A/N: :)

Forever Avenge

a Star Trek/Sherlock crossover

IV

[Stardate 2258: space coordinates ]

Sixty-four of the seventy-two photon torpedoes were now beginning to finally resemble pieces of weaponry rather than a mess of random bits and parts. Khan had to hand it to Carol Marcus, she certainly did work efficiently and accurately when attending to the pieces of the spacecraft, even if she liked to talk far more than he preferred to whilst working. The workers on the innermost dock of the station were also working much more quickly than Khan had anticipated on the U.S.S. Vengeance, the hull and main framework already complete after laboring a mere fortnight upon the craft, effectively whetting his hungry lips for the day that he and his crew would be free once more, free to roam and conquer space as much as they desired, free from this god-forsaken planet that had betrayed them one too many times.

As for Carol, she was finding it increasingly difficult to sneak onto the base, but she found that with enough determination and creativity that she will be able to keep doing so until she had completed assisting Khan—he had still refused to tell her his real name, his former, human identity—with the missiles. She still had quite a few tricks up her sleeves to sneak onto the supplies ships, though, so she did not see fit to worry herself over it just yet. More so, she was concerned with the fact that there was so much she still did not know about the man she was assisting. Sure, she knew that he was actually an augment, and that he was not just powerful but tremendously vengeful, but as far as she knew it was all within reason. Still, there were very large gaps in the little bit he had divulged of his past, when he was a detective whose name she still did not know.

"This capacitor goes within the first or second thruster chamber?" Carol inquired, looking up from the torpedo she was hunched over towards Khan. The human augment merely glanced over from where he was working and briefly instructed:

"Second."

"You know," Carol began to reason with him, "This would all go a lot faster if I could just be allowed to see the blueprints for myself—"

"No."

Of course not. Two weeks passed and Khan still will not allow any pair of eyes other than his own to look upon his precious blueprints. Carol was beginning to suspect that she really was unknowingly assisting him in some massive coup against Starfleet and the Federation. She was far from stupid; she knew that it was not a smart move to trust this man who had openly admitted to killing and conquering relentlessly in the past. But there was just something more, especially upon finding out that he has an entire lifetime hidden within him that nobody had bothered to inquire about until now, until she began to talk to him. But even when talking about that he was very closed-off. Carol could not get the augment to speak much about his path all at once. Over the course of their fortnight together, she had barely been able to find out exactly what his profession entailed, where he got his cases from, and a little bit about his flatmate. Everything she had been told was cryptic at best, the important details left out almost always whenever he saw fit on rare occasion to regale her with a fantastic tale of past cases and adventures.

After a good twenty minutes of silent working, Carol looked across the room at Khan, wondering if she would be able to get him to talk today. "…Tell me more about your flatmate, John," she began suggestively.

At the very mention of John Watson, Khan's demeanor visibly altered. He continued to stare straight ahead into the computer screen, up at his blueprints, without truly seeing them anymore. Instead, all he could see were John's deep, empathetic blue eyes staring down lovingly at him. There was nothing he missed more than those eyes, how they could so miraculously convey numerous emotions at the same time in perfect tandem without dropping an ounce of sincerity towards Sherlock whilst doing so.

"What do you want to know?" Khan inquired, turning away from his computer screen to regard Carol's expression wholly. Carol shrugged.

"Anything," she offered. "I mean, you spoke very highly of him the few times you've mentioned his name."

"Yes, with good reason."

"Well, I want to know more about this man that seemed to capture your heart."

Khan narrowed his eyes at Carol, speculating her inquiring expression sternly. Suddenly, she realized what she had inadvertently insinuated with her last statement.

"Oh, gosh," she stuttered. "I'm not saying—I didn't mean to make that sound like you two—"

"No, it's…" Khan looked away from her. "…It's fine."

You would not be the first to assume that before actually knowing the truth.

Even as he thought that, though, Khan once again could not help but observe the irony of Carol's presumed mistake.

"Where do I even begin," he whispered, gripping at the edge of one of the long, metallic tables that held two of the pre-formed weapons upon it, relishing in the coolness of the metal beneath his palm.

"Well, you've told me how you two met, and what he did as a profession," Carol said, thinking back upon what all Khan had divulged of John so far. "Oh, and also that he saved your life the very first case you two worked on together."

Khan's lips twitched slightly at the memory, though he refused to allow himself to smile.

"That was not the only time he saved me," he spoke quietly in deference. "Just in being there for me, being a part of my life…that is what saved me."

He turned to look Carol in the eye.

"As I said before, I was not a very well-liked man, and with good reason, I'm afraid. I referred to myself as a high-functioning sociopath, though many would correct me with the word psychopath. Either way, that did not leave much room for friends in between my Work and my social issues. Admittedly, when Mike Stamford introduced me to John I did not think for a second that even if he agreed to get into a flatshare with me that it would last very long. He seemed friendly, tolerable and kind—not the kind of man that can usually stand my insufferableness. Yet he did not only stand it, but cooperated with it quite well, even managing to affect many of my bad habits and begin to re-shape them…began to re-shape me."

-•-• •-•-

[Stardate 2015,7: London]

The river was a dark, crimson red in color—but it was always like that, wasn't it? As long as he could remember the red-tinted sand would stain the water that sickly, blood-like color, despite the fact that any actual desert would not be so dramatically colored, nor would it have such a large body of water to drink from...if that blood-tinted water was even drinkable, that is. It was all in his mind—an illusion, as Sherlock would call it, just as he named his suicide—but it was all so real nonetheless. Just as real and familiar as the helicopters overhead were; just as real as his broken, bloodied shoulder wound was to him now. John could practically feel the bullet still inside of him, though he knew for a fact that it had merely passed straight through his shoulder blade as if the bone were made of paper, the traumatizing wound partially blinding him through pain and blood loss as he fell first to his knees, and then on his side, cradling his shoulder, feeling with terror his blood squeeze through his shaking fingers struggling to apply pressure to the wound. As he did with his fellow comrades and soldiers, he attempted to revert back to his medical training, oddly calm despite the fact that most of his potential help was lying dead around him. Just as he was forcing himself to sit up straight and try to wrap the wound, however, the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked to fire filled his ears. He turned to face the direction of the sound with trepidation, sure that the click was to be the last thing he heard, and that the inner barrel of the gun was to be the last thing he ever saw…

John did not expect the last man that he would ever see—his murderer—would just so happen to be Sherlock Holmes. His chest constricted as he stared into those bright, calculating eyes for what he was sure to be the last time. Betrayal hit like the bitterest of winds, and he found himself looking at his flatmate—his best friend—with pleading eyes…not particularly the expression he wished to be remembered for but the only one he could manage. Sherlock's coat flapped in the heated breeze, the sand rising up and swirling around his long legs like a demonic veil. If John squinted enough, he could possibly mistake the detective to be a mirage, to be something that his asphyxiated, heat-addled mind had come up with. But he knew the truth, even here in the hour of his foreboding death; Sherlock Holmes was standing before him with a gun in his hand, clear as day. He heard himself whisper…"Please, God. Let me live…" before he closed his eyes, breathing shallowly his last breaths before…

CLICK.

John hesitantly opened one eye to see Sherlock's cold, unfathomable expression had melted into one of his rare but genuinely warm smiles.

"Did you really think I'd sink so low as to let my blogger die?" he said in that low, familiar voice that John could not help but to take comfort in. The soldier watched with wide, hopeful eyes as the ending of his nightmare eluded into the ending of a relieving dream; Sherlock tossed the gun to the ground and steadily walked towards John. He stopped right in front of where he lay and outstretched his hand, reaching for the army doctor. John struggled a bit but managed to painfully lift his undamaged arm up to reach for Sherlock as well…

Just as he had managed to grasp onto the detective's hand, however, a bombshell dropped not thirty yards away from them, shards of debris from the shell littering the air. John knew to duck and tried shouting at Sherlock to do the same…but his voice was clogged with sand and agony…he continued to grasp Sherlock's hand as he fell to the ground, a distinct shard of metal protruding from his skull, right into his temporal lobe…John choked back a sob as he checked his best friend's—his savior's—pulse and found for the second time in his life that his heart had already stopped beating…

John's deep, slightly insipid blue eyes shot open in an instant as he clutched at his sheets, trying to control his rapidly accelerated breathing and heart rate. Remnants of the nightmare pierced the forefront of his mind, making it extremely difficult to recall his exhaustion and even begin to think about going back to sleep, so he sat up, running his hands roughly through his hair in order to distract and clear his whirring mind. The sense of utter despair his dream had brought upon him was barely beginning to fade, but the more John told himself that it was fiction, that Sherlock had not actually died, the easier it was becoming to breathe normally. He brought his hands back down to his face, closing his eyes and resting his forehead into his clammy palms, still taking deep breaths to get his heart beating normally again. He silently cursed his anxiety for the umpteenth time; he was doing so well, after all. Once Sherlock had returned his nightmares had all but dissipated. But the sheer startlement of almost being forced to watch the detective's life be taken away brought them back on. He sighed heavily, dropping his hands from his face as he stared at the wall across from him and his bed. John was really beginning to see just how much Sherlock meant to him. If it took only the mere prospect of the man's death to send John spiraling back into his nightmares, how was he going to deal with the Work ever again? He was so frustratingly unstable, had been since Sherlock's suicide, and he hated himself for it, hated that the military man within him was not as hard-built as his soldier self actually was. He could not recall ever acting upon fear in the battlefield, after all—why could he not exhibit the same amount of control and bravery in slumber?

Because it's just my subconscious at work, not my actual self, John thought, recalling what his therapist had told him at one time with yet another disgusted shake of the head. With a sigh, he threw the covers off of himself, resolving to make a warm cup of tea instead of attempting to fall back asleep just yet.

John stepped as quietly as he could down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky step right at the top in order to keep from awakening Sherlock. The storm outside was still thundering on, the rain falling just as hard if not harder than earlier that night. He maneuvered his way through the dark, rain-shadow splattered living area, not wanting to turn any lights on unless he absolutely had to. When he reached the kitchen, he fumbled around the counter until his hands found the stove. The stove light came on with a soft click that of course sounded twenty times louder than it actually was in the quietness of the flat. John glanced back in the direction of Sherlock's slightly ajar bedroom door briefly as he put the kettle to boil, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and leaning against the counter with a small yawn. He could still hear the gunshots from the dream, and he swallowed to keep from remembering too much, particularly the part when Sherlock died in his grasp…

He started when he sensed movement coming from the living room across from where he stood. John squinted in the darkness, suddenly wide-awake and on high-alert should he find a complete stranger sitting idly upon his sofa with a gun or a knife at hand, just waiting for either him or Sherlock to emerge from their bedrooms. John pressed his lips, his eyes stern and unblinkingly staring where he knew the couch sat as he flipped the light switch on.

"…Sherlock?"

"Mmm…?" came the drowsy baritone reply, Sherlock slowly blinking himself awake as he un-tucked his arm from underneath his body and stretched upwards, the sleeves of his dressing gown loosely sliding down his forearms as he did so.

"You alright?" John asked him concernedly, wondering why on Earth the man was sleeping on the sofa rather than in his bed.

"Couldn't sleep," Sherlock muttered, rubbing his eyes as he sat up. "Came out here to think."

John knitted his brows together and opened his mouth to inquire as to why Sherlock could not sleep just when the water kettle beeped softly behind him. He turned to tend to it, pulling a second mug out of the cabinet for the detective now that he knew he was awake. Upon peering at the clock, he could see that it was just past four in the morning and groaned inwardly at the knowledge that he had to get up to go to work in three hours.

"Nightmare?" Sherlock inquired, accepting a steaming mug from John.

"Yeah," John said, electing to stand instead of joining Sherlock on the sofa, in case the man wanted to stretch his legs out once again in a moment or so. He took a small sip of his tea before inquiring of Sherlock: "Why couldn't you sleep?"

"Don't know," Sherlock said, frowning a frown against the lip of his mug that stated that he clearly did in fact know why. When he looked back up at John, he could tell immediately that the man did not buy his lazy excuse and sighed heavily and exhaustedly. "I had too much on my mind," he admitted.

"About the case?" John asked curiously, to which Sherlock shook his head, resting his warm mug upon his leg as he frowned slightly to himself.

"No, Lestrade texted four and a half hours ago, saying that he got Sam Merton secured and in custody."

John waited for him to continue, searching his facial expression for any clues to what could be bothering him and finding nothing. "What about, then, if you don't mind me asking," he asked finally.

Sherlock looked up at his with a calculating look.

"You know what about," Sherlock said firmly, taking John by surprise. "How could you not?"

John blinked in surprise at that statement.

"You do this a lot," the doctor commented with a slight frown. "Assume I know something—or rather, assume I should know something and leave me decidedly in the dark rather than just up and saying it instead. Wastes a lot of time, doing that," he finished matter-of-factly as he lifted his mug back up to his mouth.

"But I can tell you've noticed it as well, John," Sherlock said in all seriousness. John cocked his head to the side.

"Noticed what?"

"The tension."

John raised an eyebrow. "Ok," he said slowly, looking aimlessly at the detective. "Now I really don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock."

"I have to spell this out to you, don't I?" Sherlock said in exasperation, narrowing his eyes. "If only you'd just think."

"Well," John said, glancing behind him at the clock. "To be fair, it is kind of four-sixteen in the morning, y'know."

"And yet you seem to be more than coherent enough to make two perfectly good mugs of tea," Sherlock pointed out, to which John shrugged, replying with an expression of pure vexation. He complied and attempted to search his mind for an instance when Sherlock seemed to have acted in a non-Sherlockian way, tried to recall when the man last hesitated and coming up empty-handed. Only an event like that would spring up any unusual tension up, surely, for everything else seemed all fine to John. He blinked, trying to fully awaken his sleep-addled mind as he took another long draw of tea. Still nothing, though; he honestly had no idea what Sherlock could possibly be so concerned about.

"Sherlock," John said finally, setting his half-empty mug down upon the table. He stood back up and looked right at Sherlock, who looked at him with what could only be described as an almost hopeful expression. John sighed:

"You're going to have to spell it out for me; I can't think of anything."

"I did spell it out for you John," Sherlock said with a shake of his head. "The tension is what's keeping me up. Can't you feel it?"

John furrowed his brow, to which Sherlock huffed at in frustration. He frowned at the ground as he clarified: "The tension between us."

This caught John slightly by surprise. "I wasn't aware of any, actually…I thought we were alright," he said in honest confusion. Sherlock blinked.

"Are we really, though, I mean."

"Why wouldn't we be?" John asked. "Sherlock, I've forgiven you a long time ago for faking your suicide; if that's what this is about—"

"That's not at all what this is about, John," Sherlock said, his voice suddenly raised slightly as he stood from his spot on the sofa and set his mug down upon the table next to John's. "This is what I'm talking about," the detective stated, walking up to John and taking his wrist into his hand, pressing his thumb against the man's translucent veins to feel his pulse. John stood silently, staring at Sherlock's face as his expression slowly contorted from calculating to solemnly placate. His hand dropped back to his side when Sherlock relinquished him and took a step back, shifting his eyes from John's wrist up to his face.

"What—" John began to ask confusedly, but Sherlock had already begun to answer:

"Elevated heartbeat," he stated. "Dilated pupils—but of course, that could just be due to your exhaustion. And I suppose your heart rate could still be faster than normalcy because of your recent nightmare, but that's highly unlikely, don't you think?"

John stared at Sherlock, trying to understand if he was assuming what he thought he was assuming of him. True, he could feel his own heart begin to race upon contact with Sherlock, but that had happened before, often enough that he had thought nothing of it. After all, it was rather rare for Sherlock to be quite so touchy with anyone who was not dead, so any kind of contact with him would come as a bit of a surprise to John. But what was that with his pupils…?

"I'm glad you woke up while I was down here," Sherlock said, turning away from John as he thought about the data he had just collected. "I needed to test my theory, to make doubly sure that it was not just me. That's what was bothering me so much, all of these unanswered questions, and of course, the fact that I am so unfamiliar with this kind of thing—"

"What kind of thing?" John said, a little louder than he had meant to. He cleared his throat, then continued at a normal volume:

"Sherlock, what the hell are you referring to?"

The detective turned and knew upon just one look at his flatmate's expression that he needed more answers than that. "…I don't really know how to explain this one, honestly," he admitted with a small frown. "I'm not very familiar with emotional detailing, as you know; I've always been more about the logic and science of a situation. This is admittedly a bit out of my area of expertise."

"Are you saying…?" John began to ask but closed his mouth, looking at Sherlock and silently praying that he could simply read the question from his expression. Of course, that was not going to be the case, though.

"Am I saying, what?"

John blinked.

"Are you saying that this tension your feeling," he began, thinking over his words carefully before finishing, "…that I'm feeling it too, unknowingly?"

"Yes."

"Then what is it?" John asked, suddenly unsure of whether or not he truly wanted to know. Sherlock met John's eye:

"…I don't know anymore," Sherlock confessed annoyedly, looking away. "I though it to be the beginnings of…I don't know…"

"But, that thing with my pupils—them being, what, dilated?" he said in confusion. "What was that about?"

"You're a medical man; you know of several reasons and instances that could cause that kind of involuntary reaction. There is one in specific that I was focusing upon, however. Your pupils dilate when you see the person you are attracted to," Sherlock recited factually, in a rush of breath, looking at John but not truly seeing him as he did so due to his strictly logical focus from deep within his mind. After feeling so unsure for too long and too uncomfortable of an amount of time, Sherlock clung to this while he still could; a sure-fire, certain explanation of fact. "Because the nervous system controls the muscles of the irises, the response of the nervous system to different stimuli results in involuntary pupil dilation. Another commonly cited reason the pupils dilate is in response to excitement or sexual arousal. When a person sees something or someone they find very attractive, their eyes may dilate."

John's eyes widened ever-so-slightly as he realized what Sherlock had realized, why Sherlock Holmes was suddenly so unsure of his own deductions.

"You think I'm beginning to have feelings for you," he said quietly, the words tasting harshly acidic upon his tongue as his stomach churned at the mere thought. Something clicked in his brain as he said it though, a part of him having to wonder if a genius mind like Sherlock's suspected such a thing…could it possibly have a semblance of truth? Could he really be…? He supposed it would make logical sense to Sherlock in order for him to have even brought it up, but there simply was no way that was it, was there? He had never seen Sherlock as more of a friend…he would have never considered such a thing before…he watched as Sherlock bowed his head and pressed his lips together tightly.

"Not just you," he said equally as faintly. John stared at him, unbelieving of what he was hearing. He suddenly needed to sit down but found himself unable to move, sheer shock nailing his feet to the ground in front of Sherlock. The consulting detective turned quickly, matching him with a piercing stare of his own, sensing John's uncertainty over the hypothesis he had presented to him. Both of them were obviously waiting for the other to speak first; John ended up being the one to cut through the stone of silence:

"Sherlock, that's not possible," he reasoned. "I'm straight, remember? I mean. I've never been sexually attracted to a man in my life, and that's not something that just up and changes over night, y'know."

"That's the thing," Sherlock replied dully. "I don't know. You may have never felt something for a man before, but I've never felt something for anyone before. I've no idea what it's supposed to feel like, John…I could be completely mistaking this for something else for all we know."

"You've never felt for someone romantically before, man or woman?" John asked shockedly, to which his flatmate firmly shook his head.

"Nope." Sherlock gritted his teeth together. "Damn. I hate not knowing something. It's infuriating, how can you stand it all the time?"

"Ignorance is bliss," John muttered, stooping to grab his tea back up from the table.

"Dull."

"You would say that."

"You're changing the subject, John."

"Do you blame me?" John demanded, looking back at Sherlock. "I mean, whatever you've just said about my heart rate and my pupils—how long has that been going on now without my knowledge?"

"How long has it been happening to me or you?" Sherlock asked in clarification. John pondered, and then shrugged:

"Both."

"I started noticing it in myself merely three weeks after I moved back in," the detective revealed. "I'm not sure how long it's been going on with you, of course, but I started noticing it about a month or so after I noticed it occurring within myself."

"So for a while now," John said after rapidly calculating that they had been back in 221B Baker Street for a good seven months. Sherlock nodded in affirmation, lifting his mug back up to his lips and pacing away from John as his mind whirred on, searching for a solid explanation to this mess he found himself in. John himself looked like he was seriously trying to figure something out for himself, and eventually his frustrated display of shaking his head pulled Sherlock away from his thoughts.

"What is it," he asked John, facing out the window.

"I just..." John began, and then paused to take a deep breath. "I care deeply for you Sherlock; you know I do." He paused for another moment, and then began again, speaking slower as more and more of a realization hit him from deep within. "…In fact, I think I care for you more than I ever have cared for any girl I've gone out with, if I'm being completely honest here."

"Really," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes speculatively.

"Really," John confirmed, sighing again, "Which is probably why I haven't been able to hold a steady relationship for quite some time now, since women don't typically like being held second to their partner's flatmates. But I can't…I don't know what that means, to be honest. It's like I said, I know I'm straight…but shite—what does it mean if a straight man starts caring for another man in this way?"

"This is equally as frustrating to you as it is to me," Sherlock realized, turning away from the window to look back at John. John showed him his hands, uplifted in defeat.

"You have no idea," the doctor said, collapsing onto the couch at last with a huff. "I guess I have been feeling this elephant in the room recently, but I've just been discrediting it, thinking it was all in my head—"

"When I just so happened to be thinking the same thing," Sherlock finished, to which John nodded, folding his hands together in his lap with great thoughtfulness.

The two of them were silent for a long expanse of time, both of them unbelieving of the sudden discovery they had just made about one another's feelings for each other. Both of them had always known they were close—possibly even unusually close, or else why would everyone automatically assume they were a couple right there on the spot—but before that night neither of them had actually seriously considered the thought fully. It had always seemed like a stupid, annoying insinuation to John, whenever people thought they were so blatantly gay for each other. He was very firm in his heterosexuality, always had been as well. Never before had he had trouble getting women; his only problem was Sherlock, who always managed to make his girlfriends feel either unwelcome or unwanted with his constant interfering. But despite that he had always stayed with Sherlock, valuing their friendship over any other relationship he may have begun to have.

As for Sherlock…he was completely unfamiliar with the pressure he could now feel deep within his chest cavity, and he was not sure whether or not he liked it. It got worse whenever he turned to meet John's eyes, which only added more to his suspicions and likewise. It was frustrating, how little he knew of relationships and how they began. Even if he was confident that his feelings were what he thought they were, though, Sherlock knew this conversation would still be equally as uneasy as it had turned out to be, simply because John was completely correct in saying that he was absolutely straight. It all suddenly felt so much less absolute, however—even John had a seed of doubt planted within his mind, and once an idea is planted, Sherlock knew more than anyone that there was nothing anybody could do but watch it grow. John had already admitted to caring deeply and unfazed for Sherlock, and Sherlock did not have to ask himself whether or not he felt the same amount of respect and care for John. After all, he jumped off of a building for him, and he would easily do it again if he had to. If he had no other choice, Sherlock knew he would've gone through with the suicide, fake or not faked…which was more than enough certainty for him to go by, he decided at last with finality.

"…John," he spoke, his dressing gown swishing behind him as he turned completely away from the window and walked over to set his mug down and stand by where John now sat upon the couch. When he looked up at him, Sherlock outstretched his hand. "I wish to try an experiment," he explained, meeting his eyes. When John did not move, he pointedly softened his expression and spoke low:

"Trust me."

Still obviously hesitant, John obliged his flatmate and placed his hand in his, rising from the sofa and refusing to break eye contact with Sherlock. The detective took a deep, steadying breath and offered John a small, warm smile as he reached out and took the man's other hand within his as well. "Do you trust me?" he asked again, softly. John swallowed, already sensing where this was inevitably going as he felt his stomach churn once more in anticipation. He paused, taking time to straighten out his hammering thoughts before giving Sherlock his final answer. What he truly up for this kind of a…experiment, as Sherlock referred to it as? John looked down at his hands, still gripped in Sherlock's, and found that he immediately relaxed a bit when he felt the detective give them a small squeeze. He returned his gaze back to Sherlock's light, searching eyes, finding comfort in their familiar stare as he finally whispered: "…Yes."

Sherlock nodded unperceptively—mostly to himself—pressing his lips together as he set up his mind for his next step, finding that he was suddenly extremely grateful for the previous research he had done on this entire subject matter of relationships and what one does when in one. He kept his eyes locked on John's, staring deeply into his eyes, darkened due to his heavily dilated pupils as he slowly tilted his head downwards. His eyes fluttered closed on their own accord, and he felt his puckered lips meet the softness of John's, suddenly extremely aware of not only their incredibly close proximity but of the warm, comforting heat he could feel rising to John's flushing face. Sherlock knew enough to keep it brief for John's repose, pulling away from the man with a tiny, barely audible smack. He opened his eyes and looked back at John, searching his face for any displays or emotional reactions through the slight dazed fog that had slipped into his mind from the kiss.

John seemed to be suffering from the same haziness as he slowly re-opened his eyes, staring straight ahead at Sherlock's lips rather than up into his pupils. All previous tension had been released from his body, and he felt his arms drop slackly to his sides when Sherlock released his hands. Slowly and bewilderedly, he lifted a hand to his mouth, lightly brushing his fingers across his lips. He finally looked up into Sherlock's eyes as he spoke quietly in light surprise: "Your lips are soft."

Sherlock blinked, unsure of how to respond to the comment. "Why wouldn't they be?" he finally scrutinized, to which John meekly replied:

"…I don't know." He lowered his gaze back to the detective's lips, finding himself to be oddly and quite suddenly transfixed with their definite Cupid's bow shape. "I suppose I didn't…expect that, y'know."

"Because I'm a man," Sherlock said in understanding, watching in quiet amusement as John's blush deepened exponentially. To John's credit, though, Sherlock could tell that he was successfully attempting to take all thoughts of a specific sexuality out of his mind in order to pursue accurate results, understanding that this was as much of an experiment for him as well as Sherlock.

"You're waiting for me to say something," John whispered to himself in realization. Sherlock lifted his head slightly in curiosity.

"Yes," he responded to John's quiet, out-spoken thoughts, forcing him out of his momentary stupor to look back up into his face.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to tell you, though."

"Tell me…how you feel," Sherlock said carefully, taking the man's hands in his own once again and brushing his thumb across his wrist to take his pulse once more. He glanced up behind John's head at the analog clock hanging on the wall behind them, staring intently at the second hand…120 bpm. Interesting.

"Exhausted," John admitted, also making to look behind him to read the clock. Sherlock huffed, tilting his head back in utter annoyance:

"John…"

"Just saying," the doctor sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment as he took a deep breath to attempt to steady his heart rate, knowing with exposal that Sherlock could feel it beneath his fingertips. "Not uncomfortable, since I know that's what you're concerned mostly about…"

"Good," Sherlock encouraged him with a nod.

"And…" John stared back up at Sherlock's lips, suddenly feeling an urge to press his own up against their tantalizing plumpness—wait. What?

"I'm so confused," John breathed in defeat. "I don't know what's going on, and I'm not sure—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, gripping at the man's arms as he tried to calm him down, feeling him tense up for a split second and then decidedly relax completely in his grasp. "Answer me just one thing and then I'll leave this be for the night, okay?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock, it's—"

"Don't say it's fine," Sherlock muttered exasperatedly. "You know how I am, I demand answers. Only when I know all I must know will it be fine."

John looked him in the eye.

"Then what do you want to know, Sherlock?"

Sherlock loosened his grip upon John.

"Do you want to kiss me again…?" he frowned to himself and looked away for a moment, correcting his question before John answered: "Would that be something that would feel…right to you?"

John swallowed nervously—more nervous about the definitive and fervent god, yes screaming dramatically within his unsettled mind than about actually answering Sherlock. If he admitted the truth to him, what would that mean? Would Sherlock Holmes, the most disconnected man John had ever known in his entire life suddenly want a relationship with him, just like that? And…is that what he wanted as well? He had not considered such a thing before this, but now it all seemed within his grasp, right there and easy to picture clearly within the forefront of his mind. It suddenly did not matter whether or not Sherlock was a man, for he was Sherlock. John had previously admitted that he cared for the consulting detective more than he had ever cared for anybody before throughout his entire life—an admittance even John could not fathom until he was forced to watch the man hurl himself down to his death. God, yes, he thought again upon asking himself whether or not he could see himself in a serious, romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

"John?" Sherlock prodded him out of his thoughtful stupor. John met his eyes, setting his face in a rather determined expression when he finally responded.

"Yes."

Sherlock stared at him, reading him with that analytical look of his before finally nodding, accepting that John was in fact speaking the truth.

"Ok then." He released the doctor then and took a step back, giving him back his personal space. "That's all I need to know, John."

John narrowed his eyes at the detective, trying to read his decidedly unfathomable face.

"You sure?"

Sherlock shrugged, looking back at John as he yawned tiredly. "You need your sleep, though. I've bothered you enough for tonight."

"This morning, you mean," John said, offering Sherlock a small grin. Sherlock looked fixedly at him, trying to come up with the correct comeback to that light-hearted joke and instead blurting out the one thing that had been at the forefront of his mind during their entire conversation:

"I think we would be good together, John."

The detective watched as John's grin slowly melted into a definite frown of concern and confusion.

"We are good together," the doctor pointed out. "We make a fantastic team, Sherlock, in case you've forgotten—"

"I don't mean as a team," Sherlock said impatiently. "I mean us. Together."

John gaped at the man; the air around them suddenly felt deathly still and choking. "Are you saying what I think you're saying…?"

"For god's sake, John," Sherlock said, loudly exasperated. "What do you think I've been trying to say all night? We would be good together, as a couple, as…as…oh, whatever you sort call it."

"'You sort?'"

"You know," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose. "Normal people."

"Ah," John said, trying not to be insulted and failing miserably.

"Think about it," Sherlock hissed, licking his lips as his stare bored into John's face. "As a unit, we would be strong. Unbreakable. Our personalities and strengths complement each other perfectly."

"Strengths?" John remarked sarcastically. "I wasn't aware I had any."

Sherlock gave John an exhausted look.

"John," Sherlock sighed. "Your strengths simply lie elsewhere from mine. You are the emotionally-driven one out of the two of us, the one who relies on empathy to get you through life. But with me, you do not have any weaknesses. Neither of us does when we're with one another."

"But I thought you said caring for someone won't help you save them," John pointed out. "I recall you telling me that sentiment is a weakness. A chemical defect found in the losing side? How is my caring now suddenly a strength?"

"Recent events have altered that opinion. Now I have realized that caring, though however much of a disadvantage it may be," Sherlock said dejectedly, "is essential…"

He looked downwards, unable to meet John's eyes as he admitted: "I only realized that after finding out I was almost unable to save you. I've finally come to terms with the fact that I have cared despite my stoic solemnity, but I know also that I will never be able to carry that as a strength of mine."

Sherlock met John's eyes again.

"That's where you come in, John," he said, uttering his flatmate's name fondly. "I alone am mostly made up of logic. Facts. Evidence and puzzles. You, on the other hand, are built upon empathy and morals. Put those two pieces together—the Mind and the Heart—and you've got the unfathomable solidity of a foolproof personality. In layman's terms, opposites attract. "

Sherlock smiled determinedly down at John.

"'The Mind and The Heart,'" he whispered again. He paused before continuing, allowing those words not only to sink into John's mind but into his own, savoring the sweet taste they left upon his lips as he lifted his chin. "That's what we would be; the two most vital organs of the human anatomy, and the most important ones in the making of a personality."

John blinked, unable to sheath his utter amusement. Only Sherlock Holmes could find a way to define a romantic affiliation with someone through strictly logical terms.

"We have a title now, eh?" John said, thinking through the idea of playing the part of the Heart in Sherlock's life. He was practically doing so already, he figured after a moment of thought; he was the one person who could manage to keep the man morally grounded, after all. And then Sherlock…John could not even begin to describe the effect Sherlock's mind had upon his life. John's entire way of looking at the world was altered from his time with the man.

"Only if you wish for us to be a 'we,'" Sherlock reminded him. "Then yes, we will take on that personal title. Well, more of a visual representation for the sake of this explanation. But it could last, John, what we've got…and you know it could. This would not be a wasted effort on either of our parts, you cannot deny that. Together we would be unbelievably cohesive."

"You keep saying that," John pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, because I want you to know that I'm right," Sherlock said plainly.

"Well, of course I know you're right," John admitted. "We already are cohesive as flatmates—as friends."

"And we would only strengthen our bond with one another by taking this relationship to a greater level," Sherlock pointed out.

John honestly could not believe what was happening here. Sherlock was trying to convince him to be in a romantic relationship with him. The very same man who had very firmly stated their first night together that anything outside of the Work was transport—that he was married to his work—was now changing his brilliant mind completely upon the matter. Not just for anyone though, that was easy enough to see; just for John, only for his flatmate, his one and only friend. If he could do that, surely John could forgo all of his technicalities over his sexual orientation. Even John had to admit to himself that he rather enjoyed the brief kiss he had just shared with Sherlock, even though the man was, well, a man. He wondered over how easily one could switch teams, per se, when their heart was set on a specific person. Admittedly enough, John could not even attempt to dissuade Sherlock of his emotional calculations, because John felt the same way about everything that was said. They would be fantastic together—unbreakable. Unstoppable. Incredibly cohesive as a romantic unit. It was clear that John's symbol in Sherlock's mental screenplay of their relationship was beginning to take over; the doctor knew that in the end his heart would win this battle of wits, despite any doubts he may or may not have over the subject.

It truly was only logical that he was with Sherlock.

"Have you ever done this before, Sherlock?" John inquired quietly of his flatmate, to which the detective bided the doctor's expression, pressing his lips together as he pondered the correct way to answer the rather ambiguous question.

"Manipulated you with facts and figures so truthful that they could be used in a court of law? Yes," Sherlock said, then sighed. "Have I ever been involved in a committed relationship before? No."

"Then you have no idea what you're getting yourself into," John stated, looking Sherlock in the face.

"Neither do you, though," Sherlock pointed out, to which John frowned.

"I've had many relationships in the past, Sherlock—"

"But none with a man," Sherlock stated with finality. John opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it when he realized he had nothing to rebuke Sherlock with after all.

"You're just as clueless as I am in this sense, John," Sherlock spoke, breaking the silence. "I know that you know how to handle the emotional part of any kind of relationship far better than I ever will, that is one aspect to consider. But the physical aspect to a relationship—both of us would have to learn from each other on that subject. Your knowledge will only go so far when dealing with a lover of the opposite gender."

"I know that," John huffed, looking away. "Why do you think I'm so bloody hesitant about this?"

"You shouldn't be, though," Sherlock reasoned. "You and I can work that bit out easily, the way we work everything else out. Once again, cohesion."

"You really want this," John said in disbelief, turning back to stare into Sherlock's eyes with frank uncertainty. "Don't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said in a low voice, his tone completely clear of any and all hesitation, which caught John even more off-guard. "I've put much thought into this, John…" He sighed, still meeting the doctor's dark blue eyes as he formulated the right words to say. "…I know how much you care about me; now I want you to realize and know just how much I care for you."

John had never before seen Sherlock look so…humane; it was such a pleasant shock to him, though, realizing that this man really could feel after all. He knew everything had changed after the Reichenbach Fall, when the detective had finally realized that he really did have many people who cared about him, that he was never alone in the slightest. And of course John's outlook upon the detective had changed quite a bit as well; after thinking for so long that he was never going to see the man again, having him back in his life now was possibly the most cherished thing to him now, hence the reason why he was even more protective over his best friend than before. Everything really was different; far more emotionally driven, and John suddenly felt incredibly stupid for not seeing this coming from the moment Sherlock came back to him.

"We could make this work," he spoke slowly, not quite looking straight into Sherlock's eyes as the gears in his head turned, carefully examining all that had been thrown into their sleep-addled banks in the past half-hour. Sherlock nodded once:

"I know we could. You know we could."

"We would work together, as a couple."

"Yes…"

"I could see myself with you…"

Sherlock could not keep the corner of his mouth from twitching up in pleasure at this definite confession of realization from John. "You could?" he inquired, keeping as much hopefulness out of his voice as possible. John finally met his eyes, and Sherlock felt a lump catch in his throat when his flatmate offered him a small, genuine smile.

"Yes," John concurred, taking three steps and effectively closing the distance between the two of them in doing so. "You're right, as usual…it makes complete sense, this," he whispered, gesturing between the two of them. "Us."

John laughed once softly, looking down as Sherlock carefully knitted his brows together in slight confusion. "What?"

"It's just," John began, grinning back at Sherlock and shrugging. "We're practically a couple already, y'know. We live together; we go everywhere together…all that's really missing is stuff like this."

Sherlock was about to inquire as to what 'this' was when John raised a hand to Sherlock's face, cupping his cheek gently within his palm. The detective stared into John's eyes, reading all sorts of resolve and determination within the orbs—resolves to go through with this, to become Sherlock's partner, and determination to make this work. Everything is already making so much more sense, John thought as he brushed his thumb across Sherlock's cheek. This all felt so right, like this physical contact was something that had been there all along but had simply lain dormant within the two of them, just waiting for the proper breaking point to make them realize their slowness. With this newfound connection, their relationship was going to become more complete and sound than any John had ever been a part of before. He found himself melting a bit when Sherlock offered him one of his subtle smiles, the kind that truly met his eyes but lacked the snide overconfidence of his usual self. Raising his other hand up to hold Sherlock's face within his gentle grasp, John closed his eyes and easily found himself moving into the detective and meeting his soft lips once more. He allowed himself to linger there for a moment, eyes still closed before finally pulling away slowly. As he did so, he lifted his head back up to gage Sherlock's reaction and felt himself give into a small smile that practically mirrored the one upon Sherlock's own face. The final pieces of the puzzle finally fell through for the two of them as they stood there, John still gently touching Sherlock's face as they looked one another in the eyes. They could easily get used to this—no—they would get used to this. It was so easy to John, showing this form of strong affection to Sherlock, even despite the fact that he was not a woman. Just like that it did not matter anymore, because Sherlock was the one exception, he realized, and he could not have wanted anyone else more in that moment than Sherlock Holmes.

"…Yes," John spoke quietly. "This will work just fine, I think."

Sherlock's smile grew, and he lifted a hand to cover one of John's still resting upon his face, turning his head slightly and brushing his lips across his partner's fingertips. Yes, he thought with silent excitement. I know that we will.

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