# # # - And Leave Them On Display For You Tonight

It's nearing nine o'clock. Normally, by now, John has made himself dinner, offered me some, accepted my rejection of his offer, eaten, brushed his teeth, and settled down with either a book, his laptop, or something on the television, be it a DVD or a show.

But he hasn't come out of his room. He hasn't even come out only to leave the flat entirely, as he sometimes does, to get a breath of fresh air from me. When we get into arguments, he often leaves for a walk, or goes out for drinks with another friend, or decides it's time to do an errand run to the bank or Tesco or the like.

Yet he hasn't done any of these things. Hasn't eaten, hasn't gone out. He's been a recluse in his own room. He's… acting a bit like me, when I am in one of my "black moods," as John and Mrs. Hudson call them.

Frowning at this irregularity in John's behavior, I pad down the hall in my socks and ascend to his bedroom. I stand in front of his closed (locked, to keep me from bursting in as I often have before) door and rap my knuckles upon it. "John?" Pause. No response. He could be sleeping? But it's early. I click my tongue. Like any experiment, I try again: "John, you've broke pattern, and I don't understand. Why haven't you come out of your room? For food, or a walk, or any of the things you normally do?"

For the bowels of the beast that is separating John from me, I hear his voice. "What, is this your way of saying you're concerned about me, Sherlock?"

I lilt my head back, frowning further. "That is why I came up here, isn't it? You're not behaving like yourself, and it…" I hesitate. Swallow. "It worries me, yes. I am supposed to be the unpredictable one. You're supposed to be the stable one. This is what balances us, our own form of equilibrium. If you break pattern, chaos ensues. Do you want chaos in our flat, John?"

After a moment, I hear him laughing. His bed creaks and I hear his heels thud and his feet sticking to the wooden floor. Barefoot, possibly in his pajamas. Was reading? His laptop is downstairs. He doesn't have a television in his room. "You're already the chaos in the flat with or without me to 'balance you out,' Sherlock," he reminds. His lock turns. The door swings open, and I jerk back a step to give him some space, lest I do something idiotic. He surveys me prior to sighing, hanging his head. Looking up again, he asks, "Are you going to force me to talk about it? Because I'd rather not."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie smoothly, straightening my posture fully. "Now then, if you're hungry, I'd go make something before it becomes too late and your stomach disagrees with you." I turn and head for the stairs. I don't wait to see his reaction; I'd rather not. If he doesn't want to talk about why he kissed me, then neither do I.

Because, clearly, his refusal to mention it means he saw it as a mistake. He must have spent the afternoon and early evening in his room because he was ashamed of it. And in that case, I have my answer, and I needn't speak to him about it at all.

(My bravado is strong, isn't it? But something deep, something from the catacombs, mourns. It makes me feel a stab of pain somewhere, which is ludicrous, because I have no physical wounds, and last time I checked, I'm not one to feel heartache. At least… not in the Real World. Perhaps in fantasy. But this…)

I decide to compose. I could do with a distraction, and writing music always helps do exactly that. I aim for my violin – now located where it belongs, near the window, my old music stand returned to me earlier this morning by Mrs. Hudson, obviously – and bring it to my jaw. I nestle it where it belongs, familiar and solid and trustworthy, and lift my bow to it. Notes, notes, notes… where to start? Where? Which note am I feeling, which note is the chord struck within me, the stab of pain? What note is that? Something low, something sharp, but woeful…

"Sherlock?" John interrupts, the sudden sound of him saying my name making my bow screech across the strings.

"What?" I bark unintentionally. Where I speaking to a woman or a gentler man, they would jump, startled, flustered, ashamed. But John is far from either of those things. He is a brave, honorable man, a soldier. He stands his ground, makes his stance a bit more intimidating, preparing to give a rebuttal, body poised on the offense.

I, meanwhile, steel myself and brace my stance for the defense, the oncoming attack. I set down my bow and let my violin hang at my side, the sleek wood in my grasp making for the perfect sensation to tether me.

"You weren't going to play something familiar, were you? You were going to compose," John observes pointedly, his finger aimed at my bow. "You only compose when you're upset. I've seen it once or twice, but Alder was proof. So, out with it, then! I've upset you. How?"

"Remarkable deduction, John," I sneer, not meaning to, but my body, my tones, act on their own accord. There's no stopping them. I am a train spiraling off-track and there's no halting me, now; I must come to a stop on my own, and if I go down in flames, it will be my own doing. "Yes, very clever. I'm upset. Sudden, isn't it? A moment ago, I was troubled over your well-being, but now, I am prepared to brush it off since you directly stated you do not wish to talk about it, and so I am left to delve into my own thoughts by composing some music. Is that so wrong? Can't I have this moment of peace? –Go eat something and go to bed, won't you?"

He does a sort of half-nod and visibly swallows. He head dips, like a bow of shame, and then lifts again defiantly. His eyes have that spark again. His mouth is set in a unyielding horizontal line. (He doesn't know how handsome he is.) I blink the thought away and keep my face pensive, waiting, ever defensive. John steps around his chair, in front of the fireplace, moving closer to me. "So that's what it is, then. I've upset you because I don't want to talk about the stupid thing I did earlier? What does it even matter to you? I thought you wouldn't want to bring it up, either."

"Wrong," I state flatly, turning to put away my violin. So much for music to calm my nerves. So much for the weight of it to keep me grounded. "I very much want to discuss it. I have analyzed it a few times and still don't understand it."

"Have you, now," John remarks. He glances behind him briefly, then backs up to sit in his armchair. "Out with it, then," he says with a broad gesture of his arm. "Tell me what you've worked out."

He looks guarded, immensely fortified, keeping his mask carefully schooled to indifference with a hint of anger, and oh, John, you are very good at preventing others from coming close, aren't you? Almost as talented as I. You have to have been; all that time before you met me, weeks of dragging a limp with you that you knew was in your head, being silently judged for it; having to pretend you didn't have a tremor in your hand, frightful dreams every night, that you were fine and dandy and well. So much time to perfect that blank look you're giving me now, only a twinge separate from my bored expression.

Sighing heavily through my nose, I pace in front of him for a second or two before standing, facing him, and debating whether or not I can sit for this. I can't. I don't know what to do with my hands; I opt to clasp them behind my back. I look down at his waiting gaze, and ready myself to pour out the facts and none of my personal attachment amidst my thoughts of earlier this afternoon. I keep my words fast, the rapid succession not unlike the way I rattle off everyday deductions.

"You have repeatedly defended your heterosexuality, the lack in fancy you hold for men, any man, and namely me: You have insisted, reminded, and proclaimed that you are not my date, we are not a couple, we do not sleep together or engage in other sexual or romantic acts, and that you are not gay. So right there, in solely that, the facts gather against your act of earlier today.

"Following that logic, you have never expressed an interest in exceptions or possible bisexuality or homoromantic feelings. I have not seen you 'check out' another man, get close or affectionate with any of your make friends, including myself, nor do I know of any past exploits you might have – but most likely didn't – have with a man of your past, be it in the military or beforehand. This, too, also counters what you did.

"Furthermore, you have never before expressed any feelings for me that go beyond the platonic and friendly. True though it is that you care about me, – that much is evident in the many times you have saved my life or risked yours for mine, and that is an extensive list I will leave your mind to generate examples for, because I don't wish to waste time naming them all in chronological order – I know it doesn't extend as far as love, romantic or not. You care because we are flatmates, because you have a high sense of morality, and because we are friends and colleagues. You wouldn't want me to die any more than you would a victim or our landlady or a member of the police force, and being a doctor, you feel it is your duty to protect others and keep them from bodily harm, or if they come by it, to heal them and ensure their lives are secure.

"This also makes the kiss you gave me a perplexing act on your part, because if it is not sexual or romantic, why was it placed on my lips? People often do odd things in a moment of passion, the flare of emotion too strong for their bodies, but to kiss me? Why not slap me, punch me, kick me, tackle me? And if you were to kiss me for any occasion, why then? Why not on the cheek, or forehead, or hand? Somewhere chaste and platonic, meant to comfort or reassure, or perhaps to express that I am a dear friend?

"In conclusion, it doesn't add up, what you did. I wanted to know, to understand, to account for it. That is all. I also wished to know why it affected you so much as to completely disregard your usual habits and choose to, in place of them, hide out in your room for as many hours as you had."

Finally finished, I take a seat and fiddle with my hands in my lap, my hell of one foot bouncing on the floor, causing my leg to shake with nervous energy. I stare at John, having not looked at him the entire time I speedily voiced my thoughts, and now that I am, I find that he has his face in his hands.

He lifts his head and brushes back his cropped blond hair. The doctor shifts uncomfortably for a moment before looking me in the eye. "You're right. You're always bloody right, on all accounts. Apart from the biggest one," he says, and I tense all over.

My leg ceases movement and my hands clench into my trousers. "Which point? Which did I deduce wrongly, and how could I have?" I mutter austerely, my gaze narrowed. "Tell me!" and I pound my fist on the armrest.

John cracks a smile. An odd smile I am not familiar with. He shakes his head. "For once, Sherlock, you observed, but you didn't see. You made all these assumptions, but you left out what's been there for a really, really long time, before you fell, before even I realized. You saw it the first night, in fact. I didn't. Took me a while. But there can be exceptions, Sherlock."

"What do you mean? What are you implying? John, you aren't making any reasonable sense. Out with it directly, if you don't mind," I say by default. My mind is a blur, thinking too quickly, recapping memories and fantasies alike, swirling and mixing into a vat of acid that is disintegrating my brain cells one by one. He can't mean. He can't possibly be implying. But what if he is? If that kiss –

"God," he half-laughs, as if it's absurd. Maybe it is. "I didn't see it coming, but I thought you might. You're way more observant, far cleverer than me. But even you can be stumped, huh?"

"You have always been a paradoxical riddle to me, John," I murmur. "It doesn't come as a surprise to me that I have been trumped by you, helplessly baffled by something you've done. Because you are a walking contradiction in the best possible way, average and extraordinary in equal parts, so it's no wonder. No small wonder at all."

He smiles genuinely at that. "Oh, Sherlock," he says, and he stands and walks around behind me. I follow him with my eyes until the weight of his arms drops onto my shoulders. "Because you're you, this dangerous and brilliant and energetic and eccentric and frustrating and amazing man, I couldn't help getting sucked in. No one has captured my interest like you. You draw me in with insults and life-threatening scenarios, and I love it and hate it, and at the end of the day, you lull me to sleep with your violin or keep me up at all hours with an experiment, and I've said it before, that I'm never bored, and it's true. But it isn't a bad thing. The opposite, in fact."

"John," I say, and I crane my head back to peer up at him, mouth parted. I want him to kiss me again. But I wait to hear if he has anything else to say, because I love the sound of his voice, the way his words hold me captive.

"Men don't attract me, but you do. And, hard as I try not to, every woman I date I wind up comparing to you, and I've come to accept that no one can ever compare to you. I swear it was all an accident, this," he says, gesturing to us, then bringing up his other hand to match the one he settles on my face after the gesture is made. One of his thumbs touches the corner of my mouth, the junction where my lips meet. "I didn't have the intention at all at first. You intrigued me in the weirdest way, but that was the end of it. I dunno when, exactly, but it happened at one point, and since you've returned, I've had all these fantasies in my head of moments where I beat sense into you, moments where I get some answers, or an apology, and moments where I'm just kissing the daylights out of you."

And I smile at that, eyes hooded, because I would like that. And I am glad that I am not the only one who partakes in Guilty Pleasures about his flatmate. "Now that I know, it seems pointless to refrain from doing so, don't you agree?"

"Cheeky bastard," he whispers, but he's already bending down to bring out lips together. His bottom lip slots between mine, his upper lip cradled in the divot between my bottom lip and cleft of my chin. I reach up and cup my hands on either side of his head, and breathe against his Adam's apple, and feel the gusts of his breaths from his nose on my throat. It's perfect. Better than anything I could have imagined. And if we opened out mouths, our tastebuds would touch, and just the thought sends a thrill through me, a swell of happiness.

But John pulls away – the angle is a bit awkward, especially for my neck, and he knows that – and curves around to lift me to my feet.

He presses himself against me and I duck my head to kiss him again, the angle much better; my way of apologizing. Then he holds me for a while, a silent apology of his own.

We don't to say it.

(We don't need to.)

He loves me; I see that now. He's shown me. He's explained how he can, why he does. And, in so many words and reactions, I hope he understands the same from me. It's taken me a while to lift the denial and say it often in my head, but I know it, now, how greatly I treasure him, love him. And knowing that John reciprocates just about steals whatever reserve I had left.

#

John doesn't know about my Guilty Pleasures. And now, he never has to. They are a secret that is meaningless either way; whether he knows or not, it really won't matter now that we've established a new take on our relationship. If he knew, he would think me a hopeless romantic at heart and be amused and flattered. But it's pointless because, now, I can live out a majority of those fantasies as my everyday life, if I please.

I have permission to walk up to John and kiss him without a reason, aside from simply wanting to. It's all right to come into the bathroom while he's shaving and take a shower, because we're comfortable enough, because we've already seen each other in various states of undress.

I can, within my personality range and his, within believable reason, slide into his bed at night and hold him. I can murmur seductive things in his ear. I can, essentially, do as I please.

And it's bliss. I still have my moods, and he his, and we still get into domestic fights of our own brand, and I still criticize and he still calls me names when I anger him, but overall, I am the happiest I have ever been, and I have never been very happy unless I'm on a particularly intriguing case.

And I think I make John happy. He hasn't left me yet, and he doesn't seem like he's going to; even though all the things I manage to force and drag him into, even after all the arguments. I ask too much of him sometimes, but I make it up to him with bouts of affection during the off-periods of our work. And I think he's satisfied with that.

I know I am.

##