AN: I am overwhelmed by the response to this fic. You are all amazing. I would also like to appologize for the delay in posting. Today was...awful is to mild a word. But better late then never, y/y?

Some cursing in this chapter, and self-Beta was not as thorough as it could have been.

Jim made an appointment at the surgery the next day, taking care with the disguise he chose. He could be suitably threatening without John having to know exactly who was meddling in his life.

Jim and Dr. Sawyer had a nice chat. Talked about her relationship and where she thought it was going. Talked about her work too, about the benefits to a private practice in the country close to her mother, because wouldn't it be just awful if she had an accident and Sarah was so far away and hadn't been able to say goodbye?

Jim found John later that night in a local pub, staring down at his glass, depressed. His face had a reddish tint, he was slightly less articulate than was typical, and he was having more trouble with small physical tasks than usual. John was drunk – which went a long way towards explaining why he was delivering a monologue to the bartender.

"Sarah, my girlfriend…she's moving to Devon. Wants to be closer to her Mum. Said someone made her an offer it was impossible to say no to."

"Sorry to hear that, mate."

"The thing is, I'm not really that upset about Sarah. More upset about what it means. She was a convenient explanation for what was going on. Did you know that I haven't had sex in almost three months? I haven't had a dry spell this long, well…ever. No. I, John 'Three-Continents' Watson, didn't sleep with someone when I had the chance. I haven't had sex since I got back. I think…I think I'm a little less bi than I thought I was. Or at least, I think what I really need right now is sex with a man."

The bartender (mid-twenties, university student with bills to pay, long-term girlfriend he will propose to within a month) just nodded, apparently familiar with John's drunken ramblings.

"And I can't go back to my flat. I just…well, I can't. 'Cause my flatmate? He's gorgeous. Completely gorgeous and totally uninterested. And he's got this new friend." A pause and a chuckle. "Well, I say friend. Also fantastic, but in a different way. Only he's sort of a tiny bit evil, and that just isn't on. At least, it shouldn't be on, and I really can't be making those sorts of decisions while I'm plastered. If I go back, I'm ninety-eight percent sure I'll end up jumping one of them. I'm also 100% sure that it wouldn't end well, especially since alcohol tends to lead to performance issues on my part."

Jim took this newfound information under consideration, trying very hard to quell the urge to pin the doctor to the counter and use his mouth to convince him just how on being evil really was. But if he was going to break the rules of his and Sherlock's game in such a spectacular fashion, he was going to wait until it would be worth it.

What he did do was send John the address of his closest safe house as an alternative to the flat. Then Jim went home, took a long cold shower, and has a wet dream for the first time in sixteen years.

It took Jim a week to get everything set up to his satisfaction. In that time, Sherlock apologized to John, took him to increasingly intimate restaurant where he always asked for a candle (albeit when John wasn't around to protest), grabbed his hand on chases far more often than before, and lost what little sense of personal space he had in regards to Doctor Watson. He also serenaded him on a daily basis with his violin, which always put a small smile on John's face.

In short, Jim was not happy. Not happy at all. Still, he had planned this perfectly. It would humiliate Sherlock, allow John to feel intelligent and useful, and show John that Jim wasn't all bad – just mostly.

Lestrade called Sherlock when the virus crashed his computer. Jim sighed as he sat back in chair, ready to enjoy the show, his attention on two of the screens before him. One showed exactly what Lestrade, Sherlock, and John were seeing on the DI's computer. The other showed Sherlock, Lestrade, and John. The MET really needed better security. It had been pathetically easy to get in, hack the computer, plant several cameras, and get out. All within five minutes.

"Why am I here, Lestrade? I hardly think your computer troubles need my particular brand of expertise."

"Oh, I think it really does," the DI said, gesturing at his computer.

Hello Sexy ;)
I got you a present. It took some time, but I think it was worth it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
-Your friendly neighborhood criminal mastermind

"He does know that if he hurts anyone, I'm going to…" John trailed off, glancing at the DI. "Well, he won't be drinking any my tea for a very long time. Let's just leave it at that."

The doctor looked positively lethal as he glared at the computer screen. It sent shivers down Jim's spine in all the right ways. It was a little upsetting though. No more murders. At least, not until their sixth month anniversary, at which point he was fairly sure he'd be able to negotiate something.

Jim looked to the other screen, watching the footage now playing on Lestrade's computer.

"That…that's my case. The case from three days ago. It was supposed to be a bust, but things went south. MI5 got involved. The guy they had on the inside got shot. They had to shot the bloke they were after. I had to escort a crooked bank manager out of the firefight."

Sherlock looked as if he couldn't understand what could possibly be interesting about the situation. John on the other hand, started laughing.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. That is brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant." He was short of breath, arms wrapped around his diaphragm. Sherlock glared daggers at the monitor.

"Explain," Sherlock said curtly. What he really meant was 'you are only permitted to notice that I am a genius, and your infidelity has offended me. Also, you are not allowed to figure anything out before me. I shall now sulk for the remainder of the month.'

"The man who was shot? Is he the counterfeiter you asked for help with a few weeks ago? The one Sherlock thought was too dull to bother with?" Lestrade nodded. "MI5 had you bring him in so they could get him to turn on his partner in whatever he was doing."

"Yes, and?" Lestrade asked, getting impatient as John began cackling again.

"The Sting. It's The Sting. Killer Evans and Rodger Prescott aren't dead, and you were never working with MI5." John laughed again, leaning on Lestrade's desk for support.

Jim typed the commands that would relinquish control of the DI's computer, grinning at everyone's expressions – Lestrade's barely restrained frustration, Sherlock's nearly homicidal glare at the camera, and John's completely unrestrained mirth.

He was waiting for them at 221B by the time they returned. When John entered, he stopped just inside the doorway, and then began clapping slowly. Jim stood and took a small bow.

Sherlock was glaring daggers at him, and he had a hand possessively wrapped around John's shoulder, but Jim didn't care. Because John was smiling at him. He was smiling that bright beautiful smile reserved for when Sherlock was being especially clever. Only it was aimed at him.

Jim's heart did a funny little fluttering thing it had never done before, and he felt himself returning John's expression. Not the fake smile he used to put people at ease or the predatory one he used to make them afraid. This was something else. Something new.

The fluttering feeling in his chest became his constant companion whenever John was around, or might be around, or when Jim was thinking about John. It was distracting and ridiculous, but Jim couldn't quite bring himself to feel upset about it. He didn't understand it, and the contemplation gave him something to do when seized by a fit of boredom that would usually be filled with a murder or terrorist plot.

His answer came two weeks later after John had fetched the post.

"Jim, would you happen to know why the Red Cross is under the impression that I donated 1 million pounds? Or why various hospitals have invited me to various galas to thank me for the various amounts of money they believe I donated for the care of war veterans? Or why these various amounts happen to total just under 8 million quid, which is-coincidentally, I'm sure-exactly the amount of money Evans and Prescott managed to con out of that banker?"

"What are you suggesting, Doctor Watson?" Jim asked, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm suggesting that you are coming to these galas with me. As the one responsible, you should have to suffer with me. Also, I'm suggesting that you pay for my dancing lessons so I don't make a complete fool of myself." John was smiling that subconscious smile. It turned out Jim didn't need to give him a whole continent. Just spend 8 million on charities.

His heart did that fluttering again, and Jim couldn't help but think it felt rather like how authors of ridiculous romance stories described characters reactions when they were in lo…

The revelation felt rather like a two-by-four being smashed directly into his chest. And really, all Jim's usually multitasking brain could come up with was: Oh, bloody fucking hell.

Jim needed to talk to someone about this. He needed to be certain he was in…he needed to be sure so he could take the proper precautions. People with this condition had a propensity for extreme idiocy and making massive mistakes.

His first choice would have been his mother, but she had an "accident" when Jim was twenty, seven years after she had walked out on Jim and his brother. James was in the middle of a complicated operation in the Congo that Jim had spent months putting together that couldn't be easily interrupted, and Jim very much doubted his younger brother would have anything useful to offer. Sebastian was the only one of his employees he could count on to be honest with him, but there was no way Moran had any experience with Jim's probable problem. There really was only one solution.

"Jimmy!" The Woman crowed on the other end of the line. "What can I do for you?"

"Irene, I find myself in need of your advice."

"If you're calling about what I think you're calling about, I can't really help you. I've already tossed my hat into the ring on the other side."

"I don't need thatsort of assistance. I'm not as incompetent and hopeless as he is. I was merely hoping to inquire about…"Jim trailed off, not quite sure how to phrase his request.

"About?" the American asked, sounding obscenely cheerful.

"If I were to describe a set of symptoms, would you be able to identify the emotion at the root of the matter?"

"'Symptoms'? Emotions aren't a disease, Jimmy."

"Just answer the question," Jim responded through gritted teeth.

"Yes, yes I would be able to diagnose what emotion you have been afflicted with." He could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

"When I am around a certain individual, my smile is not a ruse or a tool to intimidate – I suspect it might be genuine. I endeavor to make the person in question smile at me, and find myself pleased when he laughs, especially as a result of anything I have done. I've taken a hiatus on murders because it would make him think poorly of me – I care about his opinion, for some incomprehensible reason. Also, my heart keeps attempting to beat its way out of my chest whenever he so much as crosses my mind."

"Do other people being close to him make you jealous?"

"I ran his former partner out of town and have planned at least four different murders for everyone I have seen touch him who isn't me. Does that count?"

"Yes, that counts. I take it you have considered the possibility that you are in love?"

"Yes," Jim ground out.

"And what did that feel like?"

"It felt like taking a two-by-four to the chest."

"That's very specific. Sherlock just said 'blunt force trauma'."

"Holmes has had this conversation with you?" Jim asked, bringing his total number of ways to murder the detective up to forty-two, seventeen of which could be accomplished without John's knowledge.

"Yes, and I'm going to tell you exactly what I told him – you are well and truly fucked."

"What?"

"Yes, Jimmy. Yes. You love him."

"Bugger."

"Like I said. Anyway, thank you for settling an internal debate for me. I just have to meet this John Watson if he's managed to land both my geniuses without even trying. Expect me in London by this time tomorrow."

Jim looked down at the now disconnected phone with a mounting sense of horror. What had he done?