[Sherlock walked straight to John. "My bedroom or yours?]

/ / /

John was again nonplussed — interacting with Sherlock often felt like if you never really knew on which foot to dance, on a tune that suddenly changed every time you believed you had finally caught the rhythm…

"What?"

Sherlock didn't let the non-response stop him and just pondered out loud while taking John's hand: "Yours, I guess — Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind, but I think you would."

"No, Sher—"

Sherlock interrupted him, tugging on his hand to make him move along as John was evidently still too thunderstruck to resist the pull. "It's fine, John. I cannot exactly guarantee my degree of participation, but I'm fairly sure I could make it enjoyable enough for y—"

John's synapses finally collaborated again, and John freed his hand with a loud "I SAID NO!" He then pinched his nose and breathed through to calm down. "Jesus! One moment you'd happily couple me with about everyone else, then the next you're trying to boss your way into my bed?! What the—"

Sherlock cut him once more — face inches from him this time, as usual when trying to be particularly convincing, and talking in that trademark kilometres-of-words-a-minute way of his which often had John either (sometimes) mesmerised or (most often) concentrating to follow to the point of being unable to interrupt. "Listen. I've had more than time enough to weigh out everything and to know that this was the most probable outcome, and I've made my choice long ago — right away, actually; but you weren't sure about yourself, so I tried to help you figure things out, either way they might be. But it seems that you are, now. You won't have anyone else; so, fine, you can have me. You MUST have me."

John was perplexed about how to react to such an avalanche and finally decided the wisest was probably to get out until both their tempers would have calmed down. "I must?! Do you even realise— This is madness; I am SO not having that discussion." He turned to take his leave.

"Oh John, come on! I trust you with my life; what's something as trivial as my body compared—"

John turned back to face Sherlock at that, unable to control his exasperation and even hurt but trying to explain some apparently badly needed basics about human interaction.

"Your body isn't trivial, Sherlock. It's sacred. To me, at least. You should show it a bit more respect. And if you think that I could ever lay one finger on you knowing you don't want it, then not only you are insulting me, but even worse, you do not know me at all."

"Don't be ridiculous John, of course I am willing" — eye roll included, and John exploded: "No, you're not! Why—"

John fell silent. The usual persistence, but over such an out-of-character matter this time, had suddenly dissolved John's anger into worry, and sordid possible scenarios started playing in John's head about how Sherlock had come to apparently have such a biased and objectified view of his own body. Sherlock had always considered his body as solely the vessel containing his mind, right; but this, this was different. It felt desperate, and bordering self-sacrificing and plain wrong and — John felt nauseous and unable to breathe: what if the key about Sherlock's evident admiration yet ever-irritation towards Mycroft was that no matter as super clever as he was, he had never sensed that something bad had happened to his little brother?

"Because it's happened before!" Sherlock fired back right away as an answer to John's unachieved question, though it was hard to tell from his tone if it was in defeat or to make a point — probably both in fact. He calmed down though when he met John's (probably on the verge of freaking out) gaze and explained: "The only student at Uni who seemed to appreciate me. And then one day he… proposed, and I declined, and he disappeared. Changed from university in the middle of the semester and all. And he didn't matter, but you… I need you. It's like breathing."

Relief — and warmth — spread through John, and he couldn't help but joke affectionately: "I thought breathing was boring?"

Sherlock insisted. "It is! But don't you see? I'm the one doing the breathing; you, you're the oxygen, fascinating source of life — and for the record I'm not attempting to be poetic; I'm just stating a fact. In order to function, I need you; alive, and well, and preferably at my side. And after the lengths I had to go to ensure about the firsts, I'm not going to lose you over such details as eventual bed activities."

John sighed — a by now acquired body reaction when he didn't know whether to smack some sense into Sherlock or hug the man to death. "You know, for someone as bright as you are, you can be remarkably dumb sometimes."

Then he reassuringly came back closer to Sherlock. "I'm not going anywhere. I know how it is to be without you, and believe me, I have no intention to go through this ever again. I was a mess; truly, it wasn't a pretty sight."

"I know."

John was surprised by the audible guilt in Sherlock obvious slip: Sherlock evidently didn't mean that he knew the feeling of missing John too — which could only mean that he actually knew exactly how bad it had been for John. He hushed out in disbelief: "You used to check on me?"

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, as a kid preparing to get chastised or so, and John both dropped the subject and used it as an extra argument. "Well, then, how can you think that I would willingly put myself through this again? I won't leave you, not now, and not ever — at least for so long as I have a say in it. So you can stop right away with worrying far too much over what is, as you just said, details."

John took one of Sherlock's hands in his for emphasis, holding it up between them. Sherlock looked at their hands, obviously puzzled — "I can have your hand now?"

"You can have my hand any time, as long as you're not acting like an idiot." John smiled, then kind of pressed/shook Sherlock's hand between his. "This, Sherlock. This is enough. More than enough for a life time."

Sherlock seemed taken aback, a rare sight. His ever-determination though was clear to hear, even through a somehow shaken voice: "Promise me, John. Promise me you'll give me the choice if it ever gets too much."

Sherlock's blatant vulnerability (for Christ's sake!) sliced through John painfully; he looked like a kid who had never been allowed to eat chocolate entering Willy Wonka's chocolate factory with a 'eat as much as you can' pass and unable to believe any of it.

"Fine, Sherlock; I promise. Not that there is any chance for it to happen anyway, but if it appeases you, I promise. I'll even do better. I'll be an open book; I'll stop trying to filter anything out. All I expect in return is that you stop turning a mouse into an elephant and scheming behind my back about a situation that involves us both: no further matchmaking or any other silliness, all right? — oh, and please snap me out of it if I ever start to stare at you for too long in the Yarders' presence: not that I care about what they might think, which they are already thinking for years anyway; but it wouldn't exactly be professional, huh... So, do we have a deal?"

Sherlock seemed to regain his usual confidence and countenance. "That sounds… acceptable."

"Good." John let go of Sherlock's hand. "Because if you ever take me for a particularly stupid — if I may say — hormone-driven teenager again, I will kick your sorry ass into next year instead of being oddly sort of flattered that you actually considered to... add me on that list of yours, and for something more than curiosity."

Sherlock sat down, facing him, now relaxed and smiling kind of mischievously. "Oh, just be flattered, John; very, very flattered."

John couldn't help but make a double take: "You mean…?"

"Of course! You know me, how is that so surprising?"

"Well you're so prone to experimenting that I'd thought… for science… you might have experimented, even if you didn't actually wanted—"

"Well, I don't see how this means a partner had to be involved." John still couldn't believe he was having such a discussion with Sherlock, of all people. You bet the "TOO MUCH INFORMATION" board raised up in his mind. He was probably making a weird face which Sherlock misunderstood, because he felt like explaining further: "Well, in the cause of science, as you said. And it was boring in its predictability, and quite messy afterwards, and, worst of all, it made my mind blank for about two minutes. Two minutes John! And Mycroft's condescending sigh the following morning at breakfast 'Ohhhh, not you, little brother'..."

Oh. So that was it. The reason for Sherlock's unique dynamic with his older sibling. The reason why Sherlock always surprisingly insisted that Mycroft was better than him, yet made a point of crossing him and annoying him at each occasion. The reason for that particular mix of respect and antagonism. The reason why Sherlock so badly needed to perpetually prove himself, not only to the world, but to his brother, and to himself. Sherlock envied his brother's detachment capacity. (The Iceman. John should have realised this the moment Sherlock had told him with a sneer how Moriarty had nicknamed his brother.)

And Mycroft was wrong: sex didn't alarm Sherlock; losing control did. (Which should have been hilarious coming from someone who had used to take drugs; but John knew from past conversations that Sherlock had by then always sort of controlled the uncontrollable. But how could one dose an orgasm, huh? Being betrayed by his own body must have indeed felt insufferable, for Sherlock.)

John felt like explaining to Sherlock that the fact that he had worked to mould himself into what he wanted to be instead of simply being so by nature made him actually better than Mycroft. And that Sherlock should be whoever he wanted to be, notwithstanding anyone else wishes, even his own.

"You're perfect just the way you are, Sherlock. You don't have to change for me. And you don't have to be another Mycroft."

Sherlock eyed him minutely, and then shrugged while smiling, his usual way to signal he was joking: "Thanks God. I would never be able to eat that much cake."

The teasing was childish, and old — and John had in fact never seen Mycroft eating any cake, by the way. But, just like that, John knew they were indeed all right again…