After that day, flirting was a common interaction between the two of them. Knowledge sunk in both; a secretive smile, Holmes' wink during a case but also so not constrained only to the case, Watson complaining that Holmes should take a bath and yet he sniffed his shoulder more deeply to say: - Seriously! Holmes! You smell like horses!... Each began to make himself with the idea of being "together"; since no danger was envisaged while they flirted the whole problem of the illegality of it slipped from their minds: no one would know if they didn't suspect already, as they did themselves.

And during a case they were cornered, exactly, in the dark corner of a room, expecting the felon to step in to tackle and arrest him. It was a cold night and Watson began to shiver, though Holmes was shivering already he still expressed concern; he touched Watson's hand, feeling it frozen, and whispered to his ear: – Can you still stand the cold Watson?

Watson nodded and turned his face to look at him, reminding him of what was important, he put a finger in front of his own lips, 'shh' he was saying. Holmes smiled, and without any warning Watson's finger passed from his lips to Holmes', tapping them lightly, as if insisting on the importance of remaining quiet; this only widened Holmes' smile. Grinning he took that hand, pressed it against his chest, and quite much more serious, brought it up and kissed the tip of the three fingers at reach once joined, with a mere brush of his lips… Watson gaped slightly and observed Holmes' eyes, enamored and happy on him; he put a finger to his lips again to conclude 'quiet' and he took his hand away.

The capture was successful and they talked about it animatedly in the hansom way to Baker Street; at the arrival they just split ways at the top of the stairs, each going to his room as if oblivious of what had happened.

It was until next morning when Watson was met by Holmes' back when he opened the sitting room's door to have breakfast; he was at the end of the room standing but reading something, a sheet, over his desk, hunching a bit, his hands supported on the piece furniture; Watson walked over to him and tried to look at the paper over his shoulder, he also placed a hand on one side of Holmes' waist thus practically hugging him. – What are you reading? – Gregson sent me a whole letter about a case, the scene of the crime is gone, he thought he had solved it and now he has just found a dead end, three weeks after the investigation started. He's hoping I solve it merely by reading all his observations. – And? That's when Holmes straightened and turned around, Watson's hand returning to its usual place by its owner's side; he handed him the letter; since they were so close, when showing it in his hand for him to take it, the letter had been between their chests. Holmes turned a bit more, supporting his low back on the edge of the desk, his left hand on the edge too but farther away, so that when Watson supported his low back on the desk too, it was his turn to be practically hugging him. – See for yourself.

Watson read it as he had himself suspected: to no avail. – Well I don't understand, it seemed he was going the right way all along and then this happens, I'm afraid it's a dead end indeed.

Holmes smiled, took the letter back. – No it isn't.

Watson detached, served himself a cup of tea and drained it still standing, as if it was a shot of something alcoholic and he had an urge to be intoxicated. – I'm running late. Holmes didn't reply. Watson gazed at him, with more length than usual. – I'll be back around eight, he finished; Holmes' eyes snapped up to him because he never told him when he would be back, and he saw him jogging out of there.

'Had he told him he'd be back at eight, because he wanted him to be there at eight too? Was it just a saying? Was it only showing his new earned consideration?'; any of the alternatives were possible and neither would change Holmes' plans; for the day he was answering Gregson's doubts and making more experiments, waiting for something other to arrive.

At eight the room was dark, light came from the chimney's flames and their luminosity played on Holmes' square face, giving way to curves in light and shadows, then extending, shrinking and extending; he was sitting in his armchair, facing them. Both Holmes and Watson had always been too narrow for the wide space of the armchairs; and so when Watson sat next to Holmes, hip to hip though bringing his knees to his chest, it wasn't uncomfortable. Holmes supported his temple on Watson's shoulder as his left arm, before on that of the armchair, slid a bit closer posing on Watson's side.

- Did you solve it?

- I don't know.

The firewood creaked and the flames were met by the air, in this interaction emitting a low sound of wind.

- I diagnosed many things.

- Were you right at least once?

Watson's face was animated by a twisted weak smirk. – I think so, more than once. Holmes' right arm surrounded the front of his abdomen, holding him properly. – At least fifty percent of the times.

- I'm glad at least fifty percent of your clients will recover.

- I don't know if I prescribed what was correct though.

- Mon Dieu!

Watson chuckled, Holmes smirked.

And so Watson's head turned to look at him, Holmes lifted his head and inclined it back, over the back of the chair. Watson caressed his cheek, feeling his stubble in detail, as if there was something there to discover. Holmes turned towards him a bit, slightly, closing his eyes and placing his right hand over Watson's on his cheek, and that's when his close friend kissed him, pecked his lips actually, lightly. In return Holmes pressed his lips to Watson's lightly too, but they stayed there more time, until they applied the slightest of pressures over his upper lip, closing on it. Only Holmes remembered the door wasn't locked, but Mrs. Hudson never went in without knocking. Watson's lips opened and Holmes repeated the gesture, though this time they covered the kissed lip further. Until then their heartbeats sped up significantly. Watson's tongue flipped over Holmes' bottom lip. They came apart only slightly to reunite again, and have their tongues meet after Holmes' had slid over Watson's lower lip to the immediate insides of his mouth. It was still a soft tender kiss, but the moistness spoke more blatantly of sensuousness, and they separated both in their purpose of neither losing his head. In fact it was until that moment that it downed on both of them, just how insane and depraved they were being, how unwise, flirting with each other as if they were any other straight potential couple; but neither stood up, they stayed staring at the fire for long forty minutes yet, nestled against the other.

Holmes didn't dream of Watson, but when he woke up, when he woke up, his first thought was that of the image of Watson's smirking perfectly elegant face. He rubbed his face and mentally damned the world, foul words came in a fluid stream to his brain, he was as fast to create chains of syllogisms as to knit chains of curses.

Watson didn't sleep well; he slept for about half an hour and woke up, all through the night, when going to bed he stayed awake yet for three hours. His thoughts went from Holmes to the women he had ever had a relationship with, back to Holmes and just how much the low of his stomach manifested his lust for him, his desire expanded by all of his body and then Holmes had his legs surrounding his waist, strong legs which could have crushed him. Next Holmes was hugging him as before, languidly on the armchair, and he felt just as fully happy as he had been there. Then he had a nightmare and he woke up and Holmes was at his back, whispering something unintelligible to his ear and neck, something about calming down. "Can you still stand the cold Watson?"; one could have thought Holmes was about to offer him his coat. Suddenly he was in front of him, cavalier "You know I'm not like any of your past sweethearts", and how could Watson disagree?

And five weeks went by without any mention or allusion of any type to the "incident", as they both had separately decided to consider it in their own minds; the "incident", which wasn't by any means a well-known, thoroughly defined category.

They had almost turned back to be friends for good until Holmes broke a cup of wine, having some pieces wedge into his hand; he was gritting his teeth and so Watson knew he was furious; and his stomach fluttered and his pulse sped up, and even though his friend suddenly smiled theatrically, and the woman next to him rose her eyebrows in a gesture of sincere worry, Watson was smiling arrogant.

The woman next to him was a client, the place was their living room, the wine was being sipped in celebration of the client's jewels returning to her thanks to the sleuth, and the woman had placed her hand on Watson's upper arm and Holmes had put his cup of wine back on the little table shattering it in the brusque, strong, irate movement.

Holmes whistled fake laughter. – Look at her Watson, so sweetly concerned about an old dog! You're delightful Miss Faraday. The sarcasm was lost on her though not the oddness and she was increasingly uneasy, her hand naively gripping Watson's upper arm more tightly.

As pleased as Watson was, knowing Holmes never let himself get carried away and he was the cause of this completely new event in his life, he tried to break the tension. – This happens to him all the time, he said, faking much more genuine laughter. – That's why he has a doctor sharing rooms with him. Miss Faraday faked laughter too, nervously. – He is the most careless man I've ever known!

They all laughed. – An infamous brute! Concluded Holmes, acquiring increasingly an attitude more like that of an uneducated thug, while he cackled and his destroyed hand applauded against the other, tainting it and splattering drops to the floor.

At last Watson took pity on scared Miss Faraday, detached her enamored hand from his arm and politely proclaimed the night over. – It is best if I start tending to his wound before he makes it worse, and it is getting late, I'm afraid we'll have to regretfully say goodbye for the evening, we wouldn't want you to get mugged now would we?

Miss Faraday smiled now sincerely and more relaxed. – You're right. Well thank you again Doctor Watson, thank you Mr. Holmes, I shall recommend your services.

Gentlemanly Watson accompanied her to the door, stopped a hansom for her, assured her she hadn't bothered the detective in the slightest as she expressed she assumed, gave her his hand helping her to climb and waited outside until the horses had carried it more than a block away.

When he came back Holmes had his hand bandaged already, but he hadn't stopped fuming. - They all want you don't they Watson? He was pacing by the room, like a caged animal; and how attractive Watson found that!, a man, wild with jealousy because of him, pacing as if trapped; his stomach reinitiated its fluttering, he was feeling so flattered emotion was making a ball in his chest, as if his heart swelled bigger with each palpitation. - They all want to put their hands on you.

- I'm going to have to disagree Holmes, sometimes they want you. Holmes was still pacing. - Are you jealous Holmes?

Though he had asked just to hear him, ready to rush to him for a kiss, Holmes stopped and snapped: – You know perfectly well that I am!; his reaction being too intense for his former intention to work.

Watson ceased smiling until then; he remembered their problem was a serious one. Holmes began pacing again. When he continued, it was with a lower voice, calmer but still with an ominous edge. – I don't want you to go off and marry some uneducated, naïve, weak woman. I know it is not their fault, but that doesn't make it any less true. If I was one of them I would have already disguised as a man in order to get a more proper education, I'd have a business and I wouldn't obey any man.

- Yes Holmes, but nobody would think a disguise to work that well until they saw one of yours.

He stopped again, exasperated that Watson wasn't helping him get his point through, inhaled deeply and turned to look at him. – I'm going to be clearer: - And then his face was imploring mercy at the world. – I want you Watson. God help me I want you!... to be with me.

Watson's shoulders sagged, his eyelids obscuring his vision, he felt properly defeated, almost as if he would fall back; he rushed to him and Holmes straightened wild-eyed when realizing his intention, waiting for him, his arms began to open. Watson pushed himself into the embrace making him take two steps back; constrained in the strong clam of Holmes' arms they were kissing for the second time. The rashness of the kiss served to state that it was time to succumb to their depravities, that there was no way around it while they were friends, and even more while they were living together; but Watson was all lust, his tongue insisted in feeling as much as it could, he wished Holmes would press harder against him, his hands could still painfully drag down to the sides of Holmes' stomach; he was getting hard. Holmes, always the more reasonable of them both, stopped the kiss before it got too far. – This cannot be vulgar, he asserted in a gasp, but kindly let his nose touch Watson's.

Next morning, Holmes didn't wake up on his own account, instead he felt something akin to soft moist rubber on his eyelid (he was yet drowsy and a part of him in dreamland, so whatever it was didn't properly register); in time with a kiss over his ear, the nature of it clearer, he opened one eye, the one that didn't still feel the weight of the recent touch. Then Watson was murmuring: - Good morning Holmes, and a hand was flattening his hair; he opened his other eye. – Lestrade is in the living room asking for you, and I'm leaving. See you later old boy. He saw Watson's grin, in a snap he was gone.

Holmes almost wanted to stay in bed only to relive calmly how he just had woken up, in the sweetest way he could have imagined, it was his own version of hearing birds and rain and being hit by a ray of midday sun on your closed eyelids, perfumed clear air entering by your mouth. But he put on his dressing gown and smiled foolishly at Lestrade all along, - Can't you see this is serious Holmes? Lestrade admonished with enraged eyes; Holmes watered on his fury right away - Of course, a most grave situation; a minute later Lestrade repeated - Holmes! Surely you understand the seriousness of the matter!, - Of course, we must solve it right away. That happened about four times, with Lestrade ending up wondering if he had something on his teeth or face, perhaps his nose wasn't clean.

They didn't see each other that day; when Watson was opening the main door, Holmes was hiding behind a cask in some sort of forlorn front garden somewhere in the northeast of London; when Watson was opening the door to the living room, Holmes was looking at two silhouettes shown in the second story illuminated window, one was that of the clerk who lived there, but the other was of a taller man, of broad back with a cigar in his mouth; and when Watson was looking for him in his room, a bullet apparently from nowhere was inserting into the cask and Holmes was realizing he had made a mistake but didn't know which, there was no option left for him but to run fast in the hope a second shot didn't get him.

By the time he arrived to his home, at six in the afternoon of the next day, he had surprisingly apologized to Lestrade because he had been seen, "I should have known" he said as always, and though with more difficulty and chaos, the criminals had been persecuted here and there until being arrested; his trousers were mud-thick, grease-smeared and probably ruined forever, and his favorite hat had been lost.

When Watson came in two hours later, he was received with a – I shall never again wear my own hats to hide my face.

- What happened?

- My favorite hat is gone.

- Oh Holmes, I'm so sorry, said Watson with a mocking smirk.

- Yeh, laugh all you want, since what this means is that I'll probably be wearing your hats from now on.

But Watson did cackle, in good spirits; and he was contagious, because previously grumpy Holmes, rightfully frustrated with himself more than with the loss of his hat, was looking at him and smiling. - Come on now Watson, be sympathetic!

Watson ceases slowly, could put his coat on the clothes stand, take his hat off, and slump on his armchair. - I did have a positively disastrous day.

- Did you now?

- A patient died from tuberculosis… He was old and weak, and the disease had been going on for a month already, but I had hope… I guess I always have hope even when I'm telling their families that there isn't any but… It is yet always a disappointment and a sad sad thing.

He then didn't like having met him with his hat problem; he put a hand over his to offer him comfort, stood up, and with one hand gently on his cheek kissed the other one. He smiled when Holmes hunched further to be at eye level with him, his grey eyes as tender as they could be, because it wasn't his fault nor reflective of the truth that they always shined like steel. – It's not that bad really, I'm used to it; you and I both know that people die all the time, despite both our best efforts… War was much much worse. He pecked the tip of his nose and his smile widened. – Now I'm feeling guilty at having made you worry this much.

- Oh I'm not that worried. They both grinned.

– Really Holmes, I didn't know you were this sweet.

He shrugged. – Well, if you like it I may as well sacrifice.

At that Watson's grin slowly ended up fading away, softened, in love, surrounded Holmes' neck and pulled him down for a deeper kiss; this one lasted, more than two minutes and they still didn't break away.

- Did you know you're very very handsome? He told Holmes, when they were breathing.

- Yes I did.

They chuckled lowly, and briefly.

- Did you know I think you are the most beautiful man I've ever seen?

- Beautiful? !

And he snickered. – Well it's true! Handsome!, handsome if you prefer! Watson pulled him down and they kissed again, just as long. – If Mrs. Hudson heard us, do you have any idea of how ridiculous we sound?

Watson grimaced slightly. – Yes we do, and I'm ashamed, let's not think about it. He pulled Holmes to the chair. – Come, sit down. And they kissed again, longer even. – You're just so alluring, I can't help myself.

- That alluring?

- Look at you! And he ran his gaze across Holmes from head to toe. – So strong, and lean, your waist is so narrow. Your face, you have an interesting face.

- When you say interesting it sounds like you're saying ugly.

- Not at all. He kissed him again, for so long.

It was with kisses that they said good night that evening. Over the next days, when being in the same room they would be kissing, they hardly talked coherently anymore; Holmes didn't speak of his cases or experiments, so Watson had no idea of what was going on with his life apart from the kisses, and two of Watson's patients were on the brink of death, in the surgery table an artery had snapped and splashed blood all over him, and Holmes didn't know either; their hands touched more, sliding from their heads and necks to their chests and sides, and sometimes even their legs; it was to both of them such an adrenaline rush daily, that nothing else mattered, it felt as when Holmes had started feeling addicted to cocaine, forcing himself to rehabilitate.

One day, which had gone by without any particularity, Watson opened the button of Holmes' trousers; Holmes immediately felt his head spinning, and Watson too, though he had thought himself in control. – Do you want to? Holmes murmured out of breath. And Watson answered in an exhalation. – Yeah. – Lock the door?, came in the same way. – Yeah. Holmes reluctantly parted, his legs feeling like jelly as he walked to lock the door.

But they didn't stay there; Holmes still dragged Watson by the hand to his bedroom, which door he locked too. They kissed against the door, completely stuck one to the other, trying to be able to breath somewhat normally again, but they couldn't so when giving up they walked like that to the bed, where they laid. Holmes had to undo Watson's vest. – Why do you have to wear a vest at home? – Don't I look nice? – You'll look nicer without it; then he pulled Watson's shirt over his head and Watson did the same with his next, only having to pull his braces down before. They both were glad that neither wore union suits when looking at their naked chests, they were awful inconvenient things which they wore only in winter. Holmes ran his left hand over Watson's chest, this one was rising and falling spectacularly, giving visual support to Watson's wheezing. – Calm down. – You calm down. It was true neither was honorably calmed down. – How can I? Replied Holmes, as he began to kiss that frantic chest. It felt so good, the caress from his lips didn't resemble that from his hand, this last one was more calculating, the puffy quality of the flesh of lips and the slight moistness said sex, all the time; although suddenly his hand began to accumulate a very thin shin of sweat, and to quiver slightly; his tongue slipped on his skin with ease, like warm pressing ice. From his chest and stomach and then to his throat, Watson had to moan, more accentuated when Holmes bit a tiny part from the skin over his Adam's apple only to lick on it after. Holmes' hands trapped his waist, and then one undid the button of his trousers. They kissed again and Watson could roll on him, earnest in creating friction on all parts, he slithered over Holmes; they both gasped. Holmes kissed his cheek and Watson lowered his head to rest on his shoulder, later he kissed his neck gently as Holmes lowered his hands to begin to untie the strings from his underwear, open the button too; it was surprising, how Holmes felt more excited about the tiny kisses than about untying the underwear; however, when his hands slid slowly over the curve of Watson's buttocks, sliding down that way both his underwear and trousers, revealing bit by bit his buttocks, pelvis and hard cock, as Watson whimpered muffled against his neck and he kissed Watson's ear: that was indeed the most sensually erotic moment he would experience. When Holmes' hands were covering the totality of Watson's buttocks, he gripped them slightly eliciting a wail from him and then his left gripped his waist, while he bent his torso right a bit so his right hand could reach further and slide the clothes further down. Watson's cock was trapped naked between their stomachs and he couldn't take it anymore; so he detached from Holmes rolling on his back, and impatient finished peeling his underwear and trousers from his ankles. Immediately he thought Holmes still half-dressed wouldn't do, so on his side, looking at Holmes in the eyes as this one hugged his shoulders, he undid his underwear, touching his cock at times covered and at times exposed in part, sloppily, so Holmes bit his own bottom lip; kneeling then, he helped him get rid of the clothes. He had already seen Holmes naked before, but he realized his constant reminding of it had worn the image off; here he was again, as vivid and real as he had seen him the other day, as enticing as ever only his cock was swollen, and they were both beginning to smell like fluids, and both things were intoxicating. Kneeling astride him he took his face in his hands and inclined to kiss him, bruisingly so; he was struggling so hard to breathe that now he was moaning constantly with each exhalation; Holmes' jaw, moving in his hands felt square and rigid, and as if made of shifting tense nerves, it was a fabulous sensation; their lips were now glossy, red and slightly thicker; Holmes joined him now, cut grunts being born and dying in his throat. He grasped his waist yet again and pulled him down on top of him; Watson was now sitting on his stomach, his balls on his navel, and his cock could have easily entered him, the thought of it thrilled him but the foreplay wasn't yet nearly over; besides, when at that he thought of Watson penetrating him instead, he got a thrill just as intense. It is Watson who began now to kiss down his chest, on his knees he "stepped" back, supporting his hands on Holmes' thighs. Suddenly he took the back of Holmes' leg and made him bend it, so that he could easily kiss the inside of his thigh while kneeling; as he did, Holmes covered his eyes with his forearm and shook his head slackly, - Oh my God! he muttered. Watson was going down his right thigh as his left hand caressed his stomach, his hipbone, the side of his buttock and the beginning of the other thigh; Holmes was now gasping desperately for air, grunts and sharp inhaling taking turns, and Watson, well he was only thinking of fucking him mad. When he kissed a spot of his inner thigh, right beside his testicles, well Holmes' hips bucked and he laid over him, kissing his mouth again as Holmes' legs bent at his sides; their cocks were pressing and their testicles grazed. They were then sweating profusely, their bodies indeed radiated heat. Their kiss was at times languid, sloppily sliding from their lips to their chins. Watson whimpered softly and he wondered if he had said anything, but no; Holmes kissed slippery his jaw, and went back to his mouth. His hand felt down the muscles of Watson's back, it deviated to get a grip of his dick, which had Watson's mouth detaching from his to sigh, he pulled at it and that earned him another sigh, he let go of it and Watson licked his own lips, as if urgently substituting Holmes' which right then weren't as near. He began to push Holmes' shoulder so that he would turn around; he did and he immediately kissed his low back, for a moment gripping his shoulders, liking to feel the strength of them. He caressed his thigh with his left as his right climbed to his mouth, asking to be licked; Holmes understood this, and understood why, and agreed quite pleased. Three of Watson's fingers were covered in saliva when he brought them down and lasciviously pressed lightly his perineum; Holmes held back a cry, silencing whatever of it with the pillow. One finger entered him easily enough, it moved forward and back in a steady detained manner, a second one was more forced, but Holmes wasn't about to complain, and he thought he would neither cry in pleasure. As he saw his own hand working, Holmes tensing and relaxing, and just squirming, he felt his mouth watering, he was losing control of any reaction he could have. After he thought he had done a good job opening the entrance for him, he laid slightly over Holmes, he murmured and whispered, with a lustful voice if there was any, needy, into his ear: - May I then? Are you sure? Holmes put his hand on his nape and turned his head to kiss him; Watson's whimpers were shameless. – Do it, he whispered then. Watson took his cock to guide it and entered him, inch by inch. Holmes muffled his growl against the pillow again. They twisted and contorted, and Watson moved his hips, gently, he pushed deep, until they were both lying on their sides and Watson had a rhythm. His arms were around Holmes' chest, and his mouth and teeth scraped his neck, as Holmes exposed it well elongated. He thrust in deeper once, and Holmes sighed loudly, showing his teeth; he did it again and now Holmes grunted; he sped up. It was a prancing movement; Watson thought never before having witnessed or participated in anything quite so raunchy, and yet it was at the same time sublime, he was soaring in vulgar carnal excitement but also in loving warm; he had a mere notion of the entailed honor in pleasuring Holmes, a formed man, absolutely rational, who was now short from delirium. He took Holmes' erection in his hand and began fondling it, then moving his hand by it in time with his thrusts. It was fast, and now Holmes couldn't hold back from crying, from time to time, his eyes always closed, immersed in the feeling, unaware of anything other. Watson was hitting his prostrate each time, waves of pleasure washed over him one after another. Watson panted both because of the effort and the wonderful arousal. Holmes came and Watson, when feeling and seeing it, worn out, came too, their moans mixing one after the other. Watson still squeezed his sex gently before letting it go for the night, he kissed the end of his jaw, and after another, very small thrust of his hips, he also emerged from Holmes, yet feeling as if his ears were buzzing. He lied back and brought Holmes to lie over him; Holmes looked completely satiated and lost; he shifted to lie forward instead, his head still on Watson's chest but now it was the front part of his shoulder on it too, his eyes still closed, and before they knew it they were both asleep; both had wanted to say something, but oh well.

Holmes woke up first, feeling like a whore, because his asshole indeed felt weird, and his semen was dry on his stomach; but then again that was the true nature of it, the sexual act was something unholy, because it wasn't clean, it was sharing pleasure through acts that in any other circumstances would feel not only shameful, but like inflicted violence. Watson looked beautiful beneath him, all of him etched in gold, his skin golden, his hair golden, even his eyelashes; yes he was beautiful indeed, and he couldn't be tainted in his mind, so he thought maybe he should be as indulgent with himself and he reclined his head again and closed his eyes.

He knew Watson had woken up when he put his hand on the back of his shoulder; he moved, reincorporating somewhat and looked at him, Watson grinned.

- My lover Sherlock, he said nonchalant, boyishly joyful – so nice to see you under the light, looking as capturing as ever.

Holmes returned him a lopsided, imperceptibly regretful smile.

- I'm feeling so happy. Watson continued, surprised of his own exuberance. He looked towards the window as if looking for an explanation and scowled a little. – Isn't this a nice morning? He said more like a statement.

- How could you know? The curtains are drawn.

- I could swear I was seeing the sun upfront. He was grinning down at him again.

- You're being a bit twee Watson.

He put a hand then over his hair, felt it. - Forgive me love.

- Love? !

- What do you want me to call you then?

- Why must you call me anything? !

Watson snickered. – Oh I see! You aren't sentimental and you'll never be. It's alright, I'll let that go, it's alright. But be mindful if my mood changes.

Oh Watson was almost annoyingly ecstatic that morning, he even refused going to work, he was set to stay with "his Sherlock", maybe even assist him in a case.

- Watson you are insufferable today. Holmes told him, but he told him with a smile, lest he took it too seriously and he hurt him.

- I'm in love. Watson replied to annoy him even more, though it worked quite reversely.

- No, you are disgusting, that's what you are.

- Disgustingly in love?

- No!

Watson cackled.

In the afternoon, he scowled. – Why don't you call me John anyway?

- Not even your mother called you that.

They both laughed. – Of course she did!.. Sometimes she even called me Johnny. I'll settle for John.

- No, no, you're right. Maybe I'll call you Johnny. Are you going to work today Johnny? Can you come with me Johnny? How was your day Johnny?

- I said John!

- And I said Johnny.

- No, I prefer Watson.

- But I prefer Johnny.

- This isn't funny anymore.

- Was it ever? I've never been more serious in my life Johnny. But then he laughed; and Watson forgave him for even definitely refusing calling him John, if that turned out to be the case.

However, during the course of the afternoon, a more significant question lit up in his mind, a very troubling one; he looked at Holmes (at the moment pensive and almost nostalgic) histrionically suspicious – with the histrionics of his good mood -, that is, from the corner of his eye. - And anyway, why aren't you as happy as I am today? Man! Right now I could swear you were brooding!

Holmes looked at him fast, and resolved. – I'll be honest to you Watson, today when I woke up, what first took over my thoughts was how much I felt like a cheap rent boy. – Watson swallowed, for the first time in the day a bit uneasy. – However, your self-degrading sweetness all day long has managed to dissipate all trepidation that could have occupied me before. I'm sorry, I've been told to have a brooding face whenever I'm not smiling.

Watson was smiling again. – It's okay. He stood up to cuddle up to Holmes yet another time that day. – If you want, - he talked lowly to his ear – we can change roles tonight, I wouldn't want to risk a crisis now.

Their sex was shorter that day; Watson was hot and impatient, and beautiful, and if he wanted to impale himself over him with almost no foreplay, well Holmes could only find it exceedingly pleasing.

Their lives took a more realistic turn next day, when Watson was gone and Holmes in a case for which he didn't need his assistance; they were working instead of spending a completely useless afternoon together in a room, without going out not once. When they both were home they had sex again; two days later they were in the same bathtub. They had sex daily for almost three months, then it was every third day, then twice a week; twice a week would work for them.

They loved each other, that much was true. Holmes was so sure of their relationship, that when a female client yet again manifested her interest on Watson, he would amuse himself by making him run errands that could be mistaken by the woman as motivated in romantic interest, delegating in him much of the interaction with her. – Watson, go with Miss Sanders this afternoon to inform her about the progress made today. Watson always did what he told, even when he saw in his smirk the joke. – Watson can walk you home Miss Boyle, the streets are never safe nowadays and I'm sure it would greatly please him. Watson narrowed his eyes at him though he smiled at discretely excited Miss Boyle, who thought her romantic fantasies fulfilled.

Watson didn't know how to return the joke, it never seemed appropriate, after all, it was on the part of Holmes that no one should think anything other than he was professional; a woman spreading the word about almost initiating a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes, during a case, would be a blow on his career, parents no longer turning to him out of fear that he would try to woo their daughters, married or engaged nervous women… it wasn't right.

Holmes was looking at papers half naked and barefoot, smoking a cigar; somewhere in that mess he had left a wrinkled note about a chemical formula. Watson was reading and looking at him, he didn't manage to decide for one of the two activities; he had a tune in his head and he seemed content and Watson found him better that way, half naked, barefoot and content.

But then the bell rang. Holmes' mouth misshaped around his cigar so he could shout: - Mrs. Hudson! He took it out of his mouth, exasperated inclining a bit forward over his desk, to shout louder. - Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson wasn't there; he raised a brow and looked at Watson. – Do you mind John?

Nowadays he was calling him John, he called him everything: Watson in public, John often, Darling when he was more content, he even told him he was a pretty boy when due to a more sensual mood his eyes noticed it yet again, My love usually right after the previous well known declaration, when they were both murmuring things that could have been obscene modern poetry at each other. Watson oscillated from Sherlock to Darling, and even Holmes without order. – Come here you handsome man. He told him sometimes, like when he greeted him naked in his bed, knowing Holmes would return tired and irritated.

No, John Watson didn't mind, he rolled his eyes but truly didn't mind.