I've been holding off watching The Reichenbach Fall for so long now, because I always knew what was going to happen. Well, I watched it tonight, and I cried like the ridiculously involved fan girl with no life that I am. No regrets. But my emotions are just like...augh! Imagine a double decker hitting a bike at full speed, head on. The bus was 2.3 of Sherlock. The bike is my feels. Yeah...

But, I'llbeyourPatronus! You're reviews, love. You're reviews. Oh god, I was smiling, and blushing... Thank you.

And Warm-Glow, no. The game is far from over... Do you honestly think I would end the game like that? Much too easy, not enough angst, and not nearly enough suspense. Stay tuned love, we'll get there. (wink) I just need to get some happy, lovey moments in there first.

Disclaimer: I don't have to say I don't own this again, right? You get the gist? I can stop putting this up here? Good. Now read. (If you like.) Oh! It get's a little more Johnlock-y. I've changed the categories accordingly, but it's still rated T. For now...
(Not so) Little note: And thanks to everyone else who favorited and reviewed. I appreciate everyone, really. And I can't decide if John's eyes are blue or brown! Fan fiction dictates strictly (at least what I've read) that they are blue, but that seems to go along with the stereotypical "dreamy, blue-eyed blond" thing everyone gets into. Pictures and scenes I look at though, about ninety-percent of the time, it's quite clear that his eyes are brown. So that's what I'm going with. John's eyes are brown. Alright, I'll shut my cake-hole now.

Moriarty glances up from his handiwork briefly to watch as the scene unfolds before him. A small smile quirks his lips. How touching. It seems Sherlock managed to weasel his way out of this one with the help of Big Brother Ice Man. The game was ruined and that simply wouldn't do. But it was alright. This was only a practise game - just to see if The Virgin could handle the real thing. Jim's smile turns into a manic frown. He can't. No matter how much Sherlock tries to say that he's not ordinary, he doesn't have a heart, he's above emotion, and he is all about the logic, it's not true. Oh, the detective may be all that under ordinary circumstances, oh yes, but as soon as John is thrown into the mix -

He get's so soft and boring, James thinks, chewing on a piece of worn-out gum, but he doesn't care. His brain is reeling, turning, ideas from the darkest, most twisted recesses of his brain coming forth.

Sherlock and John. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson. Hat-man and Robin. The Reichenbach Hero and The Bachelor. God, it seemed like everyone shipped those two, and now it's starting to all look true. Now, if the consulting criminal can play around with that a bit...

This could be a rather good game. Better than he could have hoped, he thinks, pushing away from the desk and the computer screen to pace around 221 C Baker Street, the picture of Sherlock with his eyes scratched out lying forgotten.

There's something different about Sherlock, John thinks. It's not that anything has changed, really. There are still human body parts lying in the fridge. Nicotine patches and cigarrettes are scattered about, and the flat in general is a complete mess. Sherlock is still an insufferable ass, a show-off, and thinks he's smarter than everyone else. He still ignores John's privacy and personal space and mildly mocks his intellect. But it's... different. The doctor's mind keeps flicking back to the word as he stares at Sherlock, pacing about in that ridiculously long length of blue satin. His bare feet pad silently, stepping on and over anything in his path.

After a few moments, the detective finally feels John's gaze on his back. Really, every part of him. Green (today) eyes meet John's searching brown ones quizzically.

"Is something wrong, John?" Sherlock asks, and John even thinks there's something different about the way his friend says his name now.

The doctor takes a moment to fold the paper and rest it in his lap, willing the blush creeping into his cheeks to go away.

"No, why Sherlock?" John replies, trying to match the tone and ease with which his friend managed. He doesn't, but Sherlock smiles (slightly, and briefly) at the effort.

The dark-haired man turns and continues to pace, and John can't help but watch every move he makes, trying to read him. The word "different" keeps surfacing, but the doctor can't pinpoint what has changed. Sherlock sighs. "You've been trying to read the paper for the past hour, but you haven't gotten past the first sentence on the first page. You haven't taken your eyes off of me since you sat down. And you're not in your usual spot," he says without emotion. Or was that a mild hint of confusion at the end? Surely not. Almost as soon as the idea sprouts, John writes it off as all in his head.

Shifting in the middle of the sofa the doctor sighs, completely abandoning the paper now, letting it drop onto the coffee table in front of him. "I dunno, Sherlock," he starts, and as soon as the words leave his lips, he's telling himself to shut up. Closing his mouth, John tries in vain to stare out the window at anything, but soon his detective is standing right in his line of vision, expression begging him to continue. Begging. That's a word John would have never associated with him. All the same, though, the fair-haired man keeps talking. "You just seem a bit... off since I got back home..." he murmurs apprehensively, noticing how Sherlock's eyes suddenly harden and his frame goes rigid. The detective hates any thought of Moriarty's game. He hasn't mentioned it, hasn't tried to find Moriarty, he hasn't even thought about it (intentionally) since John's safe return two weeks ago. Sherlock has barely left his doctor's side since, lest the spider strike again. He never wants to feel that way again - never wants to feel like his heart is in his throat, or his stomach is in his shoes, or that the ground has fallen out beneath him.

Never has he felt terror like that, and he is not eager to relive the experience.

He coughs once and shakes his head slightly, curls bouncing around his head, before he strides to where John is sitting. The other man looks up, brow furrowing before they shoot up, trying (and failing) to hide in his sandy hair as Sherlock lies down casually across the shorter man's legs. John's knees are nestled in his lower back, Sherlock's feet are propped on one arm of the sofa, and his head is resting just shy of the other.

At first John is taken completely aback, holding his arms at his sides as if he doesn't know where he should put them. He waits a few moments, but soon Sherlock's breathing has deepened and his fingers are steepled beneath his chin, and it becomes obvious that the detective has no intention of moving any time soon. So John settles for resting his forearms on Sherlock's stomach, toying with the fabric briefly before he orders himself to relax.

An hour later, to John's utter amazement, Sherlock has fallen asleep. The doctor watches intrigued as the dark-haired man's chest rises and falls slowly, his hands clasped there lightly. John really hasn't gotten the chance to see Sherlock actually sleeping. Sherlock doesn't sleep. Sherlock lies still and let's his brain run laps while his body rests, Sherlock takes brief naps occasionally, but Sherlock doesn't generally sleep. At least not anywhere John can catch him in the act, that is.

But it was worth the wait. John savors the absolutely tranquil expression on his detective's face, how the corner of his mouth keeps twitching in his sleep. The fair-haired man loves how there isn't a line apparant anywhere on his pale skin, how he is at peace, how Sherlock isn't frowning out at the world, wondering how normal people go about their day, or how he tries to block everyone out. John suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to run a finger down those prominent cheekbones, and perhaps down that smooth jawline, but he holds himself back. There is already enough physical contact between the two of them, and the doctor feels like if they touch anymore, one of them will break.

The air around them is already filled with the closeness, the intimacy. And they are just friends. John frowns as the word slithers its way around his brain. Friends. Is that really what they are now? Is that really how one would describe their relationship? With Sherlock lying in his lap, how they're both single men living together, how Sherlock has no regards for personal space? John sighs. Friends just doesn't cut it anymore, and he struggles to swallow the lump in his throat.

Sherlock watches John from his chair. The doctor is slowly dozing in his own chair opposite, chin propped on his hand, elbow resting on the arm of the chair. His eyelids are drooping slowly, and the detective finds himself smiling when they don't open back up. Sherlock has always loved watching John sleep. He always looked so peaceful, so open. So... vulnerable. The word stumbles around his brilliant mind, making him loom forward in his chair, reminded suddenly of Moriarty and his game, and a small, but unnerving text he received three days ago.

How's your lover-boy doing? Not letting him stray to far, are we?

-Jim xoxo

He had refused to reply, instead keeping an ever more watchful eye on John. It was rare that Sherlock would let him out of his sight for longer than fifteen minutes, just enough time for his doctor to shower. Even when John was asleep, Sherlock would pass the nights standing in his doorway, waiting for the alarm to go off before he would head downstairs to act like nothing was happening. When the detective himself in need of sleep, he always made sure John wasn't going anywhere, and his particular favorite was sprawling over the shorter man's legs when he was reading on the couch, ensuring that he wasn't moving while Sherlock slept for an hour or two (at the most).

Now the detective watches the steady rise and fall of John's chest as he sleeps, deep in thought. This one man, who is two inches shorter than the average Englishman, has changed so much about his life. It almost disturbs him, how much emotional attatchment he feels for John. All hearts are broken... Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. A sneer stretches across his face as Mycroft bullies his way to the forefront of his mind. He is well aware caring is not an advantage. But, maybe he felt differently before he met John, because right now, as the doctor mumbles little nonsense words (some sounding very much like a certain detective's name) in his sleep, Sherlock is beginning to think that maybe it's moments like these that make the danger worth it. It's John who has taught him that maybe if you care enough about someone, everything will turn out all right.

As long as Moriarty stays out of the picture.

Suddenly, John twitches, the bridge of his nose crinkling up slightly and Sherlock's thoughts are whisked back to the present. He is very aware of a sudden need to fix a piece of John's hair that isn't quite in line with the rest of his bangs along his forehead. So, Sherlock rises gracefully to his feet and steps across the short distance between them. He hesitates for a moment, fingers slightly outstretched to the other man's face before he allows a breif touch, just enough to brush the pesky hair back into place. John let's out a low noise of what sounds like delight, and the doctor ever-so-slightly presses his forehead against Sherlock's fingertips. Sherlock smirks softly, and let's his finger trail along the side of John's face and down his cheek before he draws away. After a few moments of contemplation, the dark-haired man sits down on the floor with his back to his doctor's legs and thinks.

Oh, John. What you've done to me.

What you've done to me...

It's four a.m. and I have to be up at six. Maybe I'll make the next chapter suitably long, since I know what I want to do (pretty much).

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the Johnlock feels, and I hope I did a decent job writing them (and Moriarty). My brain tends not to work this early, so if not I'll change any problems you have later.

Oh, and review if you like. I enjoy them, but if you don't feel the need, that's alright. Just stick around if you fancy.