when the team finally managed to get to him and I…well…Now I'm here."

He finishes dropping his arm, frowning at his reasoning for telling Sherlock and casts his gaze up to Sherlock in an attempt to read his thoughts. He is surprised at the intense look that he sees on his face and the fingers that gently trace the grooves and bumps of his scar.

Sherlock feels himself still at John's words; bag still pressed against John's chest. He is unable to stop his fingers that reach out to touch John's skin again. Sherlock expects him to pull away; shocked by the intimacy of Sherlock's actions. But he doesn't; he simply watches him.

"I'm glad you are." Sherlock tells him; his voice barely recognisable. A deep and distracted rumble in his throat and he moves closer trying to memorise everything about the scar that nearly prevented John from entering his life. What he is unprepared for is the adrenalin that assaults his system from the heat that radiates from John. It is pleasant and practically taunts him. He wants to wrap himself around it, absorb it; find some way to enter it and make it part of himself. He is unprepared for the way his breathing hitches and his body inches towards John's.

However what he is overwhelmingly unprepared for is John's response. John; who has yet to move away from Sherlock. Whose breath has heightened, his pupils dilated and his skin practically thrumming with hot energy under Sherlock's finger tips. Sherlock finds himself watching John's mouth, parted ever so slightly, a tongue darting out to wet the lips. It's fascinating; although he cannot understand why. The bag of peas still pressed against John's chest release a few wet drops of defrosted ice onto John's bare torso. He jumps slightly at the way it trickles down his stomach, a surprised noise escaping his throat breaking the heavy silence that had surrounded them. Sherlock let go of his shoulder and places them on the table; his eyes never leaving John's.

Wordlessly he takes John's shirt from the table and hands it to him. He watches John stare at it him in confusion for a moment and then wipes the water from his stomach; the movement distracting Sherlock.

"Thanks. I'm just going to…err." He says holding the shirt in explanation and nodding towards his bedroom.

Sherlock nods but as John turns around he calls out to him.

"Thank you for telling me, John." he says sincerely happy that John would part such personal information to him without being prompted. He watches John's eyes soften slightly with something that might be fondness, before shrugging one shoulder slightly nonchalantly and continuing back to his room.

Sherlock stands there feeling slightly dazed. His plan had worked effortlessly and considering his results; he could not even bring himself to feel remotely guilty at causing John some discomfort. John's shoes, the kitchen floor and the oil he had discreetly placed earlier had all worked in perfect harmony. Sherlock focuses on his body; cataloguing every sensation and thought. His are fingers tingling with sensation of John's skin and are insatiable with the urge to touch it again.

He had no illusions that what he had felt was indeed attraction. It had pulled at his primal core, sending his blood downwards and reminded him that he is indeed just as human as anyone else. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply; letting the images of John's body that he had filed away come slowly to his mind. He had a very pleasing body and a somewhat...cute face. He smirks at the empty kitchen, he is sure John would not appreciate being thought of as cute. His ruffled blonde hair and eyes, a dark blue, honest and firm and a shapely expressive mouth were all highly appealing. But he did not want to linger there. He fast forwarded his mind; letting it focus on John's reaction, the allowed intimacy and what he had told him. And he allowed himself to hope.

John shut the door firmly behind him and resolutely focuses on walking to the wardrobe and putting on another top. He grabs his favourite black and white jumper and pulls it over his head; his mind racing. He ignores how he feels as if those long fingers were still tracing gentle patterns over his skin and shoulder. Ignores how he could not bring himself to pull away from Sherlock's gaze or touch despite the fact he knew that they were too close. Ignores how in that very instant when Sherlock had moved forward how he had been absorbed by Sherlock's face. His enticing blue eyes, the sculpted curve of his cheekbones and how soft his lips had looked.

He had found himself wondering what it would be like if he and Sherlock were in fact a couple. Would Sherlock's touch feel like it had? What he would look like if John touched him back? And how his lips would taste if John had surged forward to meet them. He rubs a frustrated hand through his hair and sits down on the edge of the bed trying to sort through his confused thoughts. Why? he thinks angrily. The memory of his and Irene's conversation pulling itself to his awareness.

You're a couple…

No we're not…

Yes you are.

Look…who knows about Sherlock…but for the record…I'm not actually gay.

Well I am.

Look at us both…

The unspoken message behind her words and 'yet we both are drawn to him…'.

*Hides behind the red shield that she 'borrowed'...* I promise there will be kissing and a WHOLE lot more soon! Be kind and leave a terribly busy and sad author a review, would you? :)

Thanks, PoetKnowit20 x