Thank you so much for the positive response last chapter! I would like to introduce my lovely new beta and britpicker, gbheart. She's been helping me with my grammatical errors and I'll be uploading the edited versions of the previous chapters soon. Also, I'm going to up John's age to 28. By doing this then he'll already have graduated from uni and will just be finishing the last of his training.

Chapter 5 - Power

Sherlock was a walking paradox; his entire being was one big contradiction. There was a visible diffusion of tension, once he fell asleep. The mechanical man that had worked methodically was entirely loose-limbed now. He didn't necessarily look more innocent, though there was something very delicate about the way he'd tucked his hands under the pillow, but he did look more humanised. The stoic look was erased, and his face was transformed into an empty page, his lips parted in constant breathing and face devoid of any knowledge of the incredibly naïve position he was in.

Somehow, he got the feeling that Sherlock didn't usually associate with human needs like sleep or food. He seemed to fluctuate between two states: not bored and bored. What was it like in Sherlock's mind? How was information stored? What was considered important and what was discarded? There was the constant feeling of being on a different page with Sherlock – that Sherlock was more efficient and was seeing more than he was. To see Sherlock doing something as normal as sleeping was refreshing. The uptight, well-dressed man, who had played violin beautifully and engulfed him with a whirlwind of intelligence, was lost to the basic need of sleep now.

Sherlock suffered from fear like the rest of humanity; he couldn't rise above the rest of the population, like Mycroft said. There was no doubt that Sherlock would absolutely despise the fact that he had been placed in such a weak position. John himself didn't like being placed in positions where he was disadvantaged or sick, so, for someone like Sherlock, it would be a complete loss of control on his body and mind. The way Sherlock had hidden his hands and tucked some of his face beneath the blanket so that John couldn't observe him was telling.

Sherlock had spoken of miscalculation. It wasn't miscalculation; it was a simple mistake, and he understood why Sherlock hadn't texted to tell him. The way Sherlock said it hadn't made it seem like human error but rather like a malicious virus had infected a computer, a miscalculation with the anti-virus software chosen. Whatever Sherlock had felt it wasn't something he normally experienced, and he was obviously determined to avoid it.

He took Sherlock's clothes and hung them over the back of the chair, before leaving the room and cleaning up the bloodied floor. He disposed of the still-wet kitchen roll and brought his suitcase inside to rest near the sofa, before closing the door. Certainly not the welcome he was expecting to his new home.

He filled a glass of water and placed it on the bedside table, next to the card he'd left for Sherlock. It was simple – no extravagant colours or embellishments, like glitter glue. Looking at the experience Sherlock had just had, the card seemed extraordinarily lonely standing there. Harry always had a couple of cards, no matter how badly she screwed herself over; even Clara sent her own terse cards through. For Sherlock to have nobody, except him, was really just sad.

John pulled the extra blanket, which was folded neatly at the end of the bed, onto himself, before sitting down and propping his feet on the bed's edge. Maybe it wasn't necessary, sitting here and watching over Sherlock's sleeping form, but it felt right. When Sherlock woke up, he deserved to know that someone actually cared.

What John hadn't factored into the equation was that, eventually, he would probably fall asleep, too. The chair might not be the most comfortable thing he'd ever slept on, but apparently his body didn't care, because there he was, disorientated and confused but most certainly just waking up. There was a very wild screech from behind him, and he flailed madly, suddenly wide awake. It was one brutally piercing sound followed by another, and he abandoned the warmth of the blanket covering him to go and investigate.

The lack of a sleeping Sherlock was both suspicious and condemning.

Once he stepped past the kitchen's boundaries, he found the source of the noise easily.

The same violin which Sherlock had coaxed him to sleep with was now pulling him awake. A barely contained look of contempt greeted him as Sherlock spat his name out in a harsh greeting. The tone was about as gentle as the acidic juice of a lemon in someone's eye. John sighed and went to put the kettle on.

The promise of tea and coffee did nothing for Sherlock, who followed him into the kitchen, bow still in hand and violin in place. He made himself coffee and Sherlock tea; there was no need to introduce more caffeine than strictly necessary into Sherlock's system. He slid the tea towards Sherlock, who regarded him with a raised brow and an incredibly childish increase in volume.

"I see you slept well," John said in a conversational tone, and gave Sherlock his own look over the rim of his mug.

John was amused when Sherlock stalked away into his bedroom and more or less slammed the door.

Sherlock didn't know whether he wanted to attack John or Mycroft more. While John was the spy who had seen him in weakness, it would be Mycroft who would use that information against him the most. John had been a stable presence during his… moment but, in this case, that hardly mattered. What mattered was that he absolutely despised that withdrawal and sleeplessness had forced their way onto him and worked their malevolent wills upon him so speedily. John had seen him in a complete lack of control, and that made them stand on two very different platforms of power.

He despised being overpowered in a situation. If he stood above someone else, due to the fact that he was more intelligent, then that couldn't be helped. That he naturally viewed himself better than most of the masses was his own perception – a perception that most people did not want to conform with. Being undermined by the knowledge that he would have more episodes like yesterday's was frustrating. John had seen him in a position that he'd previously shut even Mycroft out of.

Not only that, but John had slept by his bedside, as though he was legitimately concerned. There was no reason for John to have stayed. His information on Sherlock's episode was gathered and his concerns eased as soon as Sherlock fell asleep. It was either that John expected him to wake up mere minutes later, or he really did feel some sort worry. If John felt that it was his duty as a doctor to stay, then that was to be expected. John, from what he had gathered so far, was altruistic and empathetic, both traits that might compel him to stay and watch over him.

If John had stayed out of friendship and actual care, then he was uncharacteristically stumped. While John had admitted to friendship, and was undoubtedly attracted to him, it was completely new to have someone show concern in such a truthful manner. This was something he had no precedent for. Under the strange circumstance that John would fall ill, would it be his duty to stand vigil by his bedside? His knowledge on this was lacking immensely. The amount of times he'd observed human interaction for patterns did not really prepare him for the immensity of another presence living with him. If he continued like this, was it likely that John would leave? It appeared not. John had been sarcastic with him this morning, not insulted nor angry.

As inconceivably nice as it felt to have John consider him as a friend, he wanted to know what it would be like to see him lose control in some manner. Purposely making John ill would be both traceable and insipid, and making John angry could go badly, if the man took offense. What tensions did John already have? He didn't get along with his drunken sister, he had the constant stress from his studies, and there was the already a fairly strong sexual tension between the two of them.

Yes. John was so in control over his body; he wanted Sherlock but did not let that affect their relations much. How long would it take for that self-control to shatter? How would John respond under that type of pressure? Would he stand shock still, like he had in the kitchen, or flee immediately? Would he snap and respond to the signals his body was sending or will it all away in an austere manner? If sex followed this experiment, then he had no complaints. It was unlikely that John would anger over something as simple as the want for sex. His own views on the matter had no merit – it was John who would either reject it or accept it.

Either way, Mycroft likely anticipated this. If Mycroft thought that John would leave quickly, then he wouldn't have invested in him. Anything to do with his brother was spun in an intricate web of intense planning, well thought out strategies and plays of power. His brother's lack of care for privacy was both highly annoying and, at times, regretfully useful. Had Mycroft felt his plan would fail, he wouldn't have laid the foundation.

"Sherlock," John shouted, and rapped on his door. "I'm going down for tea with Mrs Hudson. Is there anything you want while I'm out?"

He didn't answer. Did John ask because it was necessary, or because he honestly wanted to know?

The quiet was broken by a sighed word from John and the sound of the front door both opening and closing. He retreated from his seat on the bed, to silently sneak around the kitchen. His cup of tea sat abandoned on the countertop next to the kettle, while John's rested on its side in the sink. He emptied his own cup, in a fit of pique, before moving himself to the sofa and settling himself.

Tea with Mrs Hudson was enlightening, in its own special way. Explanations on the youngest Holmes were welcome, however, when the 'I'm glad Sherlock has found himself such a nice man' conversation came up, he was stuck trying to assure her that they were not dating. She gave him a conspiratorial wink and patted his knee with vigour, before handing him another biscuit.

He grinned as she dusted some icing sugar off the front of his jumper and shooed him out.

"Don't let a little tiff stop you!" She called out pleasantly.

When John opened the door, he was prepared to have to storm over to Sherlock's room and forcibly get him to sit and eat. He stood there, for a second, and put on an exasperated expression at the sight of Sherlock sprawled upside-down, on the sofa. His body looked contorted, with his head on the floor and his feet rather high on the wall. Cranium was seated on his sternum, and Sherlock's hands caressed the different ridges in the bone. He turned his head in recognition, at John's presence, but offered no explanation.

"I brought up some Clingfilm from Mrs Hudson's," he offered, and lifted the box into Sherlock's vision. All was still, except for the movement of fingers. For a second, he thought he was imagining it, but it became clear that Sherlock was tracing the same patterns he had had traced on his own skin yesterday. "I'll just do it myself then," he muttered, when Sherlock didn't move.

He repackaged Sherlock's dust accumulation experiment and tucked it away, before heading for the takeaway.

"It's gone off already."

"And you didn't think to throw it away?"

No response. Apparently not. At least the git told me.

He threw it away, before shuffling around the kitchen looking for a frying pan. He could make eggs for the both of them but wasn't too keen on experimenting on new cooking surfaces. It took a minute of unsavoury clattering about on his part, but he soon let out a little victorious 'whoop!' after pulling it out of hiding. Apparently, the racket he was making brought Sherlock out of his own hiding because, a moment later, he was curiously watching over John's shoulder as he scrambled the eggs. The look on his face was a little solemn.

"What do you do then?" John asked, trying to engage Sherlock once more. "I know you're a detective, but there must be more to it."

It was the right way to go because the frown disappeared. "Consulting detective, actually." Sherlock said with pride. "When the police are out of their depth, which, consequently, is almost always, they come to me for assistance."

"Ever get up to any chases, like the ones on telly?"

"Occasionally, though, as of recently, everything has slowed down quite horrifically." Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder and sighed plaintively. He jumped at the point of contact but didn't move away from his watchful position over the stove.

"Well doesn't that sound boring?" He noted, in an amused tone.

Sherlock made another deep, sad sound and stole the fork from John, before poking at the eggs. He gave up, a moment later, and dropped his hand to the side. "You have absolutely no idea."

He got the feeling that Sherlock was pouting and wondered what he had been like as a child. What sort of eccentricities did he get up to? There wasn't anything in the flat that looked to be sentimental, other than Cranium, who had been a gift. Either Mycroft still had the bulk of Sherlock's things, or Sherlock just didn't have such sort of memorabilia from his younger years. It was possible that Sherlock just didn't have anything conventional from his childhood for John to pick out – things like a favourite blanket or stuffed toy. It was a bit of a shame, really. Could Sherlock figure out his childhood, as he had done with his current life?

"Budge over," he said, and quickly found plates for the both for them. A moment later, Sherlock returned to the spot on his shoulder. "Any reason eggs are so fascinating?"

"I deleted cooking again, now that you're my 'caretaker'."

"Deleted?"

He grabbed another fork and took the plates of food to the armchairs. He changed direction for the sofa, once he realised that Sherlock had, at some point, grabbed hold of the corner of his jumper and didn't seem keen on letting go. Their knees knocked together, and Sherlock took a very small, controlled nibble at his food. It didn't taste bad, but Sherlock only took a few more bites before pushing his plate away. If he wasn't here, then he doubted Sherlock would even have deigned to make food. By eating a little, it seemed as though Sherlock was trying to placate him or distract him from conversing about yesterday.

He gave Sherlock the benefit of a full minute of quiet eating, before broaching the subject.

"How often does it get that bad?" The way Sherlock went suddenly tense meant that he understood what John was asking about.

Sherlock moved away from him. "It doesn't. Usually I crash after some sort of rush – it never has the chance to reach that point."

John nodded. His boredom, bad habits, and insomnia were all tied together in a series of foreign knots. When he was bored, he would give himself some sort of rush to pass the time and wear him down. Afterwards, during the come down, he would be sluggish and would probably find it easier to sleep. There was no doubt that Sherlock did as much as he could to avoid both boredom and insomnia. The two must be a constant presence for him to be driven to the point of cocaine.

"How long did you sleep?"

"Just under five hours."

Sherlock's irritation this morning made sense now. Even after all of his body's warnings about lack of sleep, he hadn't been able to get all the sleep needed. A desperate need for sleep like that couldn't be erased with five hours. Five hours of sleep might be okay for Sherlock, if it happened regularly, but that was certainly not the case.

He pushed his plate from his lap and patted it. Sherlock gave him an incredulous look.

"Lie down. It's not even ten yet – I'll wake you up, if something interesting happens."

Hesitation slowed all of his movements. There was an air of caution about him, as he moved. He was peering through his lashes, at John's face, and frowned, as he placed his head on John's thighs.

"Relax," John laughed. "It's not like I'm going to film this and send it to all of your contacts." A dissolve in tension followed, and John shifted slightly. Did Sherlock think that that was on his agenda? Was this sort of tenderness unexpected to the point where it had to have a motive as explanation? He didn't care what sort of warnings he'd been given against Sherlock, this was sad. People weren't meant to question things like touching. Touching was a basic human thing, like talking or eating. Sherlock might not need the three of them constantly, but he shouldn't feel mistrustful or uncomfortable when they were offered.

He didn't tell Sherlock to close his eyes this time, just ran a single hand through the short, black curls.

"My mother used to do this for me." John breathed softly.

"She's dead," Sherlock said without pause.

There was no need to answer; Sherlock already knew that he was right. He brushed a strand from Sherlock's forehead and rolled it between his fingers. It was his mum who would sit down with him, when he couldn't sleep, and do this: just card her fingers through his hair and talk. It was comforting in a way that he could hardly replicate, but he tried to anyway. He didn't mind doing this for Sherlock. He used to do it for his sister, until she blearily waved him away. Once he told Clara to do it, she had taken over for him, his presence unneeded. Now with Clara gone, Harry was back to drinking, but this time he couldn't cleanly slide back in and leave peace offerings. Now, there was too much between them; the water was murky with unsaid things.

Sherlock's eyes slipped half-shut, and he released a groan when John massaged the bump of a scar on his scalp. If Sherlock didn't usually let go around people, then this was something unique for him.

"You have questions," he said, in an undertone.

Enough for a lifetime, actually. "You said you deleted cooking?"

"This," he pointed at the spot where John's fingers had lingered a second ago, "is my hard drive and, unlike most people, I feel it completely unneeded to clutter it with rubbish. Periodically, I delete things; any scraps of unwanted information are cast off. Naturally, I tend to forget things, however, using this method, I minimise that to only the things that wouldn't have been required anyway."

Bullshit. People couldn't just get rid of blocks of information like that. Sherlock couldn't just think to himself 'Well now, John's here so I may as well just conveniently forget cooking!' What could he even call this? Self-induced amnesia? This was bloody mad.

"So, what do you delete?" He asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Sherlock hummed, as though the question required a brief period of consideration. "Popular culture, mostly. Anything that does not impact my work or is so blindingly obvious that I'll figure it out anyway." He searched John's expression. "You find the idea of me deleting things to be distasteful: why?"

"How can you decide what's important or not, when you don't even understand the concept yourself?"

Was this why Sherlock seemed so ignorant about certain things? People learned from their mistakes. If Sherlock had blundered in the public eye and felt it a pointless waste of memory, then he would have deleted it. Was this the reason Sherlock had so little experience in something as basic as touching? Was something as basic as touching really to be discredited? What would happen if Sherlock deleted some massive chunk of memory? Would there still be imprints of the knowledge left in his mind, or would it be a clean cut that could be packed with new information straight away? Would Sherlock ever delete him?

Sherlock seemed to ponder John's words, his fingers coming back up beneath his chin and some of the strength returning to his limp limbs.

"You're making me question my own thought process." He sounded peeved.

John snorted. Something like this needed to be questioned.

"Do you know where the Olympics are this year?"

Very slowly, Sherlock shook his head. He seemed ready to flee, poised to get up and stride away, if this progressed past his invisible line of comfort. Someone as hugely smart as Sherlock didn't know that the Olympics were in his own city? What a perfect, flawed, and stupid thing to delete. Yes, it would take seconds to find that information out again, but why delete it in the first place? Sherlock could recognise where the shaking hands of an alcoholic had left their marks but couldn't answer the one question that nearly everyone else could. It boggled his mind.

He stilled his hand and, instead, just let it rest over Sherlock's forehead, his fingers just touching the edge of one brow. "That's really quite something."

Sherlock 'hmm'd' in response. The man loosened again. It was interesting to be able to feel how he calmed into a look of stoic tranquillity. Their conversation was completely cut off, when John's phone rang. In the peace that they had just renewed, it sounded just as shrill as the Sherlock's impromptu angry violin-playing. He ruffled Sherlock's hair in an apology, before moving away to pull his phone out of his pocket.

Sherlock was displeased with the lack of John. The last spree of constant contact between the two of them would desensitise John – make him less likely to flee at the slightest sexualised touch. Not only that, but the steadying touch of John's hands was heady. They were warm, the pads of John's fingers delicate on his bare skin and a tad rougher on his scalp. John had clinical hands too, just in a different way.

Whereas Sherlock's hands were clinical, because he used them to inspect, to gather evidence, and feel the touch of Nitrile gloves on his skin. John's hands were clinical, because they brushed over damaged skin with care and sought to find injury. John's hands had carefully ran repeatedly over a raised patch of skin on his skull, which had come about when he'd had a bottle smashed against him to try and overpower him in a fight. Lestrade had had a fit, when he saw the mat of blood coating the back of his head and trickling down his collar. Now only a jagged scar remained – another mark on his skin that John had observed.

He was annoyed that some friend of John's had called and was asking for his presence to 'catch up'. Even worse was the fact that said friend wanted to see John's new residency. There was something very hopeful about the look on John's face, when he asked if Sherlock wanted to meet Mike, one of his oldest friends from high school.

Mike, as undoubtedly banal as he would be, was going to be a window of opportunity. The chance to see what characteristics John looked for in a friend, discover casual titbits of information about John, and, above all, the chance to stretch his bored mind. Someone new to deduce, a real life unpredictability that could respond in unexpected manners. Some people told him to piss off, whereas others settled for a more physical response, like slapping or punching.

And then John Watson told him that he was amazing.

John Watson, the outlier who decided to set a new standard for himself. John, the man making tea in the kitchen and bustling around with half-muttered comments on his breath. John was morbidly normal: reading him was remarkably easy. Reading most people was something as easy as breathing – something as necessary as breathing. All the facts had poured off John like overflowing water, and yet he couldn't help but marvel at how remarkably different the man was for just having moved in and accepted his presence.

"Sherlock, are you trying to grow mould with these?" John lifted up the plate of bread, and he nodded. He'd check the bread again tomorrow but doubted there would be any change, by then. Preservatives in bread had made the experiment a whole less volatile and prone to less vigorous growth.

He pulled out his phone and aimlessly tapped away. John had been exasperated, when he explained the concept of deletion, doubly so when he confessed to not knowing where the Olympics were this year. The event would have to be near them, for John to be so distressed at his lack of comprehension.

Ah, the London 2012 Summer Olympics. Yes, that explained quite a bit.

This would be common knowledge to everyone, even his homeless network would recognise the significance of this event. It would be expected for him to know this – to know about it in detail, even. The same reason he should know about this was precisely why he shouldn't.

Hypothetically, if somehow such an event was to be tied in with a murder, everyone with two brain cells to rub against each other would recognise what was being alluded to. If they didn't, when he rattled of his deductions, then someone else should hopefully pick up on it. The last resort would be he himself to research his accumulated data and come to the conclusion that it was to do with the Olympics. If John looked at it the same way he did, then there was no doubt in his mind that he would understand. The requirement of this knowledge was non-existent, the clutter of it making a mess in his mind palace.

John had no knowledge of how closely linked deletion and his mind palace were, did he? An explanation of how the two worked in harmony would likely put John at ease and stop his questionable worry.

He continued his musings, until the doorbell rang, and the rhythmic press of footsteps on the stairs had him peering at the door. It was vexing how both the front door and the door to their flat were kept under lock and key. As much as he craved another shot of cocaine, he wasn't about to make a daring escape, with Mycroft's surveillance obsessively tracking him. That would, in Mycroft's eyes, be stupidly entertaining. Mycroft's fascination with human stupidity could be drawn directly to a child's pleasure at seeing a hamster spin in its wheel for minutes on end.

John walked brightly over to the door, quickly shooting him a look that told him to behave.

Once the door was open, it was like taking a whiff of cigarette smoke. Letting his mind free to feed off the information being given to him was satisfying. It had a subtle pleasure to it.

Mike was a little shorter than John, had a thicker, more muscular build that suggested he played some type of sport, and he was both older than John and was already employed. He was easygoing, had no partner, worked with a fair amount of paperwork, and tried to exercise regularly to keep his current state of fitness.

He leapt at the chance to shake Mike's hand: right-handed, with ink smudged on the side of his hand, and well kept short nails. Quite a few professions required a short nail regulation to be followed. In Mike's case, he either worked in the food industry or in the medicine industry. Judging by the close relationship between him and John, medicine seemed more likely.

"Sherlock!" Mike said with a warm smile, clasping his hand a little tighter. "Nice to meet John's new partner."

So now Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Mike felt he and John were in a sexual relationship. How pleasantly surprising.

John made a rather awkward sounding cough and shook his head, before shooing them over to the tea he'd prepared.

"Any chance you know Molly Hooper?" Mike asked him, and gratefully took a cup from John.

Ah, Molly: timid, impressionable, and incredibly easy to manipulate. Her older sister worked in the morgue and quite often put up a reasonable fight when he asked for any limbs. It was fortunate that she was far more lax about giving limbs to Molly, who then gave them to Sherlock. The length of the process was oftentimes frustrating, however, once Molly took the position at St Bart's Morgue, he'd have virtually free access to whatever anatomy he pleased. He'd already paid back the favour he owed Mycroft for certifying she would gain a position there.

"Yes," he said, and John observed the both of them curiously.

Mike frowned, "You should be a bit nicer to her – the girl's head over heels for you."

He made a displeased sound. Molly, as meek as she was, did in fact have an enormous crush on him. While it did make the manipulation easier, it was also uncomfortable. He disliked having her pine after him, for the sole reason that it made her both flirtatious and unstable. Her attempts at gaining his attentions were weak – her vocalised attempts even more so. His constant rejections often made her sulk and attempt to either avoid him or stand against him in the fight for body parts. If only she felt for him sexually, then he may have dealt with her, but the romantic implications that she sought after were most certainly halting that.

He shrugged.

Mike sensed that that topic of conversation was over, taking a rapid sip from his tea before launching into a recount of his new job with John. As expected, Mike worked in medicine.

There was some general prattle about Rugby, which he tuned out, followed by the issue of one of their old friends having been recently widowed. The only thing that was interesting was watching John for blips in his interaction with Mike. He was visibly uncomfortable when the topic of relationships came up, his body language turning more defensive than it had been previously. The uncertainty of what stood between them and the allusions that they were dating had John worrying his lip.

A moment later, he caught himself wanting to categorise John's taste.

Want. Now it was clear that he wanted John. While he'd previously only viewed John as aesthetically pleasing, it was apparent that the attraction had developed into wanting John on a stronger level. While he'd never subjected himself to sex without mutual attraction, this was different. Different because, if he wanted to bed John straight away, he could, whereas that was not the case. What he wanted was the slow burn of tension to push John into taking the first step. If he took John, then victory would be too easy. To manipulate John into making the initial move would be a subtle and silent victory, on his part, and it was a chance to see how John responded. He was a tenacious and, when necessary, a patient person; however long it took did not matter. In the end, he would have his way.

In the end he would have John Watson.

AN: I'm thinking about opening about a poll for you to tell me which character you prefer to be 'dominant'. There's a lot of fics with top!John, a couple with top!Sherlock and some fics have them switching between 'roles'. I'm not trying to say that relationships are stereotypical with one person topping and one person bottoming, I'm just curious as to what you prefer.