Notes: Apologies for the delay with this chapter. I'm aiming for fortnightly updates but as you will see this chapter ended up longer, so enjoy! The case referenced is based on an original Sherlock Holmes story (albeit a very random one, lol). Thanks for all the lovely comments and kudos – they are so appreciated and make me such a happy fangirl and author.

They walk through the posh, immaculately manicured grounds of the university and enter the equally as refined building. John has the immediate feeling that he doesn't fit in, about as much as Sherlock does fit in. As they walk towards Professor Soames' office, Sherlock points out things along the way that have changed since he studied there and things that have remained exactly the same. John is relieved to note that the majority of Sherlock's nerves from earlier in the day have dissipated or at least lessened, and he seems much more like himself as he prattles on about the history and architecture. Sherlock leads them straight to Soames' office, remembering its exact location of course, and knocks on the open door before they enter.

"Sherlock Holmes, you made it! Do come in," says Soames, looking nothing short of delighted as he approaches Sherlock and shakes his hand warmly.

"I must say I owe you a debt of gratitude for coming to help me out, it really is a most unfortunate situation."

Sherlock hums noncommittally and turns his attention to John.

"This is my colleague and blogger, Doctor John Watson."

"And close friend," John adds before he can stop himself, but is relieved to note that Sherlock seems pleased with this addition.

He and Soames shake hands firmly.

"Yes, Doctor Watson, I know you from the papers and your blog of course. With your background you must find it challenging to work with someone who has such…unorthodox methods."

John doesn't miss the smirk that indicates he's having a subtle dig at Sherlock, and feels a lick of anger flare up within him.

"Quite the contrary," he responds sharply, "it's an honour to work with someone as brilliant as Sherlock."

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock's small smile, the same one he's noticed in the past when John dishes out praise. Soames for his part seems unabashed and his smile remains.

"Well, he's always been brilliant, there's no denying that."

After that John tries to speak as little as possible because, curious though he is, he doesn't trust himself not to say or do something that would embarrass Sherlock. Instead, he focuses on Sherlock as he navigates around the computer system, clicking various things and asking questions every now and then. It's quickly apparent that one of their key suspects is Brian, one of Soames's PhD students and his assistant. Soames tells them that he's asked Brian to come by his office, so Sherlock and John will be able to question him. It's obvious that Soames doesn't think him at fault, and equally as obvious that he's already Sherlock's number one suspect. They're interrupted a short while later by a gentle knock on the door and Soames introduces Sherlock and John to Brian.

John steps aside to talk to him, but can't help but observe Soames and Sherlock talking – Sherlock seems to have gotten his confidence back as he rattles off deductions at a mile a minute whilst Soames looks on in admiration. It's plain as day to John that Soames finds Sherlock beautiful, as many do, and feels not for the first time a strange sense of pride at being associated with such an impressive man. John must admit that Soames is undeniably good looking himself. Though now well into middle age, he's clearly in remarkable shape, has minimal lines on his face, his hair is cut into a style that looks effortlessly flawless and the streaks of grey suit him in a way that is usually only reserved for ageing movie stars. His eyes are a rich hazel framed with sophisticated spectacles that John is sure cost more than what he earns in a week, and the bespoke three piece suit he wears even more so. His accent is posh and oozes class but it irritates John in way that Sherlock's, and even Mycroft's, does not. John is also sure that Soames was somehow even more handsome back in his younger days. Realising that his thoughts are straying wildly, John turns his full attention back to Brian and forced himself to focus. There's something about the young man's mannerisms that remind him strikingly of Sherlock – he's not sure if it's the offhand arrogance, the obvious intelligence and insightfulness or the air of confidence. John places his age at around twenty-three.

The next thing he knows, Sherlock is off and out of the room like a whirlwind, Soames not far behind. Not five minutes have passed before they're back, accompanied by another student. His large muscular build indicates that he regularly plays sport of some kind, John's bet is on rugby. The man is sullen and looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. Brian's face goes visibly red as he enters the room.

"It was Drew," Sherlock says bluntly, gesturing to the student. "In collaboration with Brian."

Before anyone can protest, Sherlock has launched into his explanation.

"Drew is one of Cambridge's most gifted rugby player but unfortunately his grades don't quite follow suite, something that his father is growing more and more impatient with. Just last week he again threatened to cut off his funding if things didn't improve. Armed with the knowledge that the only way he'd be succeeding in this exam is if he cheated, and knowing that he lacked the technical skills to hack into Soames' heavily secured computer and files, he approached his good friend Brian for assistance who, despite not needing to cheat due to his above average intelligence and aptitude, reluctantly agreed."

"And the motivation?" Sherlock finishes, "well that's obvious."

He pauses here for dramatic effect.

"Sentiment."

At this conclusion the room is painfully silent, and Brian is staring at Drew and looks as though he's going to cry. He promptly leaves the room, ignoring Soames' protests, and John decides to follow. By the time he catches up with Brian in the hallway of the old building, the younger man is clearly distraught and panicking. John talks him through the panic as best he can, feeling inexplicably sorry for him even though he's quite clearly done the wrong thing. It seems unfathomably stupid to risk his entire career for one mistake, but John feels like he understands better than most. Neither of them speak, and Brian's eyes remain lowered to the floor in defeat.

"I've been in love with him for years now," he admits quietly, his voice rough.

"But he's never going to love me back. We're friends and that's all it will ever be."

John's heart sinks a little at these words. Now he knows he understands, all too well.

"How do you know it won't become something more?" he asks carefully.

"I'm not his type," Brian replies with a small, sad smile.

"I thought maybe if I helped him with this he'd realise how much he means to me. I was meticulously careful and thought I'd get away with it. I guess I wasn't expecting the world's only consulting detective to show up."

He buries his face in his hands and sinks down the wall slightly.

"And now it's all just a mess. I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot," John replies kindly, "you just made a bad decision. Sometimes people do that when they're in love."

Brian doesn't speak right away, considering these words, then looks up at John and regards him thoughtfully.

"You love him, don't you?"

"Who?"

"The detective. Sherlock."

John opens his mouth and closes it again, finding that he has no idea how to respond. He's tired of protesting every time someone makes assumptions about he and Sherlock, and he doesn't even know the truth anymore.

"I…I don't know," he says finally, suddenly feeling very tired. He sighs.

"We should get back. I imagine you'll need to have a serious discussion with Professor Soames. Best to get it over with."

He starts walking back down the hallway and Brian reluctantly follows a few paces behind.

"He loves you too, you know."

John huffs out an incredulous laugh.

"What makes you say that?"

"The way he looks at you. The way you look at each other. You're lucky."

John doesn't reply but can't deny that a tiny ray of hope has been illuminated within him.

As they prepare to leave a short while later, Soames practically ignores John in favour for shaking Sherlock's hand and holding it for a little too long, looking into his eyes meaningfully and thanking him earnestly. Though John has become accustomed to such behaviour, he still has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

"You've got my number so do get in touch again soon. I would love to see you again, under more pleasant circumstances, of course."

John feels his fist clench involuntarily but the tension eases slightly at the polite but uninterested smile he gives Soames, whose own charming smile falters in response. John has the distinct feeling he's not used to being rejected and feels a spike of satisfaction at Sherlock's small victory. Sherlock turns to him with a more genuine smile.

"Shall we take our leave, John?"

John nods once in confirmation and falls into step beside Sherlock, his hand going to Sherlock's elbow in a small, unconscious gesture of affection and protection as they leave the room.

All in all, though it could have gone worse, it probably hadn't been the best use of their time. But John finds that he can't bring himself to be even a little bit mad because no sooner had they wrapped things up had Sherlock been suggesting that they don't hurry home and instead stay to enjoy the peace and quiet.

"We've booked the apartment for the weekend after all," he rationalised as John had attempted to pick his jaw up off the floor.

By this point it was getting late so Sherlock suggested takeaway back at the apartment and John (along with his growling stomach) readily agreed. It was after ten when they made it back to the apartment, and Sherlock went straight about ordering Uber Eats whilst John got to work on setting a fire in the small, modern fireplace.

He'd noticed that evening that the chill in the air, which had been present for the past several weeks in London, had become more intense, a thinly veiled promise that winter would once again be upon them before long. They both shed their jackets and shoes and adjourned in the living room, so different from their own but still welcoming and pleasant. They're sitting side by side on the plush sofa and John has just finished shooting off a quick check in text to Molly when Sherlock produces a bottle of whisky.

"Thought we might have a little celebration," he says with a slightly conspiratorial smile.

John chuckles, shaking his head at Sherlock's constant ability to keep him guessing.

"Well it was hardly one of your greatest achievements consulting detective wise but far be it for me to deny any reason for a good drink."

"Oh not that, John," Sherlock says, dismissing him with a wave as he gets up to fetch two glasses (and locates them immediately, of course, John notes).

"What then?" John asks curiously, keen to get to the bottom of Sherlock's strange behaviour these past few days.

Sherlock shrugs and pours a generous serve into each glass. His fingers graze John's lightly as he passes him the drink. It feels almost electric and John's eyes flick up to Sherlock's involuntarily. Sherlock's gaze is indiscernible, his eyes flickering in the soft glow of the crackling fire.

"Nothing all that special really. Just life. You having some time away for yourself. Enjoy it," he says, raising his glass.

"I'll drink to that," John replies with a grin, clinking his glass lightly against Sherlock's.

They sip their whisky in silence for a moment, both watching the fire. John finds himself feeling more content and relaxed than he has in ages, and absently wonders when it was he last felt this way. As much as he loves Rosie and the work he does with Sherlock, he has long since accepted that it doesn't leave much room for uninterrupted periods of relaxation.

"Thanks for this," he says, making a gesture to indicate the drink, the apartment, the weekend, and everything else.

"Things have been…a bit challenging at times, I know," he continues, "so I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you've been doing for me and Rosie."

"I know. And you're welcome," Sherlock replies with a soft smile.

Their eyes meet again and they're gazing at each other in comfortable silence. Sherlock's face is open and relaxed, and John longs to reach out and brush his fingertips against the sharp yet appealing edge of his cheekbone. He's no longer bothering to filter out these kinds of thoughts and he wonders what Sherlock's reaction would be – would he be alarmed and pull away or would he lean into it? But before he can think on this any further, there's a sharp knock on the door, snapping them both out of their thoughts.

"Food's here," John says, somewhat unnecessarily, and Sherlock makes his way over to the door.

John shuffles about the kitchen, attempting to find the dinner plates and having much less success than Sherlock had with the glasses. He finally locates them and before long there's a sprawling feast of dumplings, spring rolls, pork buns, rice and noodles, which they devour as though it's their first meal in weeks.

Afterwards, they collectively ignore the unholy mess of take away containers and leftovers that cover the coffee table in favour of settling back on the sofa with a whisky apiece.

"Urgh, I'm never eating again," Sherlock moans, his head lolling back on the cushions.

John chuckles and pats his own full belly.

"You're the one who insisted on eating that last pork bun, you get no sympathy from me," he replies teasingly.

Sherlock only moans again in response, barely managing to lift his whisky for a sip.

"You did well today, Sherlock," John says, more serious now.

"Mmm I know it bothers you when I allegedly starve myself but I hardly think that my performance just now is worthy of praise."

"Not that, you git," John teases.

He hesitates, debating with himself about whether to bring up earlier today. Sherlock seems to be in a good mood and he doesn't want to bring him down. But he does want to check in with him, and has to admit that part of him is still curious to know more.

"I meant with…Professor Soames."

"Oh."

"We don't have to talk about it if you-"

"Its fine, John. I'm fine. It was…admittedly uncomfortable seeing him again. But if anything, it confirmed how far I've come since then," Sherlock says thoughtfully, and John nods in agreement.

"It can be hard facing people from your past so what you did today was very brave."

"It's funny," Sherlock replies, "because I can face villains like Moriarty and Magnussen without a nerve in sight. But then something like this...I guess I must be human after all."

"I guess you must be," John confirms with a smile.

"Soames was clearly very impressed by you," John continues, "I'm betting he's full of regret right now."

Sherlock huffs in protest but John can tells he's secretly pleased that John thinks so. They're both silent a moment, lost in their thoughts. John had seen quite clearly that Soames would have liked to take Sherlock home and feels a great surge of satisfaction that he'll never be allowed to, that John will always be the one to –

"I suppose the revelation must have come as something of a surprise to you," Sherlock is saying, snapping John out of his reverie.

"Given that I've never shown any apparent interest in relationships, have determinedly rejected sentiment and insisted that I'm married to my work."

"Honestly, yes, it definitely wasn't what I was expecting. But it's fine, Sherlock, it's all fine," John says, echoing his words from when they met so very long ago.

"I wasn't always this way. In fact I used to be rather the opposite. But being too emotional leads to its own set of problems. So it was easier to do away with it all."

"I guess with today's situation I can kind of see where you're coming from," he says, still thinking of Brian's unrequited love.

Sherlock's words have reminded him of something else that has been particularly bothering him.

"You have questions," Sherlock states, reading John's expression like an open book.

John doesn't answer right away, struggling with how to phrase it.

"Did you ever...I mean, I hope he didn't...well, take advantage...of your age and nativity."

It's a struggle to get the words out but Sherlock doesn't seem phased, as though he was expecting the question.

"I was naive but I knew what I wanted, even then, and I wasn't afraid to go after it."

John feels a tiny shiver run up his spine at what Sherlock would be like when he really wants something and turns on the charm. He's seen glimpses of it of course but couldn't in all honesty say for sure that he would have been able to say no if it were directed at him.

"Our relationship was of a sexual nature but we never…well, went all the way."

Sherlock blushes furiously now and, despite himself, John can't help but find it endearing to see him so shy and uncertain, it's so unlike his usual overconfidence and arrogance. He nods encouragingly, and Sherlock seems sufficiently reassured to continue.

"Not that I didn't want to. But Soames was unwilling to take our relationship to that level. I suppose in hindsight that was for the best, all things considered. And as I mentioned, that all fell spectacularly to pieces. There were a few others after that, again, nothing serious or long term and all ended in a similar fashion. Eventually I started to accept Mycroft's assertion that sentiment was a weakness and a waste of time. And I hadn't looked back since."

He pauses, and looks down into his half-filled glass.

"Until you came into my life, that is."

John tries to find his voice, something within him too scared to speak, and his heart seems to be beating at three times its normal rate.

"You made me feel things again," Sherlock continues in a deep voice, "and life became confusing and exciting and frustrating and marvellous. And then of course Mary and Rosie came along and, well, you know how I feel about them."

John gives him a small smile at these bittersweet words.

"I do," he says quietly.

And he's burning to ask the question he most desperately wants the answer to – "and how do you feel about me?" – but he can't force the words out and before he knows it a shadow has passed across Sherlock's face and he senses that the topic is closed, at least for now.

"I'm going to head off to bed," Sherlock announces, as if on cue, draining the last drops of whisky from his glass and getting to his feet. He moves to tidy the mess on the coffee table, another surprise, but John waves him away, assuring him that he'll take care of it.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock says with a warm smile.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

He returns Sherlock's smile but quickly goes back to gazing into the fireplace, lost in his thoughts.

The following morning sees them enjoying a lazy breakfast after a small sleep in, after which they decide to wonder around the town and take a long walk along the canals. It's a gorgeous day, despite the chill in the air, and they fall into a natural rhythm and easy conversation as they walk. Around lunchtime, they choose from the many cosy looking pubs and settle in for a leisurely lunch. They Face Time Molly and Rosie from John's phone and explain that they've solved the case early and will be heading back first thing tomorrow. John can see that Molly is a little puzzled as to why they're staying without a case to work on, but thankfully she doesn't question it. And, much to John's relief, she's made all kinds of elaborate plans for the two of them and they both seem perfectly happy, easing most of the guilt he feels for being away without a "proper reason".

They've just finished devouring a satisfying lunch and are onto their second pint of the afternoon when Sherlock's phone rings. He extracts it from his blazer and makes a face that leaves little room for interpretation as to the caller.

"Yes, what do you want? I'm busy," Sherlock says upon answering it.

John is willing to bet money that the response is something along the lines of how drinking pale ale the pub could hardly be considered busy, because Sherlock's next words are "it's called having a life, maybe you should try it sometime."

Sherlock listens for a moment, a frown forming across his features.

"Why?"

Then, "very well, if you must." Another pause. "Yes. Yes. See you soon."

Sherlock hangs up the phone with a sigh, glancing almost forlornly at his mostly untouched beer.

"Mycroft," he explains unnecessarily, "he wants us back in London right away, though won't say why over the phone. Typical. Probably an issue of national security, knowing him. He's arranging a nearby car to pick us up from the apartment in half an hour. Do you mind texting him the address whilst I take care of our bill?"

He opens the Air B & B app for the address and passes John his phone. John can't help but feel bitterly disappointed that their time together in Cambridge has come to such an abrupt end, but he knows it would be silly to say so now that they're not here solving a case.

"No problem," John replies casually, taking a large gulp of his beer, and Sherlock heads towards the bar to pay.

John copies the address from the app, shoots off a text to Mycroft and presses the back button. Predictably, he and Sherlock's text conversation record is the next one down. He can't help but notice that beside his name is a small image where the icon has been changed from the standard. He taps his own name to enlarge the picture, figuring that it's not exactly snooping when it's his own conversation with Sherlock. But now that he can see the image properly it almost takes his breath away. It's a photo of John and Rosie, taken the sunny summer day they had finished rebuilding 221B and had celebrated with a picnic in the park. In it, Rosie is grasping a strawberry in her chubby little hand and is messily attempting to feed herself, and John is lying alongside her on the picnic blanket and looking at her with both laughter and obvious adoration in his eyes. John had quite liked the photo when Sherlock had taken it, as he had always been partial to candid, natural photographs. He's nothing short of touched that Sherlock has applied it to his contact record and wonders how often Sherlock actually looks at the photo. But before he can consider it any further, Sherlock is on his way back to the table. John exits the screen and hands the phone back to Sherlock with a smile.

"All ready to go?" Sherlock says, and John nods his assent and drains the last of his drink before following him towards the door.

If he'd known what was to come, he would have spent longer revelling in this happy moment, would have somehow appreciated even more their relaxing and peaceful day together in Cambridge, what felt like a world away from London and all its troubles. But alas, there was no way for either of them to know, and so they walked out of the pub and into their future, unknowing and blissfully ignorant.