"It's a three patch problem."

John turned toward the kitchen before letting the relief show on his face. The way Sherlock had been gripping his arm as he entered the sitting room – he hadn't pressed him for information during that first visit to the clinic, but he'd been a doctor long enough to read the signs. Must search the flat later. Even if he's clean now, there's likely something…

"Can I borrow your phone?"

The question arose from the prone figure on the sofa, looking something between a ghost and an angel, the way his shirt collar sat open against that devilishly swanlike –

John cleared his throat before tossing his mobile on Sherlock's chest with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, and practically sprinted for the kettle. If Harry could see me now, he thought, rolling his eyes.

After a moment, he realized Sherlock had been speaking, presumably to him. "Hm? No, you lazy sod, send it yourself. I was the other side of London," he complained, blowing the steam from his tea and settling into his chair. Then he saw what Sherlock was digging through.

"That's…"

"The pink lady's case, yes. Oh, and I suppose I should add: I didn't kill her." He went on to explain in rapid-fire detail exactly how he had located it, apparently within an hour of arriving at the crime scene. "You see, I got all that because I realized the case'd be pink."

"Of course it'd be pink," John replied nonplussed. The detective's mouth gaped slightly. Though no sound came out, his mental calculations were almost loud enough for John to hear. Suddenly, he snapped back to attention and began throwing on jacket, coat, and scarf, snapping about there being no time for the police.

"So why are you talking to me?" the blogger inquired. "No, wait, let me guess. Mrs. Hudson took your skull?"

For the first time since they'd met, Sherlock Holmes laughed.

Sherlock looked pointedly out the window at 22 Northumberland Street, grateful for the excuse to ignore Angelo's not particularly subtle way of outing him to his new flatmate. At least John was kind enough to simply smile politely in response. He is kind. Why do I know he's kind? Why would that matter? Yet even as he asked himself questions to divert from the warm stirring in his chest, he knew something was happening. Because of this doctor, this person he had so suddenly invited into his space, into his life, without a thought for what it might do to him. Hm. Bit not good.

"It's more romantic," Angelo was saying, setting a lit candle on the crisp tablecloth.

Sherlock jumped to correct his mistake. He couldn't risk John thinking he had planned this. "He's not my – "

"Thanks," John interrupted, still smiling. He finally turned to Sherlock then, speaking calmly as if continuing an existing conversation. "People don't have archenemies in real life. They have people they know, people they like, people they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"Dull." Sherlock spat, maintaining his focus on the cross street.

"You don't have a girlfriend then." It wasn't a question. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

The detective's head whipped around. No one had ever asked him so bluntly before. Sure, there were those that knew. Well, strongly suspected. He had never actually confirmed anything to anyone, as it was none of their business and had never been an issue anyway.

Taking too long to answer! His brain fired.

"Which is fine, by the way," John continued, feeling guilty for calling his flatmate out unexpectedly.

"I know it's fine."

"So you've got a boyfriend…" John looked back at his plate.

"NO." Sherlock stated more firmly than he'd intended. What is happening right now?

"Right, ok. So you're unattached. Like me."

Like me. Like me? John was most decidedly not like him. Sherlock was absolutely certain, based on his analysis thus far, that John had rarely suffered rejection, that he understood and took advantage of the means by which people achieve and maintain romantic relationships, that he was without a doubt experienced in matters of both the heart and… transport. So what could John possibly mean by saying he's "like me"?

Unless…

"Taxi stopped. Don't stare."

"You're staring," John quipped.

"Can't both stare," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. As leapt up from his seat, he noticed that, despite his instructions, John was staring. But not out the window. "I… uh…" Oh, not now.

Being hit by a car stepping off the curb jolted him back to the task at hand. THINK: one way, road block, turn, turn, OH! Around the pedestrians, up the stairwell, across the rooftop. John ran behind, fueled by a level adrenaline he hadn't felt since returning to civilian life.

Until Sherlock cleared the chasm between apartment buildings as if jumping over a crack in the pavement, consumed by the thrill of the chase. John stopped short, uncertain whether this was a chance he should take. Perhaps he'd made a mistake. It had all happened so fast, and he hadn't allowed himself a moment to question, to evaluate, to doubt…

"John!" Sherlock was waiting for him. This is it Watson. Decision time. John jumped, landing on his feet and suddenly wondering why he'd been so afraid.

Greens Court, left turn, just missed him, this way no this way SLAM! Sherlock's arm came down on the front of the cab they'd been chasing and he ran to the side, wrenching open the door and flashing a police badge.

"No. Teeth, tan, what, California?" As Sherlock grumbled to himself, John attempted to salvage the situation.

"Welcome to London," he nodded and shut the door as the taxi pulled back into the street. As he panted with exertion, the frustrated detective burst into a fit of giggles. "What?" John asked, trying not to notice how the younger man's eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Nothing, just… 'Welcome to London.'"