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Warnings: We are entering firm pre-slash territory now. Don't like then don't read!

Enjoy :)

It had been before he left.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair as he sipped at the brandy he'd given into. His initial questioning had been correct; John indeed had been bereft of a date long before the roof top and hadn't seemed bothered about it.

After the business at Baskerville, though. John had been willing to meet with the therapist when Sherlock had sent him her picture and his reaction to their fight and Sherlock's subsequent experiment hadn't been right for one in love.

When, then? When had been that moment, the moment that John had known and Sherlock should have seen?

There was something. Something that John had said and Sherlock hadn't followed up on. An expression, a strange comment, something that hadn't added up properly.

And then he saw it.

"You're this far from famous."

"Oh, it will pass."

"It had better pass, because the press will turn, Sherlock, they always turn, and they'll turn on you."

"It really bothers you?"

"What?"

"What people think of me,"

"Yes."

"About me? I don't understand; why would it upset you?"

And there had been a look. A sad, unsure look that had passed when John had ducked his head and swallowed it back with some rubbish about keeping a low profile.

The day Moriarty had walked into the tower of London and tricked them all.

Tilting his head back to the ceiling, Sherlock stroked a spare finger from the hand that was holding the brandy over the glass tumbler.

John had been single almost three months previous to that. Or at least there had been no doe eyed women glaring at him across the room for interrupting whatever activity they were engaged in. John had been uncomfortable seeing someone else when they didn't have his full interest which suggested that the feelings had had towards Sherlock included a sexual component.

The annoyance at everyone assuming they were a couple had disappeared too and had been replaced with a tired correction, suggesting that John had assumed Sherlock wasn't at all interested.

Which led to the important question.

John was vital. The time away had shown Sherlock that. The man was as necessary as the puzzles that kept Sherlock alive and the city that comforted him. No matter what Sherlock had done there had never been any denying that John was always going to be important.

But how important?

Sherlock, despite rumours to the contrary, was hardly a virgin. One didn't dive head first into the underground world and not experiment. But it had always been about the release, the messy urge that could never be the things in films or stories. Want, take, fuck. It was simple, uncomplicated and an itch that he occasionally indulged now that he wasn't an idiotic twenty odd year old. A release.

A relationship with John would be complicated. It couldn't be anything else. And not the good kind of complicated that Sherlock usually indulged in, but rather the kind that would force him to consider every move in a new light. What one did to a friend, one could not do to a lover. And John guarded those he loved fiercely. Any attempt at deepening their relationship would risk John feeling the right to be protective, to take and ask to be given.

Sherlock closed his eyes unsure he was willing to allow that.

But the benefits...

To have John. To explore him in every manner, to know that he could demand what John had kept back and discover everything about him. To be indulge in that fascinating mix of utterly ordinary and supremely extraordinary...the idea made something flutter.

There was no other point in his life at which Sherlock had been happier than when they had shared lives; when they worked together, lived together and laughed together. No other time when he had gone out of his way to make someone smile. Considering it he could admit that he often had deducted quicker when John was around in an effort to impress.

It was tempting. Yet John would ask the same in return; would ask for a partnership in the important things.

Sherlock took another sip and thought.

The sight of John the following night, asleep on the sofa, wasn't an unfamiliar one. It was, however, different to what he was used to. Years ago, when it had just been the two of them, John had fallen asleep watching some drivel on the television or because Sherlock had kept him up until the early hours of the morning until John's eyes could no longer stay open. There had even been the odd occasion where John had come downstairs to escape the nightmares that reared up with no real rhyme or reason under some pretence that he was struggling to sleep.

He'd never, in Sherlock's memory, come downstairs prepared to sleep on the sofa.

There were pillows and a blanket and pyjamas.

Clearly, John was fearful of disturbing the child's sleep. Which, given that children seemed to be able to sleep in the most bizarre and noisy places ever known, seemed utterly illogical.

But then, from what he'd seen, parenting, on the whole, was rather illogical.

Still, it seemed wrong that John with his bad shoulder, leg and sleeping habits should get the sofa.

Though it did allow Sherlock a rare chance to just...observe.

Especially after the previous nights.

Feeling like a child about to be turned loose in a sweet shop, Sherlock drew the chair close to John's head and sat in it, fingers itching for his magnifying lens.

John still favoured the military cut that he'd had when they'd first met. There had been a brief flirt with longer hair but he continued to return to the style over the years. Usually when he was in a situation he was unsure about or felt nervous with. He'd had his hair cut the day after Sherlock had admitted Moriarty's hold over him on the rooftop. That suggested that John had been under the impression the feelings he had wouldn't manifest through his anger with Sherlock and then become fearful once that anger vanished.

The lack of sleep was obvious. Dark circles, washed out cheeks and red eyes. John was struggling to sleep, likely from the events recently. There were more lines around his eyes now, crows feet that suited him in some ways. It was easy to imagine them crinkling up in amusement. But the frown lines in his forehead had crept back throughout the months...years of stress.

Sherlock pressed a finger carefully onto John's forehead, frowning at the depth of the line. If it took his fancy he could imagine the line to be like the rings of a tree, denoting age and life from just a single different band.

John didn't have smooth skin. It was too weathered from the dessert and his life. But the texture of it was fascinating. The skin was a mix of rough and soft, just like the man it encased.

And there was the nose. Sherlock allowed himself to trace down the slope of it, marvelling at how straight it was and the slight hook that gave it that distinctive shape.

The cheeks were minutes away from being gaunt and Sherlock hated that. It seemed to stop the frequency of John's mouth from smiling and his eyes wrinkling in delight. He needed to regain the weight that he'd lost. He'd almost lost the dimples and the mouth that he was so used to curling up around him was now curling down.

The mouth. Sherlock considered it, remembered what it had felt like to brush against it, even in the most chaste of touches. The easy acceptance of his own reaction had surprised him when he'd thought about it after the event.

Why had he never considered the possibility of John before last night?

Storing that question away again, Sherlock moved on. Whatever data he could gain from tracing the mouth would yield him no more information that yesterday's almost kiss had. He would not waste the time.

John was shorter than the average male. Not by much and there times it was strangely unnoticeable. The army had provided him with posture and stance which counted for something in a city where so many hunched and curled their backs. Strong shoulders and neck then, despite the injury that Sherlock had never really had an opportunity to really study. A few glimpses that he hadn't been interested in and had barely committed to memory.

That would change now.

John's hands were capable. Strong and steady. They were recovering from the toil of bar work but were still calloused from the army and retained the silky smooth burn scars from the heat of the rifles. Such harsh hands that could almost scrape if you brushed the skin the wrong way.

But they were careful hands. Sherlock had witnessed him as a doctor, had been an unwilling patient enough times, to know that John was very able. That the hands that looked so rough could so easily complete intricate work and provide comfort.

Something in Sherlock stirred at the idea of those hands.

Interesting.

Delving under the blanket would be going too far.

Reluctantly, he returned his questing finger to John's face. Would the shell of his ear be sensitive? John's hearing was brilliant as was his vision. Would his eyes lose focus or sharpen? Would he hitch his breath or go silent? What would it take to unravel the man who was always so calm under pressure?

Unbidden, his hand rested gently upon the top of John's head as the man frowned in his sleep. John's hair, for it's shortness, was surprisingly soft. It was frustrating that he couldn't get a proper grasp on it before the strands slipped from his fingers. Perhaps he should encourage John to grow it out.

A sudden, unexpected image of Sherlock's own fingers gripping John's hair and pulling him down hit him like a train and to his dim astonishment his hands started to react.

Stunned he withdrew his hands and backed away, staring down at the hand that had been stroking John's hair.

Apparently he had adjusted to that aspect then. It was akin to a case when suddenly everything slotted into place and the buried clues became crystal clear. So clear that it seemed absurd he hadn't seen it before.

The impediments remained. Sherlock leaned against the arm of the chair as he watched John sleep. At no point in his thoughts last night had Sherlock ever been uninterested in the idea.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

And, as he watched John, he started to wonder if perhaps it was worth examining the obstructions and experimenting with the parameters.

The child...Ava. That was the biggest obstacle. The idea of voluntarily spending a few hours with her filled him with trepidation and a sudden desire to stage a power-cut so that no audio or visual entertainment could be used within his range.

But that would make the experiment moot.

It started off as a small thing. The child...Ava, (calling her by her name might help matters) often invaded the living room when she came home. It was easy enough to ensure she was engaged in a task he could bear to endure. He'd badly hidden the puzzle under the coffee table, ensuring it was the right sort for a child and was relieved to note that she had snooped and found it when he came in.

John didn't even look at him, but sat in the kitchen with a book.

Steeling himself, Sherlock went to the...went to Ava.

Wide blue eyes regarded him curiously and a tiny hand hovered over the puzzle, clumsily gripping a puzzle piece as she chewed on her lip thoughtfully.

Not wanting to enter into yet another staring competition but not wanting to give-in either, Sherlock allowed himself to break her gaze as he sat himself down on the floor next to her, determined to make it seem as if he had a reason for not winning that round.

"I started it," Ava informed him, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously as if he were about to take the puzzle from her.

"Where does that bit go?" he asked, ignoring the statement.

Distracted, she looked away from him, leaning onto the puzzle to try and force the piece into a slot it clearly didn't belong in.

Frustrated, Sherlock knelt up looking at the puzzle and huffing loudly. Ava paused in what she was doing to glance at him.

It wouldn't be good to tell her to use her bloody brain. Instead he clucked a disproving tongue against the roof of his mouth and tapped the puzzle piece with his little finger.

"Look at the picture. The colours."

Still regarding him warily, she glanced down and tilted her head around the puzzle piece rather than move it in her hands.

"It's got green on it." she said finally.

"And?" Good god this could take forever.

Ava looked slightly disappointed and scrutinised it again, harder.

"And...are those bits wing bits?" she asked suddenly, twisting the piece and flapping it at Sherlock. It was thankful that he'd taken a proper look at the damned thing during his first glance.

"Yes."

"So it doesn't go there," she announced, as if she were the first to think of it.

"No."

Then she leaned back, almost pulling the bottom of the puzzle with her as she did. She'd managed all the edges on her own, quicker than he'd estimated she would.

And this time, instead of just plonking the piece down, she studied. She would look between the puzzle piece, the puzzle, and the image on the box.

"It can't go anywhere yet," she sulked, shoulders dropping and eyes turning up to his. "Can it?"

Sherlock leaned forward a little, checking the puzzle again. "You need more of the wings." he said after a moment.

Ava eyed the box reluctantly and then huffed. "Are you going to make me turn over all the pieces like daddy does so I can see the coloured bits?"

That sounded exceedingly dull, if practical. "It will fit in eventually," he plucked a piece from the box and handed it to her. "Try this one."

It was clear that Ava was tempted to just try her previous approach of jamming the pieces together but, at a glance in his direction, she tipped her nose and made a rather dramatic point of examining the piece in her hand and the puzzle on the table.

She got it right first time.

Shifting his position Sherlock passed her the next one, watching her carefully to see if she would manage to be as accurate. This time she managed it on the second attempt.

He'd intended to walk away after five minutes, to slowly work up to spending large amounts of time with her. But there was always another puzzle piece and there was a greater speed to her actions. A speed that he had helped create. And, as she got used to the method, she lost the dramatics and just started to observe the pieces properly.

She had John's focused expression too. And his way of tilting his head when he was considering something.

At the thought of John, Sherlock turned.

The book had been long abandoned and was sitting on the table. John was stood by the wall, closer than Sherlock had imagined he would be.

For an instant, they stared at each other and the sheer longing in John's face caught at something in Sherlock's chest.

Then John, as abruptly as he had two nights ago, turned away and headed for the kitchen.

It would have been easy for Sherlock to have followed him, or to even walk to his own room and consider this attempt. But a little exhale caught his attention.

Ava was staring at the puzzle, her shoulders slumped.

Sherlock glanced at the kitchen to see almost the exact same posture written onto John as the man started peeling something.

Tearing his eyes away, Sherlock dug into the box and handed her the next piece. The child's startled surprise made him look away and study the puzzle intently.

And, when they finished putting all the pieces together, he received a shy little smile before Ava bounded off at John's call to wash her hands.

That had been...bearable.

The next attempt occurred quite by accident. Mrs Hudson was meant to pick Ava up from school but ended up caught on the other side of London when she visited a friend.

"I can do it," Sherlock said for what felt like the hundredth time.

John's reluctance was palpable, even down the phone line. "I'll leave now and-"

"I can do it," This was getting beyond a joke. "Or do you think me incapable of putting a five year old into a taxi and remembering where I live."

John made some frustrated sound, "I have no idea what you're up to with this but-"

"Take advantage of it," Sherlock suggested, not really wanting to discuss the why at the moment. "I can assure you this offer won't be made when I have a case on."

Seconds ticked by as John hovered in indecision.

"Call it..." Sherlock veered away from the word he had been about to use, "recompense for the other night."

A bitter laugh echoed in his ear, "Are you dying or something?"

"I...went too far." Sherlock twisted the knife through his fingers and then along the wood of the mantelpiece in frustration.

"So...what, you owe me?" It was impossible without seeing John's face to tell what he thought of that.

I O U

Shuddering Sherlock pressed the tip into the wood and watched as the soft material gave way to the steel. "Do you want me to pick her up or not?"

John sighed and seemed to think it over. "You'll remember to get her out of the taxi when you get home?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

John had informed him that he'd phoned the school and told them that Sherlock would be picking Ava up. Apparently they wouldn't let her go unless they recognised the person waiting for the child.

The parents waiting at the side door where the younger children came out watched him suspiciously. Snotty nosed infants wailed and played in the shrubs while waiting.

The youngest class came out first. They were tiny little things who looked even smaller in their school uniform. It was almost as if they were dressed for a play.

He almost didn't spot Ava. He was looking for a much taller child when she suddenly appeared beside him. Mrs Hudson had obviously been in charge this morning because her two plaits were neat, even and tidy for once.

She was so little.

As if to double check,Sherlock looked over at the other students that were leaving. Children that all seemed so much older. Looking back at Ava,she seemed little more than a toddler.

"You don't pick me up from school." she announced haughtily at him, clearly deciding she'd had enough of being ignored.

Sherlock glanced at all the other children from her year group who were wrapping themselves around their parent's legs or racing off to get into mischief or chewing on their sleeves.

Suddenly, the little girl in front of him didn't seem such a bad deal.

The last of the students were released from their classroom and the teacher made his way out to a parent who was trying to flag him down.

Ava hadn't come out of that door. He'd watched.

The teacher had let her leave, knowing that she was being picked up by a strange man and hadn't checked with her that Sherlock was the right person to release her to.

A small oversight, but one against the school's policy.

The teacher hadn't cared.

Children were apparently strangely perceptive. Ava had noted that the teacher, Mr Hepper, was colder to children who didn't wear the school coat but had apparently not made the leap that it was a sign that he was a snob who disliked it when students couldn't afford the school coat. She'd noted that Mr Hepper liked students that gave him the right answer without stopping to consider that he only liked answers he agreed with. Of course any child John raised was going to be clever, that was barely worth debating.

Yet, while she was unable to piece those obvious facts together, she'd stumbled, somehow on the biggest reason.

Mr Hepper hated John.

And Ava somehow had decided that John didn't need to know that because it would have make things complicated when it was just the two of them.

Which raised the question how Mr Hepper could hate John without John being aware of it.

When they got back he took the thin, fraying bag that Ava was carrying and started to pull the books and papers out.

"What are you doing?" Ava asked, frowning at the papers.

"Why does you teacher dislike your father?" Sherlock asked as he started to flick through her book, noting the utter lack of comments and marking.

He needed to compare it to another student's books.

Ava shrugged again in a way that Sherlock found maddening. "Can I have some milk?"

Sherlock paused in his flipping. "If there's any in the fridge," he said, trying to work out when John last went to the shops.

Ava looked over at the kitchen and then back at Sherlock. "I can't reach it."

"Then wait." Though he had no real expectation to find anything useful to this mystery. "Have you ever seen your father and this Mr Hepper together?"

Ava shook her head and sat on the edge of the sofa, her eyes wandering over the exercise books.

"Then why do you think Mr Hepper dislikes John?"

The shoulders started to move as if to shrug again, but she must have caught his look because they fell quickly.

"He says things." she said finally. "But you won't tell Daddy, will you?" she added mistrustfully.

"What sort of things?" Sherlock asked, accepting that the bag was a dead end for now. He should have picked another one up as they left.

"You didn't promise." Ava tilted her chin in a way that Sherlock was starting to find equally annoying and amusing.

"Does he mark the books often?" Sherlock asked, avoiding that line of questioning for now.

"Yes." Ava's lip jutted out in a sulk, "Carla Fray always gets a sticker."

"Have you?" Sherlock was relatively sure of the answer.

Ava stared at him, looking suddenly worried. "No," she admitted, "My work's not that good." she shrugged.

He needed another book bag.

He stole one the following day as Ava was coming out and John was picking her up. It was easy, though probably because no-one would ever think to guard a child's school bag against theft.

But he paused, watching Ava run over to John with obvious delight. John scooped her up easily and settled her against him, the pair chatting as they walked. With a practised move John managed to get both gloves and a scarf onto Ava, laughing at something she said.

They looked happy. Unified. Complete.

Would he fit if he walked over there? Would John lose the happiness in his eyes or would it increase? There was a wariness to him now when around Sherlock and a narrowed gaze that seemed to be waiting for something. They hadn't spoken about that night in any detail yet John seemed to be on edge around Sherlock.

Certainly John wasn't fighting for anything to happen between them. In fact, despite being the one with the feelings, John seemed determined to utterly ignore the situation.

It was impossible to work out John's reasonings. Though John could be inordinately slow when it came to piecing things together at times, he was surprisingly fast as deducing when Sherlock was hunting for information. It was highly difficult to get anything from John without him realising and shutting down.

It was unlikely that John would remain unaware for long. In fact, if the phone conversation the previous day was any indicator, John was already suspicious.

Perhaps tonight would be a good time to attempt the honest approach.

Walking until he was far enough away from the school to open the bag without looking like a lunatic.

A beautifully marked book with stickers. Long comments filled with praise and suggestions.

Sherlock took the book he'd liberated from Ava's bag and compared them.

Hers was better.

Far better.

Satisfied that he'd made headway in the mystery surrounding John and the teacher, Sherlock opened the attachment that Lestrade had sent and snorted at the message that Sherlock was not to come to the office at the moment because the chief was in.

When he looked up from the screen Ava was standing opposite him. The tiny five year old's cheeks were rosy from her bath, her hair still slightly damp and the purple fuzzy dressing gown looked rather cosy. Her bare feet were red with cold and she kept shifting to stand one foot on top of the other to keep them warm.

"Yes?" he asked, sure that John had been upstairs with her.

She studied him. It unnerved him when she looked at him like that; her face still too young to read accurately. She stepped forward, peering as if to see what was on the screen. Before she got the right angle he quickly clicked onto an empty tab, relatively sure that John would take issue with the child seeing the hacked up body parts.

But she only glanced at the screen as if it were obligatory to glance at everything she encountered.

"Night, night," she said and leaned her head forward.

A wet kiss press pressed against his cheek. The tiny body warm and smelling like John's shampoo and strawberry bubblegum from her bubble-bath foam, but surprisingly sturdy and tangible.

There was an insane urge to hug her close that he easily resisted and she pulled away.

And then widened her eyes at him expectantly.

"Good night," he managed, almost certain that was what she expected.

She waited.

Then, clearly seeing that he wasn't going to do anything else, she rolled her eyes and sighed in a very dramatic way.

"You're supposed to tell me to sleep well. Otherwise you're giving me nightmares."

"That's not how it works," Sherlock replied on automatic.

That chin went up and he readied himself for some ridiculous notion that some idiot had thought was comforting to children.

"I know, but it's good manners and I don't want you to get told off." Ava replied folding her arms and tilting her head.

How could the child look so utterly like John?

"Told off?" he asked.

"Well...you're not a Daddy so someone must be able to tell you off,"

Sherlock stared at her.

"Ava," John stood in the doorway looking amused. "Bedtime, leave Sherlock alone,"

Ava beamed suddenly over at Sherlock and then danced off upstairs. Three second later she ran back to John.

"I want a story,"

John nodded, "I'll be up in a minute. Pick one for us to read."

The child ran off again.

"I don't think I've ever seen you look more terrified." John commented calmly.

Sherlock smirked as he closed the tab to go back to the email, "You do realise that you're testing me?" he asked, noting the right to left angle of the slashed throat. "In what I assume is an attempt to gauge whether I'm capable of this."

A glance over at John showed the man's mouth had gaped open in disbelief. Sherlock watched, almost amused as John struggled to regain his composure.

"What...what gave you that idea?" John asked after a moment of staring.

Sherlock turned back to the case and smiled at the screen, "Because it's what I'm doing." He said starting to type a scathing reply.

"What you're doing?" John parroted sounding as if he'd never heard the words before. "Wait...I..." He seemed utterly lost.

Sherlock's fingers flew over the keys as he stared at the screen, determined not to give John his attention while the man stuttered in bewilderment. "It is rather a lot to risk if I am not able to do it properly."

The one and only glance he risked up showed John staring at him, as if he'd been turned to stone. So Sherlock continued on with the emails from Scotland Yard.

"Do it properly?" John asked hoarsely.

"Mmm."

John just pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock-" he started, sounding as if he were about to launch into a list of rather predictable reasons why his method was a bad idea.

"Why does her teacher hate you?" Sherlock asked as he typed, deciding to cut over the protestations. Really there was no point entering into those until he'd determined whether he could give the relationship the effort it would demand.

"What?" John sounded blind-sided. "Teacher?"

"Ava's teacher, Mr Hepper." Sherlock pressed the send button.

"Mr Hepper isn't Ava's teacher," John replied firmly, "Don't change the subject."

"He is." Sherlock shut down the browser and narrowed his eyes at John. "One of the teachers left due to illness, so they shuffled the staff about."

John blinked.

"Regardless, whether he's her teacher or not, you're not arguing against it. The two of you have some history?"

John turned to glance up the stairs and then back at Sherlock, "She didn't say anything,"

"Because even she knows the pair of you don't get on."

John reached out for the back of the chair and took deep breaths. His arms were rigid with tension and his head ducked down as he steadied himself.

The fingers on the chair were white with effort. The whole posture screamed for someone to relax John, to stand him up and soothe his temper.

Gentle touches and soft words were not what Sherlock was known for.

Next experiment, he decided.

"Put her to bed, John." he said, trying to make it sound like a suggestion. "We'll talk after. You can rage then if you need to."

More John and Sherlock interactions next chapter :)