Sat in his bed propped up by several pillows, Sherlock thought. His thinking took quite a bit of time and during that time John woke up, got ready, had breakfast and left for work. The sunlight changed (he wasn't sure why as apparently he was confused about what went round what to cause this phenomenon) and John came back. He heard the sounds John made in the flat and knew that John would send him a text in about an hour, wondering where he was, and spent that hour structuring what he had realised through all the thinking he had done in one day, grabbing the tendrils of realisations and insights and binding and weaving them together to form a coherent, comprehensive pattern.

There were two questions, one major and one minor.

To begin with, the minor question: What prevented him from becoming aware of John Watson's nape?

It was because John was always behind him. John always followed him and he always moved before John; he got into the taxi first, ran ahead when chasing criminals, was always on his feet before John was, rushing headlong, streaming his coat and words of explanations trailing him. Not because John was slow or shy of danger - perish the thought. It was because Sherlock didn't always let him know beforehand. He knew everything before John did but he always explained along the way or, in most cases, didn't even bother to explain. That didn't stop John from following him, always behind him, watching his back. Always behind him.

Sherlock knew this as surely as anything else, as an irrevocable fact, without a question. No doubt about it. He knew this not because he thought about it, not because he deduced it, and not because he engineered it to be. It was simply so. Just as sure as the Sun (or the Earth) went around the other heavenly body everyday and made a day 24 hours and a week seven days, John Watson was always with him. Always.

When did such state of affairs become so natural that he, Sherlock Holmes, did not even register this? He felt a sensation akin to a pulsing bruise or a recovering wound. He knew the answer to this question without thinking. It was almost an intuitive, no, an instinctive thing. It was not logical and had no reasons to support it but he knew the answer. Something warm was curling around his heart and was spreading, rushing, capturing his whole being, enveloping him in this warmth that sent his heart do strange leaps and somersaults. It was so clear and right. He didn't even have to think. It was a ridiculous notion, to think that there is no need to think, but then again it was not. Sherlock didn't register it or question it because it was John Watson doing it; because it was John; because of what and how John was to him.

John.

The back of John's neck, the possibilities it offered, the promises it held, the unattainable area he could not bear to leave untouched - to not know even just one part of John, to be unaware of it and to realise that he was unaware of it, it hurt his pride and his being to learn that he wasn't wholly aware, wholly knowledgeable. He wanted to be the one most well-versed on John Watson, to be the one most close to the man.

To touch John there, touch it lightly with his fingers and run them along the length of it, putting his palm on it, putting both of his hands on it, curling his fingers round John's neck, following the neck to the shoulders, down John's arms, down to the hands, holding hands with all fingers linked; or down John's back, going down the centre, feeling the spine, counting each vertebrae and where sacrum starts and feeling John's waist and down to the thighs; or just exploring the smooth back and noting the shape of John's scapulas and the shoulder wound that tore him away from danger only to thrust him into the open arms of another kind of danger in the heart of London, and feeling how John's sides feels like under his hands and remembering the smooth lines they form and having the silhouette of John Watson enter his mind palace; or feeling John's neck then letting his hands go further down to touch the clavicles and then to the chest and letting his hands roam the whole length of John's torso, front and back, with slow, careful strokes, never letting his hands leave John's skin for even a moment, feeling John's temperature and texture, marvelling at how tangible he is; getting to know John in a physical dimension in a tactile way, not just with his intellect, not just with his sight and hearing but using all his five senses, touching John everywhere, smelling John up close burying his nose on John's skin, tasting John in different ways, hearing John saying words he would very much like to hear, making sounds he want to hear properly; the vast array possibilities the back of John's neck showed to him, the possibilities, not certainties, which nevertheless exists; for it is John who forced him to employ his senses as well as his brain, letting him realise it through speaking to him and making small touches and demanding that he eat and taste things and smelling in a way that cannot be ignored.

When did he change? When did he get such feelings, hopes, desires and wants?

When did John become what he is to Sherlock?

And Sherlock knew, without feeling surprised, that such questions will never be answered though they may be considered till the end of time, that there will be conjectures and near-misses and half-answers but that he will never fully know when or where or what or how or why, though he will always know who.

His 'who' was John. His John Watson.

An hour had passed since John came back, and Sherlock's phone let him know that a text had arrived. Sherlock texted back, letting John know that he was not out but in the flat still. Few minutes later there was a knock on his door, Sherlock answered, and the door opened to reveal the enigma of enigmas, the unsolved mystery that lived with him.

"Did you have anything to eat?" John asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"You know the answer to that question."

"Well, that's good to know."

He disappeared for a moment then came back with a mug in his hand. Tea, of course. The mug was handed over to Sherlock with a look that clearly showed that not receiving it was not an option.

"You may be the most persistent man I know."

"Is that a compliment?"

"I don't know, John, you know I don't do mundane things like compliments."

John laughed. Sherlock smiled. John shook his head and smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock wondered how many more smiles were left.

Sherlock did not attempt to consider the future. He didn't contemplate the future without John, or how long they had together in this flat of theirs, the two of them against the world, before something happened to separate them. Their co-existence were a haphazard thing, not planned nor organised in any way, began by a chance introduction, developing into something much further, no one knew how it happened nor where it will reach, a partnership so perfect but not as stable. Sherlock now knew that he wanted more from John, all of John, and perhaps John would give everything he asks for were he to ask, but he wasn't sure if he should. If it wasn't the wrong thing to do. (So like John Watson to make none other than Sherlock Holmes to consider whether something is right or wrong!) This was already good for him, enough for him, too much for him. It would be presuming too much to think that John will be with him till the very end, though that was what he craved, yearned, fervently wished.

To be with John as long as he can.

Did John wish the same?

If only he knew the answer to this question; but for now he would let it be. Something clawed at his chest, but that was fine. It was all fine. John was beside him yet, and he would not try to predict or change the future but immerse himself in the present, to what is available to him, which wasn't something he deserved but was given nevertheless.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock was startled out of his reflection by John's voice. He hadn't realised John had sat down on the bed. He didn't know how close they were until the moment he heard John called his name and felt John's hand on his right shoulder.

"You really should learn to switch off that brain of yours."

At this point, there were so many questions he could ask. He could feel them crowding his conscious, asking to be considered, solved: What did John mean? How was that relevant? How much did he know? What was he asking Sherlock to do?

Then Sherlock looked up, their eyes met, the questions evaporated and were no more, and he knew.

He was John's Sherlock, just as much as John was his John.

THE END

Note: Thank you for reading this un-beta'd, unplanned, just generally un-everything-ed little fic. I've only used this place for reading purposes, so getting alerts and reviews were all very new and amazing. :)