~*~And now for the POV of the character who is most like me: JOHN!
My thanks as usual to Kat, even if she is a horrible person for keeping me waiting. Sill love her though, she's the Sherlock to my John.

~*~ Chapter Three: Attention ~*~

Most mornings, it was possible to determine Sherlock's mood by his behavior during John's breakfast, and make semi-reasonable assumptions on how the rest of the day would unfold.

If Sherlock was engulfed in experiments, circling John like a dark moon as he tried to finish his toast without ingesting anything unnatural, the day would likely include many more experiments which may or may not call upon John's assistance. If Sherlock was lying on the couch in his pajamas or a state of undress, or worse, sitting at the kitchen table staring at John like he was the most interesting thing in all creation, then the following hours would be filled with mad shouts, lounging geniuses, and a headache for John by the time he could return to his bed in peace. And those were just the days that did not involve interruptions of crime scenes and Sherlock's fits of unpredictability.

John didn't know what to make of the fishbowl filled with black liquid on that particular morning, but deeply hoped that it was just a new piece of an experimental puzzle Sherlock was working on. What that entailed, and just where Sherlock was located, was an equal mystery to John. Sherlock wasn't in the kitchen, or the living room. And it wasn't like Sherlock to leave an experiment unfinished.

Any casual observer would think that John would enjoy a rare moment of peace, when he didn't have to worry that Sherlock would lob a plate at his head, or set a potato on fire, but in truth, John felt a sliver of worry as he boiled water for his tea. With regards to Sherlock, it was always better to know his location rather than try to guess from hundreds of others just where he was.

John's tea was half-steeped when a he belatedly realized that the shower had been running for some time, and unless Sherlock had invented some way to turn the water on and off with a timer, it was a safe bet to say that Sherlock had just finished showering. John breathed a sigh of relief as he picked up the morning paper, finding it whole and complete for once, rather than half-strewn about the flat. Breakfast was moving along accordingly by the time Sherlock finally staggered into the kitchen.

God, I hope he's wearing trousers this time, John thought, and refused to look up from the paper while Sherlock stormed around – at least, until he was grabbed by the parietal bones and his head yanked back.

There was a swath of black across his face, like a splash of blood from a head injury. Against the dark liquid, Sherlock's face was bone-white. His hair was still wet and dripped onto John's forehead while Sherlock waited for John's complete attention. But of course, he had it from the moment he touched John.

"John, in your opinion, about how much ink is left on my face? Ten being fresh-applied blackness and one being completely clean?"

John scrutinized his flatmate's face, deeply hoping that there wasn't any ink in the drops still hitting his own head. "About…eight and a half, I'd say."

Sherlock tsk-ed. "You can do better than that."

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, eight and three-eighths present."

Sherlock jumped away, dashing down the hall to the bathroom, no doubt to check John's word. John sighed, wondering what the day ahead of him would be like. Sherlock seemed fine – fine for him, of course – at the moment, but for all John knew he had just suggested an end to the experiment, and Sherlock would fall into boredom in five minutes.

John had learned quickly enough to never assume anything about Sherlock's moods. Most of the time, he ended up being wrong anyway.

It wasn't easy living with Sherlock; that fact could not be overlooked. Any normal bloke would have run off by now or at least would have tried to make Sherlock change some of his more annoying or dangerous habits. John had understood right from the start that Sherlock would never change his ways unless it suited him and never bothered trying. The fact that a few barely noticeable adjustments had been made gave John some hope, but he never let himself become too optimistic. Sherlock was unpredictable, untamable, and slightly dangerous.

Sherlock didn't recognize social cues unless he was paying attention for his own deductions and benefit. He didn't care if human parts were left in the fridge, but God forbid any detritus collect on his microscope. He either had no sense of personal space, or he was so distant he may as well be on Mars. He also didn't blink much. John had had another mate like that; it was rather disconcerting.

He was impossible to pin down, physically and emotionally. While Sherlock could not rest until he knew everything about a person, John came to the realization recently that he knew very little about the man himself. And he was strangely content with that. The tall man had his secrets, and was happy to keep them to himself. John wished, more deeply that he'd care to admit, that someday Sherlock would share them with John. He knew the man trusted him with his life, but not with his heart.

Harry would label him whipped in a heartbeat. No reasonable bloke would put up with this hardship for longer than they'd have to, much less for as long as John had. There was no reason for him to do so; he wasn't getting anything from their relationship besides dangerous excitement. Everyone who encountered John with Sherlock inevitably questioned why John stayed around.

John wondered sometimes, too.

Sherlock buried himself in his experiments as soon as John cleared away the breakfast dishes. John left him to his activities, intending to sit in the den and read the morning paper and ignore Sherlock until his assistance was needed again.

Of course he never got the chance, but this time, the interruption didn't come from Sherlock. It was Mrs. Hudson treading up the stairs and tapping gently at the door that pulled him from his much-desired reading.

"Morning, boys!" Their beloved landlady cooed from the door. John nodded and smiled as she walked past him to the kitchen, where he could hear her twittering at Sherlock over the ink bowl. John took the moment of peace to skim the headlines, anticipating that the opportunity wouldn't last.

"John?" John smiled ruefully and lowered his newspaper. "I really hate to bother you dear, but there's a young man downstairs that I think needs medical attention."

Automatic concern jabbed John in the gut. He put the paper aside and stood immediately. "What's happened? Have you called an ambulance?"

Mrs. Hudson waved her hand dismissively and shook her head. "No, no dear, I don't think it's anything serious. He's been here all night, and I don't think he's any worse – he just needs some looking-after." When she turned to descend the stairs, John glanced at the kitchen, quite pleased to see that Sherlock's face mirrored at least a fraction of the concern he felt. Bless their landlady's kind heart, but sometimes she didn't seem to be a good judge of character. Sherlock or John would never allow a stranger to spend the night in their flat.

Well, there was that time with Irene, but they realized she was there eventually.

John dashed up to his room for his medical kit before descending the stairs to where Mrs. Hudson was waiting outside her sitting room. "Poor dear's been sound asleep for almost twelve hours. I do believe he needed it." Mrs. Hudson stood by the threshold, letting John enter first.

The young man had been reclining on the sofa facing the door and opened his eyes as John approached. They were bright green, heavily and darkly lidded, and surrounded by dark splotches like bruising, only deeper.

John hadn't lived with World's Only Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes for a year and not learned a thing or two. He knew when someone was faking sleep – Sherlock hadn't needed to explain that to him. John had learned that years ago – and the man on Mrs. Hudson's couch had most certainly been faking.

The young man definitely looked as if he had just escaped a war zone. His long black hair – just like Sherlock's, except straight – was mussed and greasy looking. His sharp face, where it wasn't covered in bruises and cuts, was unhealthily pale. There didn't seem to be any very serious injuries, but John was able to tell there was a fresh layer of wounds over an older, partially healed series. He was also holding himself very gingerly, almost as though he had internal bruises. John wasn't surprised he hadn't slept a wink, with that many injuries.

"Hello." John greeted him with the usual level of doctoral joviality, but was met with a cold shoulder. John would have expected a snarky greeting or any sort of uncomfortable response, but he got nothing at all, even as he approached the couch…just very angry silence. John cleared his throat.

"My name is John." He decided it was best to keep talking, and he hoped the man would eventually warm up to him. "I'm a doctor – well, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson told you that. Is there anything…serious you need me to look at?" The man was still sitting gingerly, which made John think less of a broken bone type of internal injury and more…other sort of internal injury. The way he still refused to meet John's gaze for more than a second was troubling as well.

"Right…okay." John mumbled, fishing around in his bag for some plasters.

The man remained stony silent as John dabbed at the fresh cuts with rubbing alcohol. John would have expected a hiss like he usually got when he performed this procedure on Sherlock, but the man's continued silence started to worry him. Everything about his countenance, especially the glint he caught when he unsuccessfully tried to meet his gaze again, said what he was apparently refusing to actually say: fury and humiliation and unwillingness to trust. It was all bottled up somewhere in his throat.

The reason for his silence, when he so obviously wished to speak? John was willing to guess there was some stubbornness of Sherlockian proportions contained in this angry young man as well.

Something caught his eye as he went to replace the wet blood-stained tissues he used to clean the cuts. The scabs had been dark against the young man's skin, almost black, but that wasn't surprising. What was surprising was not seeing the blood turn red when it came away on the tissue. It was dark red, almost black, and unnatural enough to raise John's worry further. He tried to meet his eye again, but he was being studiously ignored.

"Could you, erm, lift your shirt? I just want to check…" John trailed off under the gaze the man leveled at him. But rather than quail further, John leveled a glare of his own. He was a doctor, damn it, and he'd dealt with the great Sherlock Holmes, and he wasn't about to be scared off by some pretty boy who'd gotten his arse kicked.

"Look, sir, whoever you are – if you're hurt, I need to know, so you better drop the silent treatment, and let me do my job!"

That worked. It was like John had finally worn him down. "My name is Phil." The young man – Phil, apparently – finally whispered. His fingers twisted the ends of the old button-down he was wearing. John waited for him to pull it up, but instead the young man directed an unexpected question at him. "Why…are you doing this?"

"Wha- you mean my job?" John was startled momentarily. The young man shifted, his form becoming tenser, but at the same time more vulnerable. Sherlock would be able to tell exactly what this young man was feeling, but at the moment, John was at a total loss.

"I…just…helping people is what I do, you know?" Since Phil didn't seem to want John to check for injuries on his torso, he settled for putting plasters over any of the contusions that had re-opened after the rubbing alcohol treatment. His skin was so cold.

"It's my job, and…" John shrugged. His answers didn't seem to be satisfying Phil at all, so John finally settled for saying, "You needed help, so I did. Simple as that!" He smiled and held out his hands in a gesture to suggest What else was I supposed to do? That seemed to put Phil at ease. Marginally.

Phil stayed silent, until John stood up.

"Thank you." He muttered so quietly that John was almost sure he missed it. John patted his shoulder as he left, and decided to suggest that Mrs. Hudson turn up the heat. The poor man was freezing.

John had to stifle a snicker as he strode away. He finally decided what this young man reminded him of: a wet scalded cat. The similarities were astounding.

"Poor dear's been through a bit much, don't you think?" Mrs. Hudson whispered. John nodded and murmured his agreement. "You know, I don't think he has anywhere to go…" John followed that thought to its obvious solution.

"You're thinking about putting him in the basement?" 221C had been empty for as long as John had lived in the flat, with exception to the time it had contained a pair of trainers. "Do you really think that's best?" John asked.

"Well, I'm sure it'll only be for a little while, until he decides what to do with himself." Mrs. Hudson cast a worried look towards her sitting room, which John could fully understand. The man's condition was troubling, and he didn't look to be the most morally placid person in the first place. John rested his hand on her arm.

"Let's give him a chance. He looks like he needs a proper break. And Sherlock and I are just upstairs if there's any trouble."

Sherlock…now there's a thought…John smiled to himself as he walked back to their flat. What on Earth would Sherlock make of the strange man downstairs?

~*~Yes, what will Sherlock make of Loki? Hmm…
Sadly guys, I feel it is my duty to warn you all that I have school, and a job; both of which I have to write for on a weekly basis. This fic and all others are kinda on the backburner for me; I want to write fun stuff, but my work ethic keeps saying no. I write when I have a chance, but this fic is on semi-hiatus until…whenever. I'll probably keep posting the one-shots and drabbles I come up with in five minutes, so hopefully that'll tide you over.
Thank you all for your patience, and thank you for enjoying this story so much. Love you all.