Let me dispel a few rumors so they don't fester into facts.
- Tom Schulman
"It's not tight enough you need to_ no John, pull it tighter, tighter, that's it now slap me_ slap me harder, harder, you need to_"
"I have done this before."
"Then why are you doing it wrong?"
"I'm not doing it wrong, I've been drawing blood for years Sherlock; I know what I'm doing." John said between gritted teeth as he pulled the tourniquet tighter around Sherlock's forearm.
"And I have been shooting up for years; I know how to hit the vein the first time." Sherlock said as he shooed John away.
John watched as Sherlock viciously tightened the tourniquet and then slapped the inside of his elbow with such force that John could almost feel the sting on his own skin.
"This is a complete waste of time." Sherlock huffed as John slid the needle into his vein and began to siphon off two vials of blood.
"I peeled fourteen nicotine patches off your arm last night_"
"Nicotine is nothing compared to cocaine_"
"Fourteen patches Sherlock, you should be dead."
"I think you're being a little over dramatic_"
"How can Irene Adler be alive?" Mycroft interrupted, his voice was unnervingly calm and quiet.
Mycroft had been sitting in dumbstruck silence since Sherlock had revealed the fact that he had flown to Islamabad, infiltrated a terrorist cell, incapacitated several armed guards, liberated Irene from captivity and put her on a boat heading for New Zealand in less than three days. He hadn't moved for the last half an hour, he had simply stared blankly at the floor, his face ashen and completely impassive.
Sherlock's lips curled up into satisfied smirk,
"I believe I have rendered you ineffable brother. We should commemorate this moment, perhaps invest in a decorative plaque_"
"Why did you do this?" Mycroft asked, finally looking up from the floor to stare at his brother, "I understand why you decoded that message on her phone without thought as to what ulterior motive she might have had... But what I don't understand is why you went to such trouble as to save the woman who proved, publically, that you can, not only be a egotistical show off, but also a blindsided fool."
John watched Sherlock from the corner of his eye, equally, if not more, interested in Sherlock's answer.
Sherlock directed his gaze at the tourniquet around his arm, his long, pale fingers picking at the restrictive elastic,
"Would you have preferred for me to let her be executed?"
"Yes." Mycroft said implicitly without hesitation.
"Well," Sherlock said as he unfastened the tourniquet and threw it in John's direction, "I think that that is the difference that divides you and I."
"I think you'll find, brother dear, that it's not the only difference that divides us." Mycroft said as his eyes briefly fell on John, "I believe that you have to come to terms with the fact that you care." He said as if the word had caused him physical pain.
"I don't care." Sherlock hissed vehemently.
"Of course you don't." Mycroft said as he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the armchair, "I, emotionless creature that I am, often fly half way around the world to save the life of a woman that I've spent no more than a collective few hours with."
"You're reading too much into this – as usual." Sherlock said as John secured a piece of cotton wool to the crook of Sherlock's arm with a liberal amount of surgical tape, "The world is simply a more interesting place with her in it."
"Evidently." Mycroft muttered as his eyes swept over the torn up photographs and maps that still littered the floor, "So, "I've got the woman", do you have any idea who the "I" is referring to?"
"I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark and guess that Moriarty has something to do with this."
"Obviously. Are you planning on going after her? On executing another rescue mission where you save the fragile little creature from the clutches of the evil mad men?"
"Irene Adler is anything but fragile." Sherlock scoffed.
"That wasn't a denial_"
"Nor was it a confirmation. If this man has Irene Adler then I'm sure she'll be perfectly capable of taking care of herself."
"I see," Mycroft said as he clasped his hands together on top of his knee, "Does that mean that you're dropping the case?"
Sherlock said nothing, he simply stared defiantly back at his brother.
"Brilliant." John muttered as he placed the vials of blood securely in his medical bag.
"Ah yes," Mycroft said, finally directing his gaze exclusively at John, "You haven't voiced your opinion regarding the revelation that, not only is Irene Adler alive she is also – allegedly – being held captive by a sadistic serial killer. What are your thoughts?"
"I..." John began and then realised that he didn't know what he thought. There were so many of them buzzing around in his brain that he hardly knew which one to listen to. "I think," John began slowly, finally directing his gaze at Sherlock – who was staring at him intently – "I think that you need to be careful. I think that the combination of Irene Adler, Moriarty and a serial killer is... well it's just not good and I think that if you're not careful then you could get us killed – and by "us" I mean you and me and, speaking for myself, I would really rather live."
Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, his gaze and his face completely impassive. John couldn't tell what he was thinking but, then again, he rarely could.
"I don't know how he knows, but this man – this serial killer of woman – knows enough about you to use Irene Adler as bait. Please don't get into a pissing contest with him or Moriarty. The last time all three of us were in a room together he strapped a bomb to my chest and you pointed a gun at his head_"
John trailed off when he saw a flash of excitement flicker through Sherlock's eyes ,
"Oh for the love of…" John muttered.
"What?"
"This is not a game Sherlock."
"Oh but it is John, and it's a really exciting one." Sherlock said, his eyes sparkling with something akin to euphoria.
"I give up." John said as he began packing everything back into his medical bag, "Go and get yourself kidnapped by a serial killer, strap forty kilos of C-4 to your chest and take a stroll through the Houses of Parliament, just don't get me involved."
"I think you're being a little over dramatic John."
"Seriously Sherlock, you need to shut up before I smack you."
Sherlock snorted but John ignored him,
"We need to get these samples to Molly; you should put some clothes on."
"Oh I don't know," Sherlock said as he stretched himself out across the sofa, "she might enjoy seeing me partially clad." The action caused his t-shirt to ride up and reveal a strip of pale stomach – which shone almost blindingly in the bright morning sunlight. John was momentarily mesmerised by the sight of Sherlock's bellybutton and the way that the taut flesh seemed to jump slightly with every beat of his heart.
Mycroft cleared his throat and, as John looked up he saw that Mycroft was smirking at him. John felt heat creep up his throat and he quickly went about admonishing Sherlock for joking about Molly's obvious infatuation with him.
Sherlock snorted again,
"I wasn't being cruel, I was simply making a joke."
"It was at someone else's expense."
Sherlock shrugged and stretched out further, like a cat uncoiling its limbs, and this time the waistband on his trousers began to dip dangerously low_
"Could you put some clothes on?!" John said, not meaning for his voice to sound so loud – or quite so tense.
Sherlock huffed and literally flung himself off the sofa like some sort of petulant five year old,
"Why do I have to go with you? I should be here, reviewing my notes, making links, trying to find out_"
"Sherlock." Mycroft warned, "Stop acting like a spoilt brat and go and put some clothes on."
Sherlock grimaced and stormed off down the hallway in the direction of his bedroom, muttering profanities under his breath as he went.
Once John had heard his bedroom door slam shut he breathed out a sigh of relief and collapsed onto the sofa that Sherlock had recently vacated. The sunlight fell on him and he had to shield his eyes to prevent the harsh rays from burning his brain.
Seconds slipped into minutes and he almost forgot that Mycroft was still sitting in the room.
"Have you talked to him about it?"
John looked up and saw Mycroft staring at him intently.
"Talked to him about what?"
Mycroft levelled him with a steady look,
"About your... evolving feelings."
John blinked,
"I... I don't... he's just my friend, we're just friends, I'm not_"
"Yes, yes," Mycroft said, waving off his comments lethargically, as if the prospect of even listening to John's explanations were enough to bore him to tears,
"I know that you're not gay, you've so vehemently impressed that particular piece of information on every person who makes your acquaintance that I couldn't help but be aware of your sexual preferences. But..."
And the word seemed to hit John square in the face, he hated that word in this moment, he hated what it implied, hated the damage that it could cause.
"But you are becoming aware that some of your feelings are transcending the normal bounds of friendship_"
John shushed him, turning his head to stare down the dark hallway and make sure that Sherlock wasn't eavesdropping.
"He can't hear us," Mycroft assured John, "He's intelligent, not a vampire."
John sighed and reluctantly looked back at Mycroft,
"This really has nothing to do with you."
Mycroft nodded,
"Your lack of contradiction is all the admission I need_"
"Mycroft_"
"Don't worry," Mycroft said as he stood up and buttoned up his suit jacket, "I won't say anything. But if I were you – which, thank the heavens I am not – I wouldn't let these feelings fester. The prolonged repression of these sorts of things never end well, you'll find that, one day, you won't be able to take it anymore. This longing inside of you, this evolving feeling, if not addressed, will ruin you and in doing so it will also ruin your friendship with Sherlock."
John looked at Mycroft for a long moment,
"Are you talking from personal experience?"
Mycroft's lips curled into an unpleasant semblance of a smile,
"Good Lord no, I'm referencing from basic psychology. I would never let myself get involved with something as messy as a... sexual relationship." He said, actually shuddering at the utterance of the words.
"Lucky for you, no one wants you to." Sherlock said as he came striding into the living room buttoning up the remaining buttons on his purple shirt.
John must have looked something akin to terrified because Sherlock said,
"Don't worry, I wasn't listening. I assumed that in my absence you two would discuss me and I had no interest in listening to your trite observations."
"Well, this has been fun." Mycroft said as he took out his phone, pressed a series of buttons and then pocketed it again.
"Yes, we really must do it again sometime." Sherlock said as he slid his arms into his coat, "Put a date in the diary John and we'll make a proper evening of it."
"When did you become so sarcastic Sherlock?" Mycroft asked ponderously, "You were always such a literal child."
"Things change."
Mycroft's eyes slid to John and he said with a small smirk, "Indeed they do."
John wanted to punch him and Mycroft must have realised this because his smirk intensified.
"I wish I could stay longer but I have to fire about sixty people for failing to find out that Irene Adler was actually alive – I'll omit the part about you being the one to save her."
"You're too kind Mycroft, now could you very kindly get out?"
"Goodbye John." Mycroft said, a hint of a smirk still playing on his lips as he turned and disappeared down the dark hallway.
"Can you feel that?" Sherlock asked and John turned his head to look at him.
"Feel what?"
"The blood starting to return to your veins, Mycroft has this way of restricting blood flow. You have to make sure that you spend as little time as possible in his presence, otherwise you'll find your flesh turning necrotic and your organs shutting down."
John was rendered momentarily speechless by Sherlock's description.
"What?" Sherlock asked as he looped his scarf around his neck and turned his coat collar up so that it lay flat against his neck, "Do you think I'm being too harsh on him."
"No, I mean after all, he did call you malignant. It's quite apt for you to compare him to some sort of Dementor."
"Compare him to a what?"
John waved his hand dismissively,
"It's a reference to pop culture."
Sherlock grimaced,
"I thought we agreed that you'd stop doing that." Sherlock said as he crouched down on his knees and began rummaging through the debris of paper, evidently searching for something.
"I thought that we agreed that you'd stop blowing things up in the kitchen."
Sherlock swivelled sharply around to look at John,
"I haven't been near my Bunsen burner in almost a fortnight. What have I blown up this week?"
"The carton of eggs that you put in the microwave."
"That wasn't for an experiment." Sherlock said petulantly, "I was hungry."
John hid his smile behind his hand,
"We should go," John said as he stood up, "The sooner we establish that you're clean the sooner we can get home and… deal with fact that both a serial killer and a psychotic criminal master mind want to have you over for dinner. Maybe I should start child locking the internet again or just slap an electronic tag on your ankle_"
"John."
John stopped putting on his coat and turned to look at Sherlock – who was uncharacteristically picking at a loose thread on the collar of his coat.
"Yes?"
Sherlock took in a deep breath, held it for a second before he said,
"I know that you lied to me about Irene Adler, I know that Mycroft told you that she had been beheaded and that you chose to tell me that she had been entered into the witness protection programme." Sherlock looked up from the loose strand of thread and levelled John with his gaze,
"It was unnecessary but… it was appreciated." Sherlock's eyebrow twitched slightly and John realised that this was as close as he was going to get to saying thank you.
John smiled,
"You're welcome."
Sherlock nodded and tugged on his scarf,
"Come on then, let's go and prove that I'm not a crack whore." Sherlock said as he strode pass John and down the stairs.
John stared after him for a moment in mild bemusement, never thinking he'd hear those words escape the lips of Sherlock Holmes.