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They had just finished a series of tasks that Sherlock had indifferently rated no higher than a five. Now, after three days of silence on the front of London crime, their flat resembled more and more a battlefield: in addition to the ‘execution’ of the walls, there was shooting at mugs, and John almost tenderly noted that his favourite crockery had escaped Sherlock's bored wrath, while the kitchen table had been successfully blown up during the latest experiment. The man had grown accustomed to toxic discoveries and explosive substances in the middle of their living space, but the collection of vials containing anthrax in the fridge and the exploded pancreas from the pyrotechnics, the remnants of which the bored genius had not bothered to clean up, looked increasingly desperate with each passing day.
The detective lay wrapped in a silk pyjama on the sofa, which now bore a striking resemblance to the wall in the number of completely non-random bullets fired from his well-concealed pistol, and he was nervously tossing his phone in the air.
“Lestade still won’t write anything because of this,” John hissed, intercepting another toss and stuffing the mobile into his trouser pocket.
“Bored!” the detective grumbled, sulking in discontent. His keen gaze slid over to John. Brushed his teeth twice before dinner, used cologne – a date! A new shirt, more expensive than usual. “You have no reason whatsoever to feel insecure.”
“Brilliant…” the man breathed in admiration. Sherlock smiled shyly – he would never get used to the compliments that slipped so freely from John's lips, directed at him. John smiled thoughtfully, “Ahem, so she likes me?”
“How could anyone not like you?” Sherlock replied in the tone he usually reserved for Anderson. John should have been indignant, but Sherlock's straightforward answer pushed all other thoughts to the background.
“That’s very sweet of you,” John replied with a shy smile, “but sometimes I just don’t fit someone’s type.” People don’t like to admit it, but they love to argue – Sherlock’s words came to mind. He certainly wasn’t fishing for compliments; he simply wanted to hear more of the detective’s insights about the upcoming date. In the end, it didn’t really matter that Sherlock held him in such high regard; it was purely a matter of practical interest. This time, John was genuinely a bit anxious – the woman was a step above what he was used to, and her curly black hair framing a pale face with expressive blue eyes was indeed captivating, just like… No, he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about that before a date.
“Then they’re idiots,” Sherlock stated indifferently, retreating into his Mind Palace.
For the rest of the evening, John couldn’t stop smiling.
The dinner went surprisingly smoothly, and Katerina charmed John even more than during their first meeting. They laughed a lot, discussed modern medical trends, and drank a few glasses of wine. John had made it a rule to avoid talking about work and Sherlock on dates, after his last girlfriend had rudely lectured him about his dependence on Holmes. The phrase "latent homosexuality" was mentioned by her exactly eleven times. This rule seemed to be useful, as soon, quite unexpectedly for both of them and after finishing a second bottle of wine, John was kissing her in the taxi, while Katerina's fingers were slipping under his shirt.
When John returned to Baker Street, he was greeted by a blowtorch that had smashed a window. The noise set off someone's alarm, and a chorus of barking dogs joined in. Overall, John was glad to be home, although his slight hangover made him long for some peace and quiet. He wasn’t surprised that Sherlock was the cause of the chaos, but he certainly didn’t expect to be knocked off his feet by a cloud of acrid tear gas rapidly filling the ground floor.
The doctor had barely stepped inside, covering his mouth with his sleeve, when he was pushed back out by Sherlock's body.
"Out you go, right now!" John nodded in agreement, his sleeve still covering his face. His eyes were already beginning to water from the gas. The detective looked no better – his curly hair was dishevelled and coated with a layer of white residue, his eyes were red, and the fine silk barely concealing his body was singed. John couldn't help but laugh.
"You’re not angry. I’ve poisoned our flat, and you’re not angry. Why aren’t you angry?" Sherlock smiled sheepishly, still too close to his doctor. Feeling John's muscles contract with laughter was… extraordinarily pleasant.
"That’s not it; I’m just in a good mood, and even replacing the glass won’t spoil it. Seriously, Sherlock, a blowtorch?" The detective looked almost frightened, eliciting a wave of affection from John.
«I urgently needed to increase the ventilation in the room,» Holmes announced in a serious tone.
Both men burst out laughing.
«I asked you to make tea two hours ago.»
«Well, I wasn’t at home. If our kitchen stops being a biologically hazardous area, I’ll make you tea.» Not that he didn’t tempt fate every time he ate there day after day despite Sherlock’s mess.
«Why weren’t you at home?»
«I had a date.» Sherlock wasn’t asking that. A glance at the lipstick mark on John’s new shirt, along with the fact that he’d come home in the morning, was enough for even a blind man to understand what his flatmate had been up to during the night.
«You don’t have sex on the first date,» Holmes objected in the tone he usually reserved for stating deductions. What makes her different from the others that you stayed over on the very first day?
«I’m not discussing this with you, Sherlock.»
John smiled thoughtfully and adjusted his shirt. Sherlock frowned.
After the toxic gas had cleared from the flat, the day on Baker Street passed quite peacefully. Mrs Hudson helped John with the cleaning while the detective sprawled on his bullet-riddled sofa with a vacant expression. Watson could have sworn he felt Sherlock’s heavy gaze upon him, but he could never catch the man at it. Every time he looked up at Holmes, the man invariably appeared to be deeply engrossed in his own Mind Palace.
After a few hours, when the flat was tidy and the surfaces free from the toxic residue, John was ready to snap and interrogate the detective about his strange behaviour. Not that Sherlock Holmes’s usual behaviour could be described any other way, but the man would be damned if he let him get away with conducting experiments on him again. And he sensed with every instinct he had that the detective was up to something.
«If you drug me again, infect me with some disease, viruses, anything at all, I swear to you, Sherlock, I will pack up and leave you alone with your experiments,» John declared, knowing that Holmes understood he was bluffing, but even the saintly patience of the doctor could wear thin when treated like a test subject.
This instantly caught Sherlock's attention; a fleeting look of alarm flickered in his ever-changing eyes, an expression so uncharacteristic of the detective. Over time, John had learned to read the self-proclaimed sociopath better and had grown accustomed to interpreting even the slightest displays of emotion from the man. The fact that Sherlock was not in his "Mind Palace" was confirmed by the way he had heard John's words.
«I can’t promise you that you won’t encounter something from that list while we investigate cases,» Sherlock replied cautiously.
«That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking you not to deliberately subject me to dangerous and toxic things.» The deceptively innocent look on Sherlock’s face did not impress John in the slightest. «You’ve been watching me all day but hiding it—why? Are you conducting some kind of experiment on me?»
Sherlock seemed to flounder, though John knew better than to take it at face value. «I… um, no… I mean yes. No experiments. No dangerous chemicals, viruses, or psychotropic substances.»
Sherlock's uncharacteristic nervousness only heightened John's concern. If Sherlock was playing a game, he was doing it masterfully, but his behaviour was far from coherent. Or was this also part of some plan? Suddenly, Sherlock jumped up, threw his coat over his robe, and muttered, "I need to leave," before rushing out the door, leaving a stunned John in the empty sitting room.
Are you alright? Where are you? - JW
Sherlock, I'm worried, please respond! - JW
If you don't show up within the hour, I'm calling Mycroft! You'll have to endure his teasing when he finds you. - JW
He’s been at Bart's all day, Doctor Watson. – MH
Don’t you have more useful things to do, like, I don’t know, running the country? Rather than monitoring our private correspondence! - JW
John put his phone down, feeling a sense of unease rising within him. He knew that Sherlock could be unpredictable, but this was pushing it. What could have compelled him to leave so abruptly? John stood up, deciding that he couldn't just sit and wait. He quickly got ready and left the flat, determined to find Sherlock.
“I’m not checking your correspondence, Doctor Watson. That’s handled by my assistant.” – MH
“Damn Holmses,” John hissed irritably as he made his way to Bart’s.
“Hello, Molly,” the man nodded politely, shifting his gaze to Sherlock, who was engrossed in the microscope. The man’s mobile vibrated on the table in front of him, completely ignored. “Oh, so your phone is working! You could at least make an effort to answer it so I wouldn’t have to come looking for you!”
“Mycroft informed you of my whereabouts,” the man waved off casually, not taking his eyes off the instrument.
“You should have told me where you were!”
“What does it matter who informed you of my location?” John’s anger had no logical explanation for Sherlock.
“Damn it, Sherlock, I was worried about you! You suddenly dash out in just a coat in this cold, without any explanation, disappear for five bloody hours and… what was I supposed to think? How am I to know you haven’t run off on some extremely dangerous case, that you’re not bleeding out after getting involved with some smuggling ring? You could at least have replied to say you were alright!” His hands were clenched into fists, lips pressed tightly together, his military posture sharpened, and the usual softness in his features that concealed the man’s strength had vanished.
“Boring. If I had a case, I would have called you,” the detective replied indifferently, preparing the next sample.
“Stop pretending to be an idiot!” John spun the man’s chair around to face him, looming over him. “What the hell happened?”
Molly watched them with concern, her curiosity outweighing her respect for their privacy. After all, the men had chosen to speak in her presence, and it seemed they didn’t even notice her.
“I needed to compare the effects of various soils on the rate of decomposition…”
"Please stop," John interrupted weakly, placing his palm against the man's jaw in a pleading gesture, as if trying to soothe a wild animal with a gentle touch. "I won't leave, even if you've already drugged me or infected me with something. God, I hope it's not anything fatal. Are you scared because of this?"
"I'm not scared," Sherlock huffed indignantly. "You're clean, John, I haven't done anything to you. I wouldn't... You're my friend... I wouldn't..."
The man smiled gently at the quiet confession. It's not every day one hears something so sweet from Holmes. The tense intimacy was interrupted by John's phone ringing, and Sherlock donned an indifferent expression, returning to the microscope.
John sighed wearily and pulled out his phone. It was Katerina calling, and for a moment, memories of the previous night sparked a surge of excitement. This woman had truly captivated him, considering the unusually strong reaction of his body to a simple phone call. This time, John didn't notice the heated gaze boring into his back, too distracted by the prospect of discussing a second date. Molly did.
As soon as John hung up, inspired by the thought of a late meeting, the girl called out to him. They were standing in the corridor by the laboratory door, and Molly gestured for him to follow her towards the coffee machine.
"Sherlock looks unhappy," the girl began cautiously, keeping an eye on John's reaction. He shrugged.
"Sherlock often looks unhappy when he has nothing to do."
"He’s jealous," the brunette said bluntly.
Years of pursuing Holmes hadn’t given her even a fraction of the intensity of the gaze directed at the man during the call. Despite her frustration at Sherlock ignoring her affections when he wasn’t using her for his own gain in cases and access to fresh organs, Molly genuinely wished happiness for the detective—who, of all people, only noticed the army doctor. They had circled each other for too long, exchanging tense glances when the other wasn’t looking. But Sherlock’s behaviour today was too unusual, even for him. His entire stance in the lab screamed tension, and Molly wasn’t blind enough to miss that he had been staring at the same sample for hours, lost in his own thoughts. Not in the Mind Palace.
John laughed nervously. "Are we talking about Sherlock? Tall, dark-haired, dangerously handsome, self-proclaimed sociopath?"
"I’ve hoped for years to see that look, but today it was directed at you," the girl said seriously. "Think about it."
As John stood in the corridor, his coffee had gone cold.
He wasn’t going to cancel the date because of Sherlock’s childish jealousy, he told himself as he sat in the taxi on his way to Katarina’s. She had invited him to her place for the second day in a row, and although things were moving too quickly for him, the man couldn’t help but feel joy at the prospect of spending time with this woman. She greeted him in a dress and barefoot, her black curly hair flowing down her shoulders with a hint of moisture, and her grey-blue eyes, framed by lush lashes, seemed to change depending on the lighting. For a moment, John saw a resemblance to Sherlock in her, but the illusion quickly dissipated in the softness of her gaze. The man was definitely not going to think about the similarity between his flatmate and his girlfriend. He might have had a type, but that didn’t mean he would ever prefer the smooth curves of a body as slender as a reed over a woman’s form. He certainly wasn’t going to dwell on that, the doctor repeated to himself, feeling like an idiot. The touch of her soft lips nearly knocked the thoughts out of his head.
Not wanting to scare the girl with nightmares and understanding the necessity of at least a few hours of sleep before his shift, John, wishing Katarina a good night, made his way home. The apartment was dark, which surprised him, and he smiled, thinking that it meant Sherlock was finally asleep. His flatmate’s daily routine left much to be desired, and as a doctor, John truly didn’t understand how the detective managed to derive energy from such a minimal amount of food and sleep.
Trying to be quiet, John carefully hung up his coat and keys and turned on the light.
“Damn it! Sherlock!” Ready for any surprises, as usual, but not in his own dark living room, the former soldier practically jumped at the sight of the detective sitting in his chair with his arms folded under his chin. “You could make some noise, you know. Just to avoid giving me a heart attack!”
“Your heart is perfectly fine, John,” the man replied calmly, not changing his position.
“How long have you been sitting here in the dark?”
“And what day is it today?” the detective countered indifferently, as he always did when he didn’t want to answer a question. This was progress compared to the first few months when Sherlock simply ignored questions he deemed unworthy of his attention.
A tense gaze scanned John’s figure, and at the information gleaned, the detective’s lips curled in disdain. The man rarely saw such an openly disgusted expression on Sherlock’s face, usually aimed at Anderson, but never directed at him. A pang of hurt shot through his chest.
“I understand that you consider yourself above us, the goldfish, preoccupied with all sorts of human needs, but…” What could he say? Ask him to stop looking at him with such contempt? Sherlock was never restrained, even on his best days. It was unpleasant to feel that look aimed at him.
“I don’t.” Sherlock cut in seriously, still piercing him with his gaze.
“What? Fine… it’s nothing that such things disgust you…”
“John, you’re listening, but not hearing. Sex doesn’t disgust me.”
“Hmm, yes, alright, that’s good. So why are you looking at me like that?” Suddenly, Molly’s words flashed in his memory. Is Sherlock really jealous? “Look, I’m not planning on getting married and having children right now, it’s just a little fling. You don’t have anything to worry about; my relationships won’t affect our work.”
“You’re falling for her,” Sherlock stated coldly, ignoring the rest.
“It's far too early for that. We've only been out twice,” the man tried to justify himself. He liked Katarina significantly more than his previous partners, but they had only been seeing each other for two days, and his personal life really wasn’t Sherlock’s concern.
“Why?”
“Because it takes time for feelings to develop, to get to know each other better, much better, Sherlock.”
“No. Why are you falling for her?”
“Look, I don’t know. And it’s not really your business, is it? She’s just beautiful, clever, and makes me laugh.” Sometimes it was nice to feel more knowledgeable in some area than the detective. But Sherlock’s complete lack of understanding of human emotions wasn’t always so endearing. John was glad that the man was asking questions, trying to understand the nature of normal people. Sherlock was clearly deprived of human attachment, even though he deserved to feel loved more than anyone else. For the umpteenth time, John wondered what had happened to this brilliant man that led him to ignore human connection. “Sherlock?”
That morning, the detective didn’t speak again, and John irritably slammed the door as he left for the clinic.
Lack of sleep was taking its toll on his work and was certainly not compensated for by regular sex. He was fortunate that his last two patients exhibited classic signs of flu, allowing him to make a diagnosis even when his mind was solely focused on a warm bed and eight hours of sleep. By the end of his shift, he received a message from Katarina inviting him to a late breakfast, and he reluctantly laughed in relief—his body wouldn’t have survived three consecutive nights like this, which didn’t diminish his desire to see the woman soon. He simply welcomed the break for some healthy sleep and tried not to get too irritated by the realisation of his own age.
John was not at all surprised to see a black SUV parked outside Baker Street, but he silently prayed to all the gods that Sherlock wouldn’t dash off in the middle of the night on a case, as he was equally incapable of either accompanying the unruly genius or leaving him to put himself in danger alone.
The man took a deep breath and tried to perk himself up, ready to face the inevitable squabble between the two geniuses, who acted like petulant children every time they found themselves in the same room. Sherlock would surely argue with every word of Mycroft’s, regardless of how significant the matter at hand was.
Perhaps he really did need to sleep more often—that was the first thought that came to John’s mind as he stood frozen at the entrance to the living room. The sight presented before him, whether he liked it or not, was definitely a product of his fevered imagination. When, after an awkward blink, the image didn’t change, he was forced to check his pulse, which turned out to be much faster than normal.
He certainly hadn't expected to find Sherlock bloody Holmes on his knees and memorise the bony thighs. A taut, naked back moving into taut flesh, not only uncovered by the slightest piece of cloth, but invitingly exposed to John's view. The spread thighs left no bite to the imagination, exposing tender skin, the half-hardened cock jiggling in time with the movement of the man's head, whose lips encircled Mycroft's hard erection.
While John's cock momentarily hardened from the explicit picture, his mind was working in the opposite direction, completely refusing to process what was happening.
The detective looked up completely shamelessly, still wrapping his swollen reddened lips around his brother's erection, and met John's blue eyes, causing a wave of arousal to instantly sweep over the man's groin. Shame, in turn, squeezed his throat as his brain deigned to signal that the bloody vision was not a dream, a hallucination, or an idea of his sick imagination, which he wasn't, in truth, officially sure of, because Mycroft's embarrassed, shaking hands shoving his erection into his trousers didn't fit his worldview any more than Sherlock's absolutely lustful visage, which seemed to be enjoying the involuntary exhibitionism.
‘Sherlock. Dr Watson.’ The man nodded politely with a look of British government restraint escaping. A nervous twitching of the lips spoilt the cold-blooded image.
The whole situation seemed surrealistically incestuously wrong, but where there should be furious disgust, John found only an overpowering shame and excitement that only added to the sense of wrongness, the impossibility of what was happening.
‘Um, Sherlock,’ there's no small note of panic reflected in the doctor's voice, which he's trying to make sound calm, ’You do realise Mycroft is your brother, don't you?’
The naked Sherlock was still on his knees, his pale thin skin emphasising thin long bones framed by elegant muscles, his hair a complete mess and his high cheekbones coloured by a blush. The picture was completed by swollen flushed lips, still wet with saliva, and John's vague mind was still trying to realise that a moment ago they had been moving desperately on the older Holmes' erection.
‘Obviously, John. Marvellous deductive skills, you've practically outdone Anderson.’ There was unconcealed mischief splashed in Sherlock's eyes, and the soldier swallowed nervously. Somehow the man's shamelessness is more frightening than the flushed erection sticking out between his long, bony legs. Between his legs, he aches from the lack of touch, and John feels complicit. It pulses insistently in his head that this is wrong on so many levels.
‘So what is it, ahem? You... with him... How? What the hell?’ A wave of shame is picked up by indignation, and the doctor is damn glad to finally feel a more familiar emotion directed at his friend.
‘Eloquence you picked up, apparently, there as well. Perhaps you should be in the same space less often...’
‘Why were you fucking Mycroft bloody Holmes in our living room, Sherlock?’
John's gaze involuntarily slid lower, lingering on the blood-slicked protruding flesh framed by the hair that looked so soft... John swore. The detective had the bloody nerve to look embarrassed.
‘It was an experiment,’ Sherlock pronounced, losing his smug look along the way.
‘Shit! Are you out of your mind? What kind of experiment justifies incest with Mycroft... god... Not only is he your brother, he's also Mycroft!’ The man himself wasn't sure what he meant, but more frightening than the irrational incestuous bond was the doctor's realisation of who the bond was with.
‘I can't disclose the objectives of the experiment yet, so as not to skew the results,’ the detective replied nervously, shivering at the lack of clothing. The cocktail of natural chemicals began to subside, giving way to tension.
‘Do you love him?’ The man said on the verge of being heard, suddenly looking vulnerable.
Sherlock wanted to habitually brush off that caring was not an advantage, and remind him that he was a high-functioning sociopath, but he bit his tongue at the last moment, and surprisingly, to himself, told the truth. ‘Of course I love him, he's my brother. But if you ever tell him that, I'll deny everything.’
‘No, I mean, are you in love with him, Sherlock? Romantically.’ The detective could hardly resist the urge to call John an idiot, but eventually recognised the question as logical.
‘No, I'm not in love with him,’ he replied with a note of disgust in his voice. ‘It was for the sake of the experiment.’
John still looked confused. ‘So, um... So you're not regularly engaging in incest with your own brother or something?’ Sherlock shook his head, throwing him an annoyed look. ‘Then why with him? Why not use someone... with a lesser degree of consanguinity! Or rather, fucking Sherlock, without any blood relation at all! Was doing it with his brother part of the experiment too?’
‘Not exactly...’ The man looked uncomfortable, wrapping his arms around his bare shoulders and looking under his feet. At the sight of this, John's anger finally melted away and he led the utterly unhinged detective to the sofa, trying to ignore the inappropriate images popping up in his mind, and wrapped the man, who was beginning to shiver, he wasn't sure whether from nerves or cold, in a blanket. Sherlock hummed gratefully and burrowed his head under the blanket, muttering, ‘I couldn't bear to touch someone else...’
John stared in surprise at the perpetually cold detective's unexpected display of vulnerability. A mixture of tenderness and resentment overwhelmed him, and it took a few moments to realise the reason for this strange emotion. The doctor wanted to be embarrassed and brush off his own feelings, but looking at Holmes he realised that he could not respond to the revelation with anything but sincerity.
‘You know, you could have come to me... I thought we were friends, and you... Shit, I realise I hardly gave the right impression,’ Sherlock looked up in surprise at the blond man's uncertain muttering.
‘In the time we've known each other, you've claimed not to be gay more often than you've said your name,’ the man reminded him gently, and with a piercing gaze read every thought that flashed across John's face.
‘I'm not gay,’ the man too hastily confirmed. ‘But better me than...’
‘Mycroft is gay,’ the brunet's gaze burned with intensity. ‘He wasn't disgusted that I touched him.’
‘But he's your brother!’
‘So what!’ The man grinned bitterly, tears standing in his angry eyes. ‘Is that the only reason you would tolerate my actions? Would you allow me to touch you just to keep my mouth within the moral norms of a social construct? Would you feel honourable for setting up a hard cock to prevent a deviation that is disgusting in society's understanding?’
‘God, no, Sherlock, of course not,’ John gently moved closer to the man, and gently ran his palm into the dishevelled soft hair, hoping it would have the same soothing effect on the detective. Sherlock flinched fearfully at the unfamiliar touch, but immediately relaxed under the caress as John touched the tips of his fingernails to the man's head. The soldier was amazed at the responsiveness of the tactilely ravenous detective, noticing how the lightest touch caused the cold mask to shatter, leaving the sensual and vulnerable man looking strikingly inexperienced. ‘It's your choice, Sherlock, and I shouldn't have judged you, I'm sorry. But I would never have to put up with anything. To be able to touch you, to be worthy of your trust, would be the greatest honour.’
Sherlock stared astonished into the soft blue eyes. ‘I wanted to turn you on,’ came vulnerably from his lips before he could think of the consequences.
‘What?’ Watson didn't look angry, but he still didn't understand.
‘This experiment,’ Sherlock swallowed, his pulse throbbing vulnerably in his throat, ’I wanted to excite you. Get your attention. To show you that I could be a sexual being. To make you see me in a different light.’
‘I don't understand, Sherlock,’ the man tensed, stopping the movement of his hand. The stunned eyes mirrored his own frightened expression.
‘Whatever I did, you didn't consider me available. I told you I was interested in sex and you still treated me as an asexual being,’ John nodded uncertainly, warily pulling away. ‘I wanted to show you that I could be sexy, but you wouldn't have noticed the elephant in the room. Your deductive powers, for all your intelligence and insight, are sometimes staggeringly inadequate, you fail to notice even the most obvious things...’
‘Sherlock, you set up sex with your brother to get my attention?!’ John jumped up indignantly from the sofa, beginning to wander nervously around the room.
‘I wouldn't trust anyone else,’ Sherlock muttered quietly, tucking himself into the duvet. ‘I couldn't bear someone else's touch, it seemed so overwhelming. I tried to do something with another man, a woman, and I felt like I was being skinned.’
John froze stunned in the middle of the living room, staring incredulously at the world's craziest man. ‘You're an idiot.’ Sherlock flinched as if slapped. ‘You could have just talked to me.’
‘You screamed at every turn about your heterosexuality, it would take a shocking event for you to even consider the possibility of variation...’ Explained Sherlock in the tone he usually used to describe experiments. John laughed nervously.
‘Damn, Sherlock, you're just... an idiot, that's what you are. How can such a brilliant mind be so blind?’ The detective flashed his eyes irritably. ‘I've suppressed my attraction to you for years, thinking you were asexual. If even Irene couldn't get your attention by being the right level for you...’
‘What do you mean, the right level?’
‘Unlike me, she was smart, beautiful, and played all those intellectual games with you. She seemed like a female version of you. Just as dazzlingly gorgeous and...’ Embarrassed John muttered with a blush on his cheeks.
‘You think I'm gorgeous?’ The detective's confused look brought John out of his own self-deprecating crisis.
‘Of course you are. I've been saying that since the first time we met,’ John smiled cautiously and covered Sherlock's thin hand, sticking out from under the cocoon of the blanket, with his own.
‘You said that about my intelligence,’ Sherlock remarked, looking apprehensively at the place where his hands touched.
‘Mycroft is as good as you in intelligence,’ John teased, meeting the indignant gaze. And before the detective could launch into a tirade about his brother's incompetence, he continued. ‘But I never complimented him. Use deduction.’
Sherlock's eyebrows rose, ‘Ooh...’
‘Yeah,’ John smiled embarrassedly, but the expression was full of joy and relief.
‘You mean you...?’ The hope in his voice was still filled with indecision.
‘I do,’ John grinned kindly, and leaned in for a touch of pink lips.