I'm uploading this chapter early because I'm going to be gone for the rest of the week. I may or may not post another on Saturday (though I probably will).

The title of this chapter is Latin for "the way to peace."

Chapter 10 – Viam pacis sunt

I wake up the next morning with a twinge in my neck and a consulting detective's curly head resting against my knee. The coals in the fireplace are still glowing and emitting a bit of heat.

Sherlock is still in the same position he was in last night—sitting on the floor and facing the fireplace—before I'd drifted off to dreamland.

And dream I had.

There's a slight strain in my pants that I try to will away. I'm still half-asleep, and all I really want to do is sit here and revel in the soft, early-morning atmosphere painted inside the walls of the flat.

Sherlock's breathing huffs steadily, giving away his sleeping state.

Sunlight peeks through the windows to tickle the yellow smiley face on the wall.

Shadows dance and fade as nighttime wanes, and the feeling of utter contentment fills me so completely that I choke up a bit.

I had never expected to feel this again.

After Afghanistan and before Sherlock, I had convinced myself that life from then on would be filled with empty days. Going through the motions, but not really being. Again, after Sherlock was gone and I found myself alone, things had been in gray scale. I had once more convinced myself there would be no going back.

But I had been wrong, and suddenly my life had been bursting Technicolor again.

Slowly, the hues in the room change from the cool morning pastels to their glowing warmth of daytime. I have a shift to go to today, so it's really about time I get up. But Sherlock is still asleep and I really don't—

"I'm awake."

I jump slightly as Sherlock's sleep-roughened voice drops into the room. Watching as he unwraps his long arms from around his long legs, I say, "Did you sleep much?" There is a cold patch on my leg when he lifts his head.

"A bit."

I nod, not getting up just yet. My morning erection is gone; I don't need to worry about that, but I'm reluctant to let the quiet stillness that had settled around us to dissipate.

Sherlock gets up in a fluid motion and walks to where my laptop rests on the table. Sitting down and opening it, he stares at the screen for a minute. He hasn't turned it on yet.

My brow furrows as he looks up at me with, honestly, the most open and vulnerable expression I've ever seen on his face. He looks perplexed.

"Something wrong?"

He shakes his head.

I continue to watch him, worried, as he gets back up to settle in the chair across from me. He hadn't even checked for a case.

"It's…quiet," he says finally.

"What is?"

"Everything."

I study him, concern probably seeping off of me in waves. He's staring at a spot close to my left hand where it sits on the armrest. Apparently I wasn't the only one affected by the gentle morning, but that's not like Sherlock.

"I…it just…" He stops and rubs a hand through his hair. "There's nothing. Why is it so quiet?" His hand tugs in aggravation and his voice had risen in pitch on that question.

I quickly stand up and close the small step between the two chairs, leaning down and pulling his hand from its abuse on his hair. "Sherlock, hey, look at me. What's so quiet?"

He glances around the room quickly, tension radiating from him. "My head. The flat. The street. Everything. John!" His eyes snap up to mine. The panic I read there does nothing to calm my nerves. "What's wrong with me?"

Then it clicks.

"Nothing, Sherlock. Nothing. You're okay." I crouch down so that I'm looking up at him. His eyes are boring into mine as if I'm a lifeline and a selfish part of me savors that feeling. "It's peace. That's all you're feeling. Your mind is giving you a break."

"But that's never happened before," he says quietly, still fighting off panic.

I realize I'm holding his hand. More importantly, he's clinging to mine. With a gentle squeeze, I rest our twined hands on his knee. "But it's good, isn't it? Isn't it nice to have a rest?"

He's quiet for a very long moment as he stares at our fingers. "You…" He pauses and clears his throat. "Yes." It's a whisper, almost awed.

Sherlock Holmes in awe is one of the most beautiful things I have ever been graced to see.

I smile.

Sherlock is unusually quiet the rest of the day.

It had only taken a few more minutes before his mind had kicked back into motion, but he remained subdued. He refused the case Lestrade offered him around midmorning (the DI had texted me to see if something was wrong with the mad detective) and instead chose to remain on the sofa for the majority of the day. When I return from work, he is still in the same position as I'd left him.

It is just starting to get dark when he comes to me.

He hovers for a moment while I read an article about news in the Middle East.

"John?"
"Hm?" I say, glancing up briefly.

He shifts from foot to foot in my peripheral vision. Recognizing his nervous (You say: Sherlock Holmes, nervous? I say: Yes, it does happen) movements, I settle my gaze on him this time. Sherlock can sometimes be a bit like a skittish animal.

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water for a moment before any sound comes out.

"I…" He starts again. "What…"

I narrow my eyes at him. He's avoiding eye contact and his hands are fluttering about him like two birds trying to escape a cage.

"I don't know what you are," he says quickly, eyes flickering to mine briefly.

My eyebrows lift of their own accord. "Human, I hope."

"Don't be simple, John!"

I shrug.

He rushes on. "Things keep happening. I don't even know what they are." He groans. "Sentiment! The one thing that slips my comprehension." He's pacing now, hands tugging at his hair in aggravation. "But, John, I don't understand what you are! You berate me for telling Lestrade about Donovan and Anderson shagging in the break room, and then laugh about it with me when we're on our way back to the flat. You complain about me making a rubbish bin of the flat, and then, in the next breath, ask if I have any laundry that needs to be done. You cook, you clean, and you make me take care of myself." He spins around and walks back in my direction, aggravation reaching its peak. "And then you bloody well get yourself half drowned in the middle of all this!"

And you kissed me, I think to myself.

"And then," he lets out a mirthless laugh, "and then this morning I wake up to find out I used you as a human pillow last night, and my mind is silent." The man spits it out as if it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. He stops pacing and stands in front of me. "I don't understand any of this!" he yells.

I remain quiet, waiting until he's dropped into his chair across from me to set aside the paper. "Sherlock, this, what you're describing, is friendship." No it isn't.

His head snaps up and his eyes bore into mine with an unnamable emotion. "Is it?" he asks, tone nearly mocking. "Because people seem to think it's a lot more than that."

"And since when do you listen to what people say?"
He falls silent for a moment. "This isn't a conventionally 'friendly' relationship."

"We aren't conventional."

"Friends don't do each other's laundry."

I level my gaze with his. "All sorts of relationships build from friendship, Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson comes in with a basket of muffins before anything more can be said.

Some things are better left unsaid. Honestly, I can't bring myself to regret letting the "more than friends" hint drop. I know it wasn't ridiculously blunt, but I'm sure Sherlock, with his massive intellect, knew very well what I meant by it.

Further still, I think it intrigued him.

Things are fairly normal for the next few days. We get notified via government car kidnapping that Mycroft is officially in remission. Lestrade calls in with a few cases, and Sherlock selects a few from the blog. Mrs. Hudson hovers, Sherlock complains, and I work interference when it looks like the detective is about to start throwing things.

Molly blushes.

Angelo plays matchmaker.

Sebastian Wilkes gets arrested for embezzling (I'm slightly disappointed that Sherlock wasn't the one to take him down, but hey).

Sarah flirts.

Sherlock diagnoses Anderson with syphilis in front of half the Yard.

By the end of the week, I'm about to go mad from the normalcy.

Nothing's happening.

This attitude that I've adopted bothers me, because life with Sherlock Holmes is anything but normal. The only constant thing about it is the relationship between the buggering detective and myself. And it's slowly driving me to insanity.

The realization of this had hit me hard in the face just as I was walking past Sherlock in the kitchen. He was going through an assortment of case files and paused for a brief moment to reach up and rub the back of his neck. It was an unnatural chink in his armor, revealing the stiffness that being human brings when you sit in one position far too long. It hit me that he was getting older, that I was getting older, we were still friends, and it wasn't enough.

The glass in my hand had shattered to the floor and it had taken me a moment to realize Sherlock had asked me if I was okay.

"Fine," I'd croaked before hurrying away, not bothering to clean up the glass shards.

If this kept up, very soon there would be no dishes left unharmed in the flat.

I hope this chapter was okay. Very soon, the rating for this fic will be changing to M, so here's your fair warning. :)

Reviews appreciated. :) -C