Author's Note: hello sweetie, here is another chapter, one i wrote just for you, enjoy it my darlings.

BB#

John smiled and walked into the kitchen. He closed the door, put on the kettle, then shakily collapsed over the sink, almost crying. He had always loved Sherlock, deep inside, but only when he saw those videos did he fully realised it. He wanted to be with Sherlock, to spend his life at his side, and he knew, knew, he could never tell him. Ever.

While John was out, Sherlock took his place on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. Why had he felt such a strong desire to protect John throughout the whole game? It had been stronger than normal, too, stronger than what simple friendship should be. Sherlock lifted his head and tilted it to the side. Was this what normal people called... love? He understood the science behind it, but experiencing it was another matter altogether.

John walked backwards through the kitchen door, his hands full. He gave Sherlock a quick smile and passed him his tea, then sat in his usual spot in the armchair. looking on the floor, he noticed an empty cup on its side and leaned forward to pick it up, placing it on the coffee table, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock went over to his own armchair, grateful that Jim was no longer occupying it. He shrugged at John's look and sipped his tea. He sighed and allowed himself a small smile.

"God, I forgot how much better your tea was." John laughed at this and leaned back, into a more comfortable position,

"that's because your to damn lazy to learn how to make it properly!"

"Well, obviously." Sherlock chuckled. He kept his gaze fixed on the mirror when he added,

"It's much better with you back, John." John didn't say anything; he couldn't, not without saying everything. He just shrugged and picked up his laptop.

John had recovered quickly; in just a few days his ribs had mostly held and he had the general use of his leg again, even if he needed a stick. He was coming into the living room with some tea for Sherlock when he heard something drop through the post box. Sherlock was on his back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, wearing his dressing gown as usual. He was bored out of his mind. He turned his face slightly in John's direction and murmured,

"Can you get that?" John rolled his eyes, put the drinks on the table and went to the door. there was a white plastic carrier bag on the floor. He picked up the bag and took out the book it held; a copy of the complete history of saint Bartholomew. Puzzled, he walked into the sitting room and dropped the book onto Sherlock's stomach. The detective opened his eyes and raised his eyebrow at John's back.

"Ouch," he commented, not meaning it. Sherlock picked up the book and turned it over in his hands, giving it that lazy look of boredom he often adopted.

"came through the letter box. have you upset another nutter?"

"Probably. If I have, I didn't do it on purpose." Snorting, Sherlock dropped the book on the coffee table. John looked at the book again, interested this time,

"Saint Bartholomew? isn't that who the hospital's named after?"

"Yes, obviously. It could just be someone trying to make me fill my head with useless knowledge. No point."

"ok..."John sat down and drank half his tea in one long gulp, then got out his laptop and started typing up his next blog update. Sherlock sat upright and picked up the book again. He didn't realise, but from where he'd been resting his head, his hair was all fluffed up at the back. He flicked through the pages of the book, his expression never changing.

"Boring..."

"then don't read it. why not work on one of the cases?" John indicated to a pile of letter's of the coffee table.

"They're all boring. Really, have you read them? 'Dear Sherlock Holmes, can you help me? I think I might be haunted by a ghost! It keeps poking me in the middle of the night!'" He scoffed.

"Please."

"Ok, how about this one," he picked up the open letter he had found under the book.

"This women, Sara Tempier, says her son went missing a few days ago. Could be a murder in it for you, Sherlock."

"I've seen that many times, boring. Give it to Lestrade." Sherlock closed the book again, staring at the cover. It had been unusually silent from Jim. Worryingly silent. He had been known to send Sherlock signs with books before - Grimm's Fairytales, for example. Could this be another one? John chuckled as he read some of the comments on his blog, slurping his tea noisily. Sherlock suddenly stood up, walked over the coffee table and towards his room.

"Get ready, John; we're going to St. Bart's."

"huh? what for?" Sherlock paused in the doorway to look over his shoulder.

"A sneaking suspicion." He said, then promptly disappeared into his room. John closed the laptop and held his face in his hands for a moment. His feelings were getting stronger, he now had to control his actions all of the time, rather than just more intimate moments. He tried to compose himself but couldn't, so he walked quickly into his room and closed the door, silently crying as he put on his shoes. When he was back in control he wiped his face with a cold flannel to stop his eyes from puffing up and strolled causally back into the living room, leaning on his stick. Sherlock reappeared wearing his usual, except he'd decided to wear his purple shirt since he was so happy that some thing possibly interesting was happening. As he passed his armchair he grabbed his coat and his scarf. pausing, he glanced John up and down. Immediately he decided to spare his faithful companion from knowing that Sherlock noticed a few droplets of water on his neck and the slight redness around his eyes. God knew John deserved that. And so much more...

"ready?" John walked ahead and down to the front door.

"Of course." He paused before adding, "Let me know if your leg gives you trouble, won't you?"

"I wont." John grinned ruefully at the detective, opening the door for him.

"I know," he sighed, tying his scarf. John climbed into a nearby cab, told the driver the address and waited for Sherlock. The detective slid in beside John and shut the door. Sherlock immediately fell into thought. What if this was something from Jim? What would he do? He supposed he'd have to see what card Jim played. John looked out of the window as he usually did, but now mainly because he couldn't stand to be this close to Sherlock and talk to him, he would just end up blurting out his feelings. Sherlock glanced over at him. He still wasn't entirely sure what to think. What did one do with their feelings? It was all very strange and new to him. For John the cab ride seemed endless. when they finally pulled over he paid the driver as quickly as he could and climbed out, holding the door for Sherlock as he usually did.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, touching John's shoulder lightly. He hurried into the hospital then simply stood by the Entrance, looking around thoughtfully. John smiled sadly to himself and followed, leaning heavily on the stick as he went up the steps. Sherlock waited for John. He'd already decided to go down to the morgue; he spent most of his time there when he was at St. Bart's, so perhaps there would be something there. John tried to catch up as he saw Sherlock waiting; he usually went ahead.

"Where to exactly?"

"The morgue," he replied shortly.

"Do you need me to slow down? Just say the word."

"No, don't worry, I know the way." John smiled and carried on swiftly, trying his hardest secretly to be faster. Sherlock kept pace with John anyway.

"Stubborn," he commented as they headed towards the morgue. John chuckled and carried on, opening the door ahead of Sherlock.

"Thank you," he repeated, offering John a tentative smile as he ducked under his arm. Moriarty had been chatting to molly and helping her with a vivisection when Sherlock entered, causing his oh so familiar grin to appear.

"Oh, hello Sherly. Haven't seen you in a while"