It's a quiet evening at Baker Street, one of the rare occasions where they're neither working on a case nor actively looking for one. Sherlock has been occupied with an experiment, and John, in the several days since his therapy session, has started to feel a bit more accepting of his new reality. After paying close attention to the people he's encountered in his daily life, he's re-affirmed that he's not attracted to men in general but he is attracted to Sherlock. No big deal, he thinks, he can live with that. Nothing needs to change and nothing should change. God knows they've been through enough of that for a lifetime in the past two years alone.

He is however making a particularly strong effort to be as patient and kind to Sherlock as he possibly can, having resolved that he doesn't want to be that man anymore – the one who lets his own insecurities, guilt and anger play out on those around him. He'd made a promise to Mary that he would be a better man, and he wants to be better than that, he must be better than that. Sherlock seems to be accepting this well, throwing him the occasional quizzical look but largely not protesting when John makes his favourite dinner or brings his preferred takeaway for lunch on his way back from the clinic, or when he allowed Sherlock to openly criticise the homicide show he was attempting to watch on the telly. He even offered to pick up specimens from Molly's lab for Sherlock's experiment without complaining once, though he'd been careful not to look too carefully at the sealed container he'd been given.

Awkwardly, but perhaps not unexpectedly, John's finding it uncomfortable to be physically close to Sherlock. There had been the moment where he'd all but jumped out of his skin when Sherlock had leaned over him and whispered the answer the crossword puzzle question he was working on (because of course 'desire' was a six letter word for a state of wanting or yearning). Or the moment when Sherlock had actually cooked, and before John had known what was happening Sherlock had been upon him, spoon feeding him a taste of the sauce he'd been simmering (delicious, John had to admit). And, most memorably, when he'd walked in on a half-naked and very wet consulting detective who was fresh out of a steamy shower and wearing only a small towel slung impossibly low on his slender hips (honestly, who doesn't properly shut a bathroom door when they're taking a shower?! John had thought furiously once he'd recovered from his embarrassment). But if Sherlock had noticed, as John was sure he had, he said nothing.

Currently John is sat in his chair, flicking through the paper that he'd run out of time to read that morning. He's resolutely trying to ignore the fact that Sherlock is practically draped over his own chair, his long legs dangling gracefully over one side, and wearing what appears to be a new silk robe and matching pyjama bottoms in a flattering shade of blue so rich it was almost black. It reminds John of the section of the ocean that transitions from shallow to very deep, and the way it looks against Sherlock's otherwise bare skin is nothing short of criminal. Again, if Sherlock notices anything amiss he says nothing, seemingly absorbed in his emails on the laptop that is perched in his lap.

"Well, there's simply nothing else for it, we're off to Cambridge," Sherlock suddenly announces to the room at large.

John is concentrating hard on pretending to read the newspaper so it takes him a few moments to register Sherlock's words.

"Sorry, you talking to me?" he asks, lowering the newspaper to his lap and looking over at Sherlock, whose face is still buried in his laptop.

"Of course, John, do keep up," he replies briskly, not looking up.

John waits for further explanation, but now Sherlock has abandoned his laptop and is furiously tapping away at his phone, apparently under the impression that the matter is settled.

"You seem to be forgetting that I do have responsibilities now, namely a child and a job, I'm not just at your beck and call to go off gallivanting around the country," John replies sternly, but he can't quite manage to keep his lip from quirking at the side.

"We're not leaving until tomorrow afternoon, you've plenty of time to make the necessary arrangements," Sherlock replies flippantly, then holds up his phone, where he has the Air B & B app open.

"I've booked us an apartment within walking distance of the Chem department until Sunday afternoon, that should give us plenty of time to investigate and wrap things up, wouldn't you say?"

John puts on his best unamused face but secretly he's looking forward to a chance for them to work on a case, uninterrupted, just the two of them…

"Can you at least fill me in on what it is we're investigating?"

Sherlock huffs in an exaggerated way, as though it's all terribly inconvenient, then sets his phone down on the arm of his chair and steeples his fingers in front of him.

"One of my old Cambridge teachers, Professor Soames, has contacted me to request my assistance. It seems that someone has hacked into his well secured computer and software program, which contained the answers to an upcoming exam. There's rather a lot at stake given that the top student was to be awarded a sizeable cash scholarship."

The room is silent for a few moments.

"That's it?"

Sherlock looks slightly crestfallen that this summary has failed to impress John, but recovers quickly.

"Yes, that's it, what were you expecting, the Penn State scandal?"

"Well, no, but this seems a five at best so I'm surprised you're willing to go all the way to sodding Cambridge when most of the time you're reluctant to leave the bloody street."

Sherlock brushes this off with a shrug.

"Soames wasn't a complete idiot, in fact he was one of the few people there I actually admired, so I've decided to take the case as a personal favour. And besides, we could both use some time away from London. Soak in the fresh air and whatever other dull things people do when they're away from the big city."

John raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything further. If Sherlock wants to spend the weekend with him outside of London, who is he to argue? He has to admit that it will be a nice change of pace, if only for a few days. He heaves himself to his feet with a sigh of resignation.

"Alright, if you say so. I'll see if Molly's free to take Rosie for the weekend."

Sherlock gives him a satisfied nod, and John doesn't miss the tiny smile playing about the corners of his lips, indicating that he's very pleased with himself indeed.

The following afternoon is hectic – between finishing his Friday shift at the clinic, packing his overnight bag, and dropping Rosie at Molly's along with a frankly unnecessary amount of supplies and a cheerful bunch of thank you flowers – and by the time they're seated comfortably on the Great Northern train, he's rather grateful for the chance to relax for an hour or so. Sherlock, however, seems visibly out of sorts. John has long since gotten used to Sherlock's nervous energy whilst he's working on a case, and he's also well acquainted with the restlessness and boredom that come when he's not had a case for a while, but this is…something else entirely. He's suspiciously quiet, rather than relying on his usual pastime of recounting to John at top speed what he's already deduced about the case, though John supposes he should be grateful for the rare journey of peace and quiet. He's also anxious and fidgety, which only seems to grow worse the closer they get to their destination. John had diplomatically decided not to say anything, but the temptation was getting stronger and stronger the worse Sherlock got.

"Alright, I'll tell you," Sherlock says impatiently, the statement coming out of nowhere.

John looks up from the sporting section of the paper from where he's sitting opposite Sherlock.

"Sorry, what?"

"Clearly even you've been able to observe that I'm anxious, not a difficult deduction based on my body language and uncharacteristic silence. You've surely taken into account that Cambridge is where I studied and, if so, it would be reasonable to conclude that my current state of anxiety is directly linked to our destination. But what is it that's effecting me? Could it be the fear of running into former students, perhaps some of whom I didn't get along with? Possible, but unlikely that I'd be experiencing such apparent apprehension when taking into consideration the statistically low chance that former colleagues would happen to be in Cambridge during the same weekend we are. So it's something that is sure to happen, directly related to the case then. And what else could it be if it's unrelated to the college itself, nor the students?"

John raises his eyebrows, a little relieved that at least Sherlock's nervous state hasn't rendered him entirely speechless.

"The professor?" he ventures, taking a stab in the dark.

"Not bad, John, I would have hoped you'd get there with a bit less prompting but better late than never I suppose."

John ignores this insult in favour of dealing with the issue at hand.

"What about the professor then? You said you knew him when you studied at Cambridge?"

"Correct," Sherlock says with a nod, "I've already said I admired him and that we grew to become close. But what I didn't disclose is that our relationship was of a nature that would be considered to be…inappropriate between a university student and a professor."

John freezes, blindsided by these words for more reasons than one. Sherlock's cheeks are slightly pink and his demeanour has lost some of the arrogance of a moment ago. John opens his mouth and closes it again, at a complete loss of what to say.

"It was nothing too serious, John," Sherlock swoops in, coming to his rescue.

"I was young and admittedly naive and didn't quite know what I was getting myself into. He was a decade older than me, had studied and travelled and worked extensively, and there I was, inexperienced, fresh out of college and barely eighteen years old. I suppose he was initially impressed with my cleverness and found my mannerisms endearing rather than off-putting, but eventually he grew bored with me. Most people do."

John is still reeling from this unexpected revelation but finds his heart throbs painfully at the casual way Sherlock talks about this rejection, as though he's so used to it that it doesn't bother him in the slightest.

"Things ended badly," Sherlock continues, "which led to me making some regrettable decisions. But it was a long time ago, and we both moved on. A few years ago we got back in contact and since then we've kept in touch, albeit infrequently. Then, as you know, he requested my assistance and I decided I would accept…only now I'm not convinced that was the wisest decision."

John struggles to get his thoughts in order. He's already decided that he deeply dislikes this man, despite this happening years in the past, and feels a strong surge of protectiveness swell up inside him. There are a hundred things he wants to say (namely, to point out how wrong it was for a professor in a position of power to have any kind of relationship with a student, no matter how clever said student had been) and a thousand questions he wants answers to (exactly what kind of relationship was this? Does this mean Sherlock has had a sexual relationship after all? Does this mean he's gay?), but he pushes these aside. He knows it's not really his place to push for more information and, more importantly, right now his friend is asking for his support.

"It will be fine, Sherlock. It was a long time ago, as you said. You're doing him a favour and can just keep things professional yeah? And I'll be right there with you."

Sherlock nods minutely, looking slightly reassured but still not his usual self. John tentatively slides his hand closer to Sherlock's on the table between them, carefully monitoring his reaction before placing it atop of his. Sherlock doesn't visibly react, but John senses a small amount of the tension slip away.

"I know I didn't know you back then," John says quietly, "but I do know there are aspects of your past that you're less than proud of, we all have them, I sure as hell do. Just know that I'm not judging you and that I will never…get bored of you."

Sherlock gives him a small smile and flips his palm to squeeze John's hand.

"Thank you, John. That means a lot."

"And Sherlock, one more thing…"

"Hmm?"

"You said he wasn't a complete idiot…but I have to disagree. He must have been to let you go."

They stay like that for a long moment, eyes locked and hands linked, interrupted only when Sherlock's phone buzzes loudly from within his jacket pocket. He starts ever so slightly and reaches for it, breaking their gaze and contact, and is all business once again.

"It's Soames, asking our ETA. I've advised him we'll head there right after we've checked into the apartment."

After that, Sherlock silently taps away at his phone, leaving John to his thoughts.

The rest of the train journey is otherwise uneventful, with Sherlock's nerves visibly calmer now that he's confessed his reasons to John. They exit the station and hail a cab for the short ride to the apartment Sherlock has rented for them. When they get there it's…not what John was expecting. It's homely and cosy without feeling cramped, immaculately and luxuriously furnished without being overthought or showy. A country home, but with a modern flare. As John drops his overnight bag onto the chair beside the king side bed in his light and airy room, he's already feeling as though he could get used to this. He meets Sherlock in the short entrance hallway and their eyes lock.

"Ready to do this?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Sherlock says with a sigh.

They head out the door and towards the university grounds, and although John notices the pointed way Sherlock fastens his scarf around his neck and turns up his coat collar, he has the good grace not to say anything.