After a thorough search, John had determined that the flat was completely devoid of both edible food and teabags, and that the less said about the actual contents of the fridge, the better. "We've run out of tea," he shouted, "and I think one of your experiments might have exploded a little bit."

He heard the sound of a laptop closing, and Sherlock appeared in the doorway, already buttoning his coat. "Well come on then John. You should definitely have something to eat. I know just the place."

-o0o-

Twenty minutes later they were sat in a tiny little cafe, one of the hundreds of places Sherlock seemed to frequent that John had been entirely unaware existed. At that moment, the taller man's attention was fixed on a young woman with two small boys. He seemed fascinated by their interaction, especially between the children.

A smiling, bespectacled, middle aged woman, whose name tag proclaimed she was called Val, brought over their tea and John's food. "You know, you really should eat, Sherlock," John said. "You say it slows down your brain, but I'm pretty sure they've done studies that show if you don't eat your mental activity actually decreases."

Val grinned at John and said, "It is nice to see Sherlock's finally found someone to look after him." She gently patted the detective's shoulder. "You should listen to your man, love; he's only got your best interests at heart."

John stared at the woman, slightly open-mouthed. "I'm sorry?"

She smiled again. "He always used to come in on his own. The poor lamb looked so lonely, and he hardly ever eats anything. It's no wonder he's all bones and angles. You'll have to get him fed up!"

"Wait. You know Sherlock? He comes here often?" John glanced at his flatmate, who seemed to be wholly ignoring their conversation.

"Of course I do, sweetheart. He saved me!" Val laughed.

A familiar feeling began to creep over John, and he silently indicated she should continue.

Pleased to be able to share her story, Val pulled an empty chair out from the table and sat down. "Well. A couple of years ago, I fell for a man called Howard Angel. I was over the moon with him, thought he could walk on water, that he was the best thing since sliced bread, all that romantic stuff. I met him on a cruise and we had a whirlwind romance. He told me he lived down in Portsmouth, so we didn't get to see each other that often, but we'd talk on the phone all the time, and he'd write me these gorgeous romantic letters. I thought I'd found the last of the true gentlemen."

She paused to make sure John was following and, he was sure, to catch her breath. "Well. He came up to visit me one weekend and surprised me in the cafe. Sherlock happened to be in at the time, and right as Howard got down on one knee, he marched up to the counter and said 'Don't do it Valerie, it would be the biggest mistake of your life.' Of course, at first I thought he was a nutter. A complete stranger, interrupting me getting proposed to! But then, he started to pick holes in Howard's story. It was amazing! He pointed out that even though Howard's clothes were a bit cheap, he was wearing very expensive shoes; that he had on glasses with fake lenses, and a few other things like that. It made me look at him a bit more differently. And then, he turned to me and told me I needed to get my eyes checked because it was pretty obvious that Howard wasn't nearly as old as he said he was. He had on makeup and a bit of flour or something in his hair to make it look greyer! I couldn't believe it!"

Val stared earnestly at John, as if willing him to feel her indignation. "Of course, then it came out that he was a serial bigamist called James Williamson. He'd made a living out of marrying women who were a little on the older side, and then spending their money to furnish a lavish lifestyle. Once they ran out of funds, rather than divorce them he'd just vanish and change his name, and find another helpless woman to live off. I'd have fallen for it hook, line and sinker if it weren't for Sherlock. He saved me, he saw through Howard Angel on the spot. And he got that nasty, ferrety little man put away. Serve him right too!" Val nodded her head, eyes twinkling in triumph.

John gaped at the woman. She continued, "So anyway yes, it's nice to see he's finally found someone who really cares about him. And so handsome too!" She winked at John.

"What?" He blinked. "Oh, no, no, we're not a couple." John laughed awkwardly. "I'm Sherlock's flatmate."

Val stood and batted him gently. "Don't worry love, you don't need to put on a front for us. No one round here minds. Besides, if anyone tried to do anything to Sherlock they'd have half of London onto them for it." She bustled away as another customer entered the small cafe.

Staring at her retreating back, John felt slightly shell-shocked. He wasn't sure how, or when it had begun, but he and Sherlock had clearly begun projecting an image of coupledom. Feeling slightly aggravated, John began eating.

Less than a minute later, he felt something brush over his head. War-sharpened instincts that he'd forgotten he had made John flinch downward quickly and begin scanning the room for danger. When a cursory sweep revealed nothing immediately dangerous, he looked down. A small paper plane had fallen beneath his seat.

John reached down and picked it up, catching sight of the small family Sherlock was continuing to stare at. The woman had gone to the till leaving the boys alone at the table. The smaller boy had a definite guilty look on his face, but the bigger boy had stood up and was walking anxiously towards him.

"Um, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit you." The boy appeared to be about nine, with thick brown hair and a very determined expression "I was just showing Callum how to throw a paper plane and it went in the wrong direction."

Sherlock spoke for the first time since they'd sat down at their table. "Why are you lying?"

The boy glanced at him quickly, his face reddening slightly. "I'm not lying, it was an accident!"

"That isn't what I mean, and you know it." Sherlock stared at him, unsmiling. "Why are you lying?"

The boy's face was dark red now and tears shone in his eyes as he glowered angrily at Sherlock. "It was an accident and I've said I'm sorry!" he shouted.

"Matthew?" The young woman came rushing over. "What's wrong darling?" She took in the scene and decided Sherlock was clearly at fault. Looking fiercely at him, she said, "What did you do to my son? Why is he crying?"

Through his tears, the boy tried to explain what had happened, but he was interrupted by Sherlock. "Your son threw a paper plane at my colleague and then Matthew lied about it. I watched him. I merely wanted to know why he was lying."

Offended, the woman gasped and glared down at Sherlock. "My son is not a liar! How dare you!" She grabbed both boys by the hand and stormed out of the door.

John stared at Sherlock. For the second time in half an hour, he wasn't sure quite what to say to the man who had so rapidly become the focus of his life. Eventually he settled on "Care to explain what that was about?"

Sherlock's head had sunk to the table, and he appeared to be sulking. Moodily, he looked up at John. "The boy was lying. He didn't throw the plane. His little brother did." Sherlock frowned and dropped his eyes back to the table. "I wanted to know why he was so willing to take the blame for something his brother had done, when he could quite easily have let him face up to his own consequences."

"But Sherlock, that's what big brothers do." John tried to smile. "They protect."

Sherlock stared up at him. "Yes, but why? In the long run it doesn't do them any good! The younger ones grow up assuming there will always be someone that they can rely on to clear up after them, and the older ones end up feeling put upon or taken advantage of. It can't be biologically beneficial."

"Wait. This is about you and Mycroft, isn't it?" John sighed. "I don't think you can make generalisations for the entire human race from just your own family, Sherlock."

Sherlock tutted and sat up. "Oh please. I merely wished to understand what would compel someone to take the blame for something they didn't do, especially when they were clearly observed not to do it."

Deciding it was not worth the argument, John decided to let the subject drop but smiled slightly to himself, and said under his breath, "Now who's lying?"

-o0o-

"Where are we?" John stared up at the block of flats in front of him. It seemed out of place among the Victorian terraces surrounding it. The large, square windows and concrete balconies marked it out as a much more modern development.

"We are going to visit Vicki Braithwaite." Sherlock glanced at his watch. "She should be home by now. Come on." He strode off without checking to make sure John was following.

"Vicki Braithwaite...that's the kids TV presenter, isn't it? The one who found the body, I mean." John jogged slightly to catch up with the lanky detective.

Sherlock nodded. "She was in hospital overnight as a precaution, something to do with emotional distress, and for whatever reason they wouldn't let me talk to her. I've read her initial statement of course, but I need to talk to her myself, as soon as possible. It's imperative that I get to her before she has a chance to forget anything else. I had word they discharged her a couple of hours ago."

At the entrance of the tall building John looked for a buzzer. Sherlock ignored him and walked to the doors, where John caught a glimpse of him removing something from his coat and then leaning down to look at the handle. Abruptly he stood and pulled the door open.

John hurried over to him and in a whisper said, "Sherlock, did you do something to the door?"

"Nothing permanent. It will save us some time." Sherlock began to take the stairs two at a time. John waited, frowning at him with arms crossed. "John, Miss Braithwaite lives on the twelfth floor. We simply do not have time to bicker over irrelevancies."

"One, it's not irrelevant, it's breaking and entering. And two, we could just take the lift." He pointed to an alcove opposite the stairs, where two lifts were clearly visible.

Sherlock huffed. "I'd really rather not, John."

"Yes, well I'd really rather not climb twelve sets of stairs." He indicated his leg, which still occasionally gave him trouble, psychosomatic or not. "Plus, even you'll be too tired for talking after climbing all that way."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't care for lifts. Especially ridiculously small lifts that smell like an unwashed toilet. I'll take the stairs, you can meet me at the top."

"No." John shook his head, emphatically. "We're not doing the splitting up thing again. Not after last time. Hello, strapped to a bomb in a darkened swimming pool? Ring any bells?"

"A valid point I suppose." Sherlock tugged his coat closer and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Fine, we can use the lift if you insist. But I don't have to enjoy it."

John grinned. "No one's asking you to enjoy it! I can't believe you're scared of going in the lift!"

Sherlock's frown deepened. "I'm not scared." He sniffed. "I merely have some occasional residual claustrophobia since the swimming pool incident."

John pressed the elevator call button and gave Sherlock a disbelieving look. Jokingly, he said, "Well, would it help if I said I'd hold your hand?"

Sherlock blinked at him, and then gave him an enigmatic, slightly embarrassed, look. "Yes. I think it would."

-o0o-

The lift was slightly smaller than John had thought; Sherlock's hand warm and dry in his own. They stood facing the doors, not looking at each other. John wasn't sure he would be able to make eye contact through the awkwardness he was feeling, and frankly he was finding it hard to concentrate on why they were in this situation in the first place. It was, well, weird. As familiar as he was with Sherlock's unique personality, he hadn't anticipated him needing this kind of physical reassurance. Looking up, he caught sight of his friend. Sherlock stood, eyes closed, the tightness around his mouth the only other indication he was discomforted. John gave his hand a gentle squeeze to reassure him, and was slightly surprised when Sherlock squeezed back. He was suddenly reminded of the night, weeks ago, that Sherlock now referred to as 'the swimming pool incident'.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John gently shook his friend who lay limply on the tiled floor in front of him. His curls were plastered to his forehead with water, and there was a shallow cut over his left cheekbone that had begun to ooze blood. His eyes fluttered weakly open, and he looked up at John, unfocused.

"John...?" Sherlock tried to speak but began to cough hard, the water that had entered his body needing to find a way out. He leaned away from John, coughing and retching, and then flopped back onto the hard floor. "Ugh. What happened after I shot the bomb? And why am I half drowned?"

John smiled, relieved, and sat back on his heels. "I pushed us into the pool. And you never told me that you can't swim, so if I hadn't noticed you didn't come up, you'd have all drowned."

"I have never needed to swim before. It was irrelevant information." Sherlock coughed again, and sat upright, staring around the almost pitch darkness of the room. "Are we still at the pool?"

John nodded in confirmation and began to look over his friend's injuries. "The ceiling collapsed I think. I've not checked whether there's a way out yet. Sit still, Sherlock, I need to check if you have a concussion."

Sherlock batted his hands away and stood up. "I'm fine, John. Is there any sign of Moriarty?" In the half light, he tried the only visible door. "Locked."

John sighed. "He must have had another way out. I saw him as I was dragging you out of the water. The bastard waved at me."

Sherlock whirled around. "And you didn't go after him?"

"I was a little bit busy at the time. You know, saving you from drowning?" John stared at his friend.

Sherlock paced the room like a caged animal, trying to find another exit. "We're trapped, and he's out there, doing who knows what. Stupid! I'm so stupid!"

John grabbed Sherlock as he passed, and dragged the taller man down to sit on the floor. "Sherlock, you're wasting energy." He held up a hand for silence as the detective tried to interrupt." You're right, we're trapped. And we don't know how long we're going to be trapped for. Our clothes are wet through and in case you haven't noticed, it's bloody freezing in here. We need to stay warm and conserve energy, or we could develop hypothermia. If you want to be useful, you could start by finding some dry clothes, or a blanket."

They found a couple of shock blankets in a small first aid box, but there was no sign of any dry clothing. John pulled off his shirt and began removing his trousers, indicating Sherlock should do the same. "We have to stay warm and get out of these wet clothes. Wrap yourself in this." He threw him the silver blanket. "It might not look like much but it could save your life."

In underwear and reflective blankets, they huddled together, shivering in the darkness. Sherlock began to laugh, which quickly turned into a cough. Concerned, John looked at him, searching for the telltale signs of early hypothermia. Seeing his friend was mostly recovered, he reached out and grasped Sherlock by the hand, squeezing it for reassurance. Sherlock squeezed back, then said "I was thinking about what you said earlier, about me ripping your clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. Imagine what people would say if they saw us now!"

The sound of the lift doors opening brought John back to the present day. Stepping forward, he was surprised when Sherlock pulled him back. "This is only the fourth floor, John. We'd still have quite a walk."

A large woman shuffled into the enclosed space, forcing Sherlock and John even closer together. John felt Sherlock's grip on his hand tighten, and heard the detective's breathing speed up. He looked up, only to see that Sherlock was staring down at him, an unreadable but almost impossibly unhappy expression on his face. He felt his breath catch in his throat, and instinctively moved closer to the taller man, until they were almost pressed together. He could feel the warmth emanating from Sherlock's chest and see the tension in the line of his shoulders. John laid his hand on Sherlock's chest, trying to comfort and reassure him. He felt Sherlock lean closer, his tousle-haired head dropping to rest on John's shoulder. "It's okay, we're almost there now."

John looked up at the floor indicator, to reassure himself the lift was still moving, and caught the eye of the female passenger, who was staring at them with open hostility. Surprised, John stared back.

The lift binged to tell them they had reached the tenth floor, and the large woman started to leave. She turned to John, and said, "I've got no problem with you people, but you should keep that kind of thing private. Little kids might see you!" Satisfied she had made her point, she stomped off, the doors closing behind her.

John glared at the lift doors, then looked down at Sherlock. The tall man was staring up at him with one piercing blue-green eye. "What's wrong?"

John pushed Sherlock gently to move him away slightly. "She thought we were gay. In fact, she's the third person today to assume we're a couple."

"Third? Assuming Valerie was the second, who was the first?" Sherlock gave him a look of honest inquiry.

"Sarah!" John growled, suddenly annoyed with Sherlock's blasé attitude. "And I'm getting sick of it!"

The lift doors opened again, this time on their floor, and Sherlock brushed past him to leave. "Coming?"

Frustrated, John followed him and grabbed Sherlock by the arm in an attempt to resume their conversation. "Look, how can it not bother you that people assume we're, you know, involved?"

Sherlock stopped, and pushed his hands into his pockets. "Why does it bother you so much, John? It's not true."

"But people assume it is!" John threw his hands into the air.

"Yes, I can see that that might be a disadvantage." He gave John a sharp look. "Why does Sarah assume we're a couple?"

"The swimming pool incident." John replied flatly.

"And did you explain to her the truth?"

John sighed. "Of course I did. She didn't believe me."

Sherlock looked mildly confused. "Then she doesn't trust you, but you still want to be associated with her?"

"It's not...I mean, she's...Oh, forget it!" John glared at him.

Sherlock smirked. "Is it truly so terrible to be associated with me? I've been told I could be quite a catch. "

John stared at him, and spluttered, "Have you gone stark raving mad? We're not a couple!"

"I know that. And anyone who truly cared for you would trust you to tell them the truth about our non-relationship." Sherlock turned and began looking at apartment numbers. "Now, help me find number 1213."

"And that's it, is it?" John said, quietly.

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. "What else would you have me say John? I am sorry if your relationship with Sarah has suffered a breakdown because of our association. But the fact remains; she is the one at fault here, not me or you." Hereached out and put a hand on John's shoulder. "I am no expert in the relationship department, but I believe the accepted advice here is to move on."

John nodded, and sighed. "You're right." He allowed the tension to leave his body, and looked up at his best friend. He grinned. "You're right about something else too." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "You're rubbish at relationships."

-o0o-

A/N - So yeah, this one took me a while! I'm experimenting and exploring a bit with their relationship, so I hope no one minds the lack of progress with the central mystery. I promise we shall definitely have a little resolution there soon. I'd very much like to say thank you to verityburns who has motivated and inspired me to get my backside in gear and get writing.

Having just done a quick re-read of this chapter I think maybe it's gotten a bit angstified, so I hope no one minds that either! Poor John, I do like to torment him so...