This chapter: Sherlock's POV. Should have warned it was going to flip flop, though I haven't decided if it's always going to be one after the other or if you might get two in row from the same POV. We shall see!

Chapter Two – I Don't Like What I Don't Understand

John went off to work the next day, and so did Sherlock. In Sherlock's case, however, that was to wait until John was gone, pretending to be bored as he laid on the couch facing the back, and then jumping up and running into the other man's room when he was sure he wasn't coming back for a forgotten… well, whatever John would forget. A spare jumper or something. He flung open the door and went straight for John's laptop, easily hacking in. As usual. He just didn't understand why John bothered locking it.

Sherlock had spent most of the day before wondering what had happened to John. Oh, he knew what John had told him had happened, but he knew he wasn't being told the entire truth. John liked to think he could keep the investigator off his arse if he gave him half-truths and left unsaid all the truly interesting bits.

Yes, he was sure John needed to think. By the state of his shoes and pants legs when he came in – fresh scuffs, more than a walk from the corner, and mud splashes, crossing streets he didn't need to get home – he had done a lot of thinking already. And Sherlock was perfectly aware that the other man had issues thinking around him, which is why he did almost all of it on walks. The detective allowed himself a small smirk at that thought, knowing full well why John had trouble thinking around him (accelerated heart rate, dilated eyes, slight blush, usually starting at the ears) and wondered if John was ever going to figure it out. Sherlock had enough sense to know *that* wasn't something he could point out. John would *not* thank him for that. He might punch him. And John hit hard.

So what had he been doing in his room for over *two hours*? He had to have been researching something online, or writing in his blog. Sherlock had already opened the folders John kept his work in progress posts but nothing had been added, not since their last case. He even opened the folder of posts that John wrote but never published, but all he found new was a rant on how Sherlock kept disgracing their small appliances with his experiments. The man in question frowned. He'd have to remember to replace the toaster. Today, preferably.

Finding nothing useful there, and no other new files on the hard drive, he opened up the browser and … John had erased his browser history. Sherlock tried other tricks he knew to see where John had been online recently – checking his cookies, recovering his last session, typing every letter in the alphabet into a search engine just to see what would pop up in the drop down menu – but he got nowhere. Clearly John *had* finally learned how to keep Sherlock from finding out what he had been up to online. His continued use of a password to lock his computer must have just been to lull the other man. Interesting.

It was time to Google John Watson.

"Have a good day?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly from his chair when John finally arrived home later in the day. He didn't bother looking up from his paper, interested in hearing how John sounded before he took in his physical state.

"Yeah, it went quickly. Enough patients, but nothing too horrible. You got a new case?"

He sounded fine. Relaxed even. Much better than he had the day before. Even after spending that inordinate amount of time in his room (doing god knew what, since Google had failed to turn up anything he didn't already know, sad story of his life), he had been anything but relaxed when he finally came down, offering to get take away. When Sherlock asked, he just said he still needed to think, though it was clear that he was doing the opposite of actually thinking. Worse yet, he had been gone longer than necessary to pick up food and the said food was cold when he got home. Sherlock made a mental note to also replace the microwave.

"No," he replied, folding the paper back to the next page and snapping it to straighten it.

"Oh, just thought you must have and was just waiting for me to get home. Seeing as you're dressed and everything."

Sherlock graced him with his most winning scowl. It was the one he reserved for annoying flatmates.

"I do not just lie around all day in my bath robe."

"No, you don't, but you usually only get dressed if you have a case, you have an experiment, or you're going out, which usually involves a case or an experiment. And the kitchen doesn't *smell* like death, and it still looks pretty much as it did when I left, so I'm left with case."

"Very good, you're starting to be more observant, but you do have room for improvement. You haven't opened the fridge."

"Don't want to."

Sherlock put down his paper and grinned at him, noting the suddenly dilating eyes, the slight blush rising on his cheeks (interesting, his reaction is a bit more overt today) and the twitch of the doctor's left hand. He thought about letting John off the hook and telling him there was nothing in the fridge other than what had already been there before and that he was right, but he decided that the other man wouldn't learn that way. Instead he leaned back in his chair and waited.

"Tea?"

"Yes please."

Give John a grin, make him blush, he runs off to make tea. Perfect. He wondered…. If their relationship was allowed to progress to a more, say, one on one situation, would he still be able to chase John into the kitchen with a smile, the other thinking it was his own idea to get beverages or food? Probably not. He was sure he could figure out another way, though. That would be an experiment for when John was actually ready for it. Too soon and he'd be out a roommate and best friend. Couldn't have that.

"So I guess you're bored, then," John huffed good naturedly from the kitchen, continuing their conversation.

"No."

Suddenly, John stuck his head back into the front room, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"What are you up to?"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock was honestly flummoxed. He saw most things coming, but John still could keep him on his toes. It was lovely. Most of the time.

"You don't have a case, you're not doing an experiment – I checked the fridge – and you're dressed. To *shoes*. Sherlock Holmes does not just sit around watching telley and reading the paper, unless he's bored, and then there's much whining, pouting, and firing of pistols into walls."

"Just the one wall."

"The number of walls is unimportant. You're not bored, then you're trying to figure something out. And considering your interest in what happened when I went out yesterday, I have a horrible feeling it's *me* you're trying to figure out…. Have you hacked my computer again?"

"Why do you bother pass coding it?"

John rolled his eyes and returned to the kitchen.

"I do that in the vain hope that you'll eventually *get the hint* and mind your own business."

Sherlock finally started pouting, drawing his eyebrows together and letting a petulant note creep into his voice.

"Half your files involve retellings of our cases, which, incidentally, has to include me, so they are my business."

"Then stay out of the other half!"

"How else am I going to deduce what's going on with you currently? You don't seem to be able to tell me, so I need to find out another way. What ever happened to 'ooh, your deductions are brilliant, Sherlock, tell me how you did that?'"

John brought their tea out and Sherlock realized quickly that he was grateful for the doctor's self-control. The look on his face told him exactly where he wanted to put Sherlock's tea, and it wasn't in the mug and in the man's hand.

"Thank you so much for making me sound like a teenage girl, falsetto and all, which is very unbecoming in your voice, by the way. And I have said you were brilliant, but I've never said it like that."

Sherlock laughed a little and inclined his head, non-verbally conceding that point. And maybe apologizing a little. Maybe.

"Seriously, Sherlock, your ability to see everything around you is incredible," John sighed, sitting in his chair across from Sherlock's, "but not when you're aiming that ability at me. I'm sure you can tell I'm better today, and yeah, I spent the time I was upstairs yesterday online, and yes I've learned to delete *everything.* I'm not ready to tell you what's going on in my head, but I will tell you. Eventually. Can you trust me? Please?"

Sherlock had been examining him while he spoke, but he stopped and softened his gaze. He needed to trust John; he knew that, because he needed John to trust him. Not just with his life, either. He needed John to eventually trust him with everything. And wasn't that just fantastic? He had to give up his favorite hobby – Figuring Out Dr. John Watson – so he could eventually be trusted with the man's heart. And how was he going to win that heart if he didn't figure him out? He supposed that was part of this entire trusting thing.

Sherlock reached over and cupped one of John's hands.

"Alright," he said, his voice low and soft. "I'll try my best, but it is hard to just turn it off."

John smiled at him and he noted how his breathing had picked up a bit and how their touch had given him goose bumps. And how John had had a similar reaction. Sherlock pulled back and stood suddenly, full of his usually energy, startling the shorter man into leaning back and nearly spilling his mug.

"I'm going appliance shopping. Want to go with?"

"Good lord, yes. I hope you're planning to get a new blender."

TBC

A/N: I have been greatly enjoying watching the numbers increase on this fic. Thank you, every one of you, who have viewed my story, added it as a favorite, are following it and thank you thank you for the reviews! I'm completely psyched by that! Also, after having read several older stories (working my way to newer ones) I've noticed that appliance abuse by Sherlock seems to be an accepted standard in this fandom. It makes sense to me. Hope it was enjoyed!