(Note: Sadlly Sherlock and John Watson are not mine. But they may belong to each other. Warning for John Watson's god-awful dirty mind)

JOHN WATSON

"Mycroft's coming over today then?"

It is a Sunday morning, and the Enigma is sitting in his chair, casually plucking his violin. He looks down at it, partially concealing a smile at my probably simplistic deduction. "What makes you say that, John?"

"You're dressed, but you're not on a case, which means you're either anticipating your brother or Lestrade. If it was Lestrade you'd be pacing around in excitement, but you're not, you're sitting down and fiddling with your violin. You're also…" I hesitated, not sure how to describe it.

"Yes?"

I sit down across from him and clear my throat, aware of the absurdity of the comment I am about to make. "…dressed… prettily… with your hair… "

He smirks. "Dressed aristocratically. I only put 'product' in my hair when I'm expecting to see Mycroft because otherwise he will describe me to Mummy as "wild". But thank you for the compliment, John."

"It's not a compliment. I don't like it. Much prefer…" I stop; what I had meant as a biting comeback is about to evolve into something sickeningly sweet. God, this is awkward.

He plucks the strings on his violin pointedly at my hesitation. "Yes…"

I look up. His light blue eyes are glowing almost silver, which is somewhat formidable when combined with his "aristocratic" persona. It makes my breath hitch, I lose my presence of mind for a moment and widen my eyes in surprise as the words come stumbling out: "… I quite like it when you're ranting about the flat in your stupid dressing gown. It's infuriating, but when you do that the air around you vibrates and I can almost feel how clever you are."

(Plus you look like a dear thing with your soft curls and I just want to shove you down on your knees and slide into that ripe angry mouth while you glare up at me with your eyes like turbulent ice and give you something to be "bored" about… Oh, what am I thinking…)

"Sentiment, John." He says it disdainfully, but he's smirking again. I feel the heat rise in my face as I momentarily wonder if he is capable enough at deducing to be referring to my brief fantasy. The blush only deepens as I realize that that particular metal image is not sentimental in the slightest and I drop my eyes down to my knees.

He continues mildly as if he has not seen the blush or deduced its meaning, "and your deductions are getting better. I have hope for you yet, though you should branch out. Being able to deduce consulting detectives is not a fruitful occupation, seeing as there is only one."

I raise my eyebrows, though I persist in avoiding his gaze and pick up a medical journal. Mrs. Hudson is baking something downstairs, possibly chocolate biscuits going by the aroma. I focus fervently on thoughts of baked goods to quell something stirring in my pants. "It is useful when that one is your mad wanker of a flat mate."

Years. I can see it in my head like a parade, this delicate, almost but not quite love of ours, weaving in and out of each other, him advancing in some bizarre, manic fashion, myself stepping back, perhaps a moment of weakness on my part (One day I will probably kiss him after a particularly brilliant deduction, and it will be awkward and intimate, but I will refuse to speak of it again). Vaguely I wonder if I ever will have the nerve to admit to him that my loyalty; my intense, warrior-like desire to protect him stems from more than just admiration of his deductions or a vague belief that his work would always end in truth and justice. The man is brilliant, brave, almost noble, but he's also beautiful, and if that mad git is ever going to belong to anyone, it should probably be me.

He runs his violin bow over his instrument gently, stands up, and walks to the window. I can feel his restlessness rolling off of him in waves. Much better if Lestrade was coming over instead of Mycroft.

"If we're flirting John," he says, almost gently, "This is when you ask me when I find you attractive in return. There is a certain amount of give and take with these things, and it won't do you being stubborn about it. As you're so fond of pointing out, I'm stubborn enough for both of us put together."

My mouth drops open in shock. So much for years. Panic rises in my throat, I like the soft curves of women, and while there is a sensuous look to Sherlock, especially his arse which I find my gaze narrowing in on far too often, his gruff masculinity does not fit neatly into my ideal of a sweet little wife bustling around the kitchen and giving cuddles on the couch. "Sherlock! I'm not flirting with you. I'm not gay!"

"You are a one on the Kinsey scale. Roughly. I just happen to be attractive and brilliant enough to have caught your eye."

If Sherlock isn't being a complete git, I do tend to listen to him, despite his arrogance. That plus my intermittent fantasies about… well… that, make me cross my arms belligerently and look over at him. "Right. Fine. When do you find me most attractive then, Sherlock?"

"Now."

I look down at my dumpy sweater, and get a peek at my tired eyes and greying hair in the mirror above the mantel. There's a gentle "tsk" from Sherlock. He's playing the violin softly now. Despite the hardness of his face his music is gentle, almost coaxing "Vain, John. But yes, now. Not just now now, however. Always now. You remind me of one thing I never had before I met you."

I lick my lips. Sherlock is being borderline romantic right now, which is one of those rare things that should be recorded and documented, like National Geographic footage. "What is that?"

He's smirking. His voice is dry, almost defensively sardonic. "Home."