Thanks for the great feedback! Sending love to you all through the magical internet!

John woke up to the feeling of another's arms around him. He sighed and snuggled closer. It had been too long since he'd woken up like that. The other's body felt different, though; thinner. John could almost feel individual ribs, count them. One, two, three, four... As he moved his hand up, he ran his hands over muscle. The person was stronger than they looked, but soft at the same time. John liked it a lot, maybe more than he should have.

He turned his attention away from their chest, shifting to the two's position. John didn't have to open his eyes to feel how entwined their legs were, John's head buried in the spot where the neck met the shoulder, the other's arm encircling his back protectively. He felt loved.

Somewhere that seemed really far away, a woman's voice grunted in pain. This was enough to make John have to actually open his eyes and look where he was. The person was Sherlock.

That sent a shock signal through John, but he tried not to move. Sherlock didn't seem like he got any sleep, much less enough sleep, so John needed to make sure he was taking care of himself. They were boyfriends, after all. Plus, John felt a need to protect the mysterious detective with silver eyes filled with sadness. He was somehow a part of him, and John didn't understand that. Yesterday felt like months ago, when this whole thing started.

Sherlock stirred a few minutes later, wriggling a little before sighing and slowly peeling open one eye, then the other. He looks so vulnerable, John thought. Like a child. "Good morning, Sherlock," John said.

The detective murmured something that sounded like, "Greetings are pointless," but didn't object more than that. His voice was raspy, adding a new layer to his natural baritone. John expected him to want to get up quickly, but he just held John tighter, as if he was almost reassuring himself that John was still there.

"Hey, are you okay?" John asked gently.

Sherlock nodded against John's head. "Just memories."

"Okay." Neither spoke for a few seconds. "We need to get up and give Harry some meds for her hangover."

"But I don't want to," Sherlock said plaintively.

John grinned. "I don't either. But we have to." He carefully began extracting himself from Sherlock's arms. It took quite a long time, but eventually he managed to leave the bed and walk to the bathroom. When he came out, Sherlock had wrapped himself in a sheet and stood up.

"We are in Buckingham Palace, and you are in a sheet?"

"Yes."

John looked down slightly. "Are you wearing any pants?"

"No." The two men stayed quiet for a few seconds, then burst out laughing uncontrollably.

John shook his head. What the hell was that? He went into the main part of the flat to greet his sister, who was groaning and moaning. "Johnny, I need ibuprofen, now!"

"You shouldn't have been drinking. I should let you suffer," he replied.

Harry groaned again, but when she saw Sherlock, she laughed. "Oh, so you and the hot detective got some action last night?"

"No," both answered, turning red. "I wake up like this all the time," Sherlock continued.

"So, you have a lot of one-night stands?"

Sherlock didn't get it for a moment, but once he did, his face flushed deeply. "I have never been in a relationship, much less a sexual one."

Harry rolled her eyes. "John, ibuprofen." John nodded, walking to the cabinets and searching through them for the pill bottles. When he found the one labeled 'ibuprofen' and handed it to his sister.

"Don't overdose. That's dangerous."

"Is it a danger night?"

The man's voice was cool, yet worried, or as worried as the man was known to get. "We never know until it happens."

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked. John turned to face him.

"I think so. I guess I just spaced out." He paused, trying to reorient himself. "Now, what do you two want for breakfast?"

Sherlock attempted to look defiant. "Nothing, as always."

"Pancakes it is. Harry?"

"I'm good with that." John took out a pan and put it on the stove. He'd been eating takeout the past few weeks, so seeing the domesticity of it was a bit strange. Or not seeing something disgusting on the stove is strange.

Sherlock and Harry waited on the couch for John to finish, Harry because she was hungry, and Sherlock because he liked having John's attention on him. It was entirely irrational, but then, this whole emotions business was. He hadn't expected John to agree to the proposition of being boyfriends so easily. Maybe it had something to do with the...no, never mind, there was no logical reason why John would ever want to date someone like Sherlock. He pondered it for a while, but Harry broke his concentration with a wave of her hand.

"Hey genius guy," she said. "You look like you're thinking about something sad."

"I wasn't really," Sherlock answered curtly.

Harry laughed bitterly. "Yeah right. That's the expression my brother used to wear all the time. I'm a drunk, not stupid. You look fine when he looks over, but then when he looks away, your face slips. You're not okay, and you don't want him to see."

Sherlock looked at her with, as the general public called it, 'new eyes'. "You remind me of one of my friends. And..." He hesitated, knowing he could be made vulnerable with the words, "you're absolutely right. I am not okay."

Harry smacked him upside the head. "Idiot. You could have started with that. What's the problem? It obviously has to do with John."

"Something that has lasted far too long and I'm trying to rid myself of." He would say no more about it, mostly because John was finished with breakfast.

"Alright, you two, here you are." John came back over with a large plateful of pancakes to see Sherlock with his arms folded, turned away from his sister. The gesture was oddly childish on someone so tall and gorgeous and John, stop that thought right now. Harry liked to get things out of people, and she'd tried it on Sherlock, who wasn't having any of it. "Harry, leave him alone. He doesn't like the prying."

"How do you know what I was doing?" Harry asked indignantly.

"You are exactly correct, John. She was prying," Sherlock said, face shifting slightly. He looked much happier now that John was back, but that couldn't have been the reason. John was imagining things. "I haven't had pancakes in a long time. Do you have any chocolate chips?" he continued eagerly.

John laughed at the man. "Yes, I do as a matter of fact. What're the magic words?"

Sherlock tilted his head at John, seeming to contemplate something, and then stood up. He took barely a stride and abruptly wrapped his arms around him, laying his head on John's shoulder. John was close to frozen, being very surprised, and yet unconsciously leaned into the touch. "Can we go on a date today?" Sherlock asked.

Catching his breath, since Sherlock had drawn it out of him, John replied, "Those aren't the magic words."

"I don't know any such 'magic words'," Sherlock said, voice vibrating into John's shoulder. "I was just asking a question."

"The magic words in this case are, 'may I please have some chocolate chips'." John could almost feel Sherlock roll his eyes. "I'll get them as soon as you let go of me."

"But I don't want to let you go." Sherlock did, but the look on his face was pouting.

"Thank you, darling," John smirked and went back to the cupboards to grab the bag of the sweet stuff. Sherlock wondered if he really heard John call him darling. It sounded flirtatious and sexy coming from his lips. Damn.

"Now dig in, both of you." John had come back with a yellow bag in his hands. Harry had three pancakes on her plate, while Sherlock had one, but once he had a hold of the chocolate chips, the two were about even.

As John ate, he watched the detective. John had weaknesses for dark hair, and curly or wavy hair, so having someone with both traits, especially one like Sherlock, with his brilliant mind and a face like a fallen angel's, had a great possibility of making this relationship go very far very fast. But that wasn't the aim of the relationship, John reminded himself. The point was for Sherlock to move on, and find someone else once John bored him.

John didn't want to entertain that thought for long.

"That was marvelous," Harry said after successfully inhaling her pancakes. "My hangover feels slightly better. Johnny, I need to go to the market."

John didn't question this, but Sherlock found it a rather strange request. "Why does she need to go to the market?"

Harry clammed up, and John groaned. "This is kind of a sensitive subject."

"I know all about those." He smirked. "My brother is the British government."

Instead of answering, John turned to Harry. Sherlock would have to wait until Harry was gone if he wanted to know why Harry was leaving. "You have my number if you need me."

"Gave you my number," a man asked, deceivingly perky.

"Get those off him." Someone pointed to the red lights on his chest.

"Too fun of a game to do that."

"People have died." There was a note of desperation in his voice, but only John knew it was there.

"That's what people DO!"

"John?"

He looked up. "Yeah, you can head out now." Harry gave him a worried glance before heading out the door to 221B.

"John?" This time it was Sherlock asking.

"Yes?"

He tapped his fingers restlessly on the table. "Can we go on a date?"

John smiled and hugged him. "Of course. Where do you want to go?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Angelo's. It's a nice Italian establishment not too far away, plus, I helped the owner out of a rough spot, so we might get the meal close to free."

John nodded. "Sounds good. Until then, I can show you what other things boyfriends do." Sherlock's face went blank. "Have you seen any movies recently?" He shook his head. "Alright, then I can show you my favorites."

Sherlock agreed to that, curling up with his head in John's lap on the couch as soon as the movie started. The detective seemed peaceful, happy. This made John feel a little more calm. He'd been restless, just a little. He didn't know what he wanted, and it bothered him.

Sherlock was perfectly content with the situation. John was warm and soft and his hand was running over Sherlock's curls, threading through them. He'd always wanted someone to do that. "She goes to the market to see if she can find Clara again," John said suddenly, ninety-four minutes into the movie.

"I always believed sentiment did bad things to people." Sherlock paused. "I became its victim and now I'm not so sure."

John's expression was heartbreakingly gentle. Sherlock wanted to kiss him until their lips were swollen. "It's okay to love and be hurt. That's what happened to you, you loved and were hurt?"

The stabbing pain from his nightmares was back. "Yes." He nestled even closer to John, if that was possible. The movie continued, with its gigantic holes in the plot that Sherlock pointed out more times than he didn't. When it (finally) was concluded, John asked a question.

"Sherlock Holmes, will you go out with me?"

Sherlock scanned him and made sure he wasn't joking. "Why?"

"I realized we didn't do anything properly when we started this experiment." John's eyes sparkled. "You don't know much about dating, do you?"

"No."

John laughed, but it was sweet and made something in his stomach flutter. Of course, that was scientifically impossible and therefore not what was really happening. "It starts with a question. Will you go out with me?"

Sherlock blushed. "Yes."

John blushed a bit as well. "Lovely. Now, how about we make our way through these, as you called them, 'detrimental' movies and wait for my sister to come home, and then we can go out on a real date."

"Yes," Sherlock said again. This might become more than an experiment, the genius thought. And I will not object that at all.

John was standing right in front of a window, and not five meters away was another window, one that he could see through but could not reach. He had a gun in his hand, a standard military-issue Sig Sauer, and it was loaded and ready. Two men stood in the other window, both holding pink and white pills in their hands. The time was now.

He carefully took aim and shot.

Later, he remembered the bright orange shock blanket, and the indignant man under it, insisting it wasn't necessary. When he caught sight of John, he immediately stopped talking, staring at him. Once they were free of the nurses and police, the man told John, "Nice shot."

The two of them talked about the case for a few minutes, finally bursting into laughter that many stared at them for. "Shh, this is a crime scene," John said breathlessly before dissolving into more giggles.

Both men left the place, knowing their lives would never be the same again. John woke, but didn't remember a thing.