A/N: Alright my lovely readers, the third part is here! John starts it off with some humor but don't worry, it ends with a lovely cliffhanger ;D

I'll have the fourth part up tomorrow; Taste (you know what that means guys…!)

Fun fact(s): It is beautiful outside, and my heart is all aflutter with the joys of having OVER 100 REVIEWS!

Thanks to all you fantastic readers, especially TheReturned, Sendai, 5, iamjohnlocked18 and starrysummernights for their fantastic reviews. Seriously, I wouldn't be doing this if you all weren't so supportive and just plain freaking awesome people. So thanks again :)

As always, enjoy!

Part Three – Hear

When you live with someone as terrifyingly individual as Sherlock Holmes, you get used to hearing the most outrageous things and replying to them as if someone had simply asked whether or not you take sugar in your tea.

Which shelf does the severed head go on? That'd be the third down, away from the vegetables, thank you.

When was the last time you found a blow-torch left unattended? Actually that was just two days ago, funny story really…

And, his personal favorite: how many appendages a week do you find floating in your coffee? The answer to that is too many, mate. Too many.

John was entirely too used to those types of things and if he thought too much about it he may in fact start to wonder at his own sanity. Then, earlier today, this little gold nugget popped into his head and had been rattling around there for the past hour:

Is it usual for your flat-mate to make moaning noises as he sleeps on the couch?

No. No, actually it isn't.

The doctor had been trying desperately to ignore the deep, sensual noises which had been emanating from the other side of the room, try to just to lose himself in his book, even reading aloud at one point. His mind was having none of that, and instead sent annoying tingles down his spine whenever he heard that soft yet unmistakable "uhhn," omitted from those posh lips. John took a quick glance to make sure the detective was still asleep, which was of course a terrible a mistake. One he was getting entirely too accustomed to making.

Now he got an eyeful of an unabashedly free looking Sherlock. Wanton, even, John thought to himself dizzily.

On rare occasions, the younger man would effectively pass out on the sofa. This was nothing new, happened once or twice a month. Often he would stretch from his normal state of scrunched-up-grumpiness to a much longer, thinner position, as he was now.

Except this time Sherlock's arm was stretched above him, his other was on his hip; this time his chin was propped down on his arm, giving him a terribly young look with those dark lashes brushing against his skin, that dark hair haloing his sculptured face; this time his shirt had ridding up and thus exposed a pale white abdomen, the hint of nicely accented ribs glowing in the light out the window; this time John was looking. He was really looking.

With a ragged inhale, John continued to stare, listening for the soft in and out of that breathe he was sure would taste like honey and ash, perhaps sugar-sweetened coffee as well. Listening for that heartbeat he had missed out on for three years, the one he had waited so patiently to hear again. Listening to those moans resonate out of that long, arching neck like some kind of hail to sinful lust and innocent passions.

Giving in to the fact he had already lost the fight, John closed his eyes and simply concentrated on what he heard, personified them as best he thought he could.

If sounds could touch things, could float through the air all erratic yet graceful like hummingbirds, those moans would be grazing their fingers on the tanned cheek of that doctor. He'd feel – hear - the tips on his temples, moving into his hair to trail through it like some kind of exotic fur. He'd feel –listen – as those moans as they touched his lips, made lazy circles on the skin just below his collar-bone. There'd be nothing in his ears but the flooding of that deep vibrating baritone, like some sickly sweet ballad to the damnably aroused. His own moan pierced the fog-thick tension of the room and he heard a sudden intake of breath, a gasp which was not in fact his own.

Opening his eyes hastily, John could see the eyes of his flat mate focused bright and aware on him. Almost hot under the scrutiny, the ex-soldier stood his ground and held his breath. He could still see a small triangle of pale skin under that thin grey t-shirt, the shadow of a hip bone and the dip of a naval crater. He wanted to know how Sherlock tasted there, would it be sweet like his body wash or salty like sweat? He wanted to know what kind of noises Sherlock would make if – when – John's tongue made a lazy outline of that small blemish then laved at the middle, leaving a small coat of saliva behind to glint in the light like a shining accessory.

As if he could read the mind of his flat-mate, Sherlock's body seemed to tremble and John could hear his shuddering intake of breath, could hear that seemingly untouchable man adjust himself. The man sitting stiffly in the obscenely large arm-chair looked out the window, at the floor, at the cluttered table, anywhere besides his obviously affected friend.

Resting his gaze on the skull on the mantel-piece, John tried consulting it. Why would I effect Sherlock? How could I affect him, me of all people? Really, he couldn't be… no, it wasn't possible… the skull didn't in fact talk back to John but in his mind, as the gears finally stopped turning, transformed into puzzle pieces and simply fell into place, he had his answers.

Sherlock knew the exact moment John realized it. Finally used his eyes and did not simply look; finally used his eyes and dug deeper, observed. He knew the exact moment his friend finally accepted what was practically neon in front of him: Sherlock was attracted to him, in every single sense of the word possible. Not only to his fantastically bright conductions but also his unfaultable sense of loyalty, his deep power and resolve, his humanity, his heart, his love, his body, his… everything. John. It was simply John Sherlock was attracted to, no other.

When he had first woken, he was aware he was in a position of a most exposed nature. He didn't particularly care, often disregarding modesty as just another tedious bit of nonsense the commonwealth occupy themselves with. But when he realized his friend was seated in his chair across the room, Sherlock began to listen. Keeping his eyes closed to keep up the illusion he was still unconscious, he listened for the cool air around the room, the whir of the city outside their windows, the not-entirely-steady in and out of Johns breath… if he listened any harder, he swore he could hear the dust floating in the sunbeams coming through the windows.

Upon hearing John Watson's moan, for the first time he could recall – and Sherlock had never deleted a single solitary moment of John from his mind – an almost violent and painful shock had gone through his nervous system. Like the sound itself had invaded his blood stream through the pores of his skin, wormed their way up and around his vertebrae to wreak havoc in his temples. It was like he throbbed with it, keeping tempo even though it had only been one beat, not even spanning the length of a full quarter note in a four-four time signature.

Now it was just rest upon rest upon bloody rest as the men watched one another.

He felt almost like the fist which had held tight to his lungs finally extracted itself when John looked away. He could breathe, finally, but each inhale tasted sour, sounded wrong. He wanted this man to make him breathless, wanted this man to suck ever bit of oxygen out of him and exhale new life from his own strong lungs. The detective wanted to hear and deduce and memorize every single noise John would make as he sucked at that tanned neck, bit at his muscles and licked that Adams-apple till it bobbed with a moan and a plea for more.

Sherlock had made a promise to himself, a promise that if John ever looked at him with that unabashed hunger again he would act upon it and choose for the both of them; the decision he knew his friend was waiting for him to make.

Rising swiftly from his position on the couch, Sherlock took three long strides till he came to kneel right in front of his doctor, colleague, friend. When John's ocean eyes – at what moment had Sherlock started to appreciating that needless expansion of salty-blue? – snapped to meet his cool grey, the detective took a small intake of breath. He heard John exhale deeply as the long, pale fingers came up to frame his face, tracing thumbs over cheeks while fingers played with the short crop of that ashen-blonde hair.

And because this man mattered more than the stars and the solar system, Sherlock waited.

One… give him a chance to refuse, he thought as he watched every single detail on that rugged face.

Two… you have to give him time, he lectured himself as he slowly began leaning in, his own heart beating like a bass drum in his ears.

Three… oh please don't let him refuse, he begged as he felt that breath on his own cupid-bow lips.

Hesitating only for a brief second to watch those wondrous pupils dilate, Sherlock heard that breathy moan and lost all control.

The final thing he thought he heard before sensation laid siege was, finally.