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Three years since the outbreak and John Watson still doesn't know what to make of it. Like all doctors, he'd heeded the call of city and country as England did what all smart island nations did the moment the moment WHO released a statement that the virus had spread outside of America through international travel. It shut down completely. He'd not paid attention to the politics of it, hadn't bothered so much with the news. John had his work to do, people to treat, safety and quarantine to enforce. His world because St. Barts'.

At first, isolation seemed to work. Patriots were forced to stay outside of the relative safety of Great Britain as the airports and the Eurostar stations shut down. Ferries between the islands were discontinued.

The problem was that no one could isolate whatever it was causing humanity to change. The virus didn't seem to kill the host's brain, just every other part of their systems. A day post infection, the victim would become feverish. Two days later, they'd succumb. And after that...nothing short of dismemberment could stop them. It wasn't airbourne. And not in the blood either. Just the saliva. John had never seen anything like it. The internet called it a zombie plague, but that wasn't quite right either.

It took six months for everyone worldwide to realize that quarantine wouldn't help. Infections sprouted up for no discernible reason. People turned in the Underground, in shopping centres, on the playground. London, and the country, didn't stand a chance. The government fell overnight. Society followed.

And John just stayed on at St Barts'. He stopped trying to do the most good. And just attempted to survive.

It's not easy, even for an ex-soldier. There's no heading down to Tesco's any more. Ammo is impossible to come by. But if John, and the others holed up in St. Barts' still want to eat, someone has to go out. And that someone is almost always John.

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It's similar to when John had been tending to his hair. Light gestures. Soft. Affectionate. And something Sherlock Holmes hasn't had a great deal of. Even as a child, his mother had spent most of his life very young life ill and his father absent. And Mycroft? Well, you could imagine how touchy-feely he got. Which is to say hardly at all.

He's getting the distinct impression that the heat in his face isn't so much fever. His feet are too cold for that to be the case.

"No, I managed to catch it before it got too violent," Sherlock tells him, watching the other man from his spot on the bed. He's not sure if he wants to sit up too or if he wants to stay right where he is. It's pleasant to have John's idle touch on him and he doesn't feel like interrupting it.

"Did you want to sleep more?" Well, obviously he would sleep more eventually. He doesn't think it's been all that long since they'd lied down. But, John could want to go wash his face or get a drink of water.

"I ought to," John concludes, removing his hand almost immediately from Sherlock's hair as if that last request was mostly a hint that he'd gotten a little too touchy for what John assumes is a more physically closed off man. He touches his own cheek instead, even presses his tongue against it from inside his mouth, and then pulls off his shirt.

It's warm, he finds, sleeping so close to someone. He doubts Sherlock would mind. John did wash his hair for him and yes, he'd requested Sherlock to stay the night, but this shouldn't be out of the realm of what's right or decent for friends to endure.

In the darkness, the scars across John's skin stand in an interesting relief across hi chest and shoulder, especially after he lays on his back. There's a tilt of his head in Sherlock's direction and a muted yawn against his own shoulder.

"I'll try to keep more quiet," he tells his friend. It's a little harder to fall asleep this time, however. He does truly wish he'd been allowed to stroke Sherlock's hair a bit more. There's a reason pets are brought to the hospitalized and the elderly... They serve as comfort when stroked. Sherlock, oddly enough, is the same way.

Sherlock manages to keep any hint of disappointment off his face when John moves his hand back, but he does sigh in a quiet way. Oh well. It had been nice while it lasted, if a bit of an oddity between the two of them. They've spent more time touching each other tonight than a month back in Baker Street. Well, most of the touch was John touching him. He'd only returned it in a few short intervals.

"Do you always yawn in your bedmate's face?" Sherlock asks him, after John lets out the yawn. He'd seen the effort to cover it and he's not exactly offended from it. But, maybe all that singing nonsense has woken him up a bit.

After a few moments of lying shoulder to shoulder, Sherlock rolls onto his side to face John. He bends his right arm sharply between them and uses it more or less as a pillow. It's somewhat uncomfortable, so he shifts around until he sneaks it under their pillows where it will be out of the way. His healing arm stays in place against his side.

"Do you want me to keep singing?" Sherlock asks him after a moment. He'd played John to sleep with his violin on a few occasions. The first specifically being to prove he could do just that.

"Sometimes," John confides, laughing just under his breath again. "Sometimes, but only to the very understanding." He lets Sherlock shift, the old bed agonizing about the way he rolls to and fro, and does his best not to yawn again. Ultimmately, the attempt is a failure. John's hand covers up any escaping breath, however and his body shudders slightly.

He's not surprised to find Sherlock so close, but those eyes, taken out of context, are enough to make anyone blush. John's not sure what to make of that.

His overly affectionate few hours with Sherlock have been a way to reassert a bond that's never been physical... And it's helped to calm some of the touch starvation that John's been experiencing since breaking off the obviously destructive relationship with Bill.

He's use to more comforting company. He's use to having someone beside him. He doesn't want to stop touching Sherlock either, just to be sure that he's really there and--

And he needs to stop thinking now. He needs to hope Sherlock is too tired to deduce the frankly impossible thought that entered his head to stop being prudish and just allow Sherlock to be his everything.

John closes his eyes, locking away his dilated pupils, and clears his throat. "Yeah, actually, would you mind? It's nice."

Sherlock notices at once the way John starts under his gaze. Pupils dilating. He doesn't need to take a pulse to know John's heart rate is elevated, because he can deduce that from the change in his respiration. He'd been being very vague and general using the word 'love' in association with these symptoms years ago with Miss Adler. Lust is a closer definition. A physical desire.

And, Sherlock doesn't know how he feels about that. He might be exuding his own similar list of symptoms back at John. Heat. Intensity. And his own fairly dilated pupils. But it is dark in here, isn't it?

"And, do you have any requests?" he asks, searching what he can see the parts of John's face that he's not trying to hide.

Would something like that work? A physical relationship with John Watson. The thought had never once crossed his mind until just now. It's not just John, either. He's never really thought of anyone like that. Not even Miss Adler and her all too apparent advances in that area.

And maybe, he's leaning a little closer than before. Inviting? Perhaps. He won't make the first move because he's hesitating.

John's aware of the breath against his face and does his best to clench his jaw. There are no thoughts about how fair this is, no memories of how many times he so often, and sometimes venomously, denied being anything more than Sherlock's friend. Colleague. Dear god, he's doing it again. He's falling into patterns he shouldn't. He's letting his loneliness make him see what had never been there--

Well, who the hell is he kidding? It's always been there. It's why he's always been almost frantic to pull a girlfriend time after time, though so willing to let them go. He'd never been heart broken at their departure, just pleased to start the chase again, to reaffirm his heteronormity.

"Do you know anything by the Beatles?" John asks, chancing a damning glance upwards. What would the harm be, breaking through the veil?

It could cost him his best friend.

Oh, he's not sure he could stand that.

"The musical group, not the insect," he says as a bad joke and immediately follows that up by: "Can I ask you something...objectively?"

"The Beatles?" Sherlock asks him, quickly going through his mind to find any information he can. "I've heard of them, I think." He admits that much, but it doesn't say too much about how he'd be able to reproduce any of their music. He'd most likely need to ask John to sing a bit of a song and if he recognised that, he would be able to sing the entire thing without a problem.

But, that's not really the point of this conversation. Not anymore. At least not for the moment.

"Objective or subjective. You've always been free to ask me anything," Sherlock tells John. It's true, even if he's got a history of being less than kind whenever he hears the 'stupid questions'. And, at times he's scoffed at things the other man had felt important.

John is not going to hum Across the Universe for Sherlock, even if he's sang before -- and often -- in the shower and his voice isn't all that terrible. Sherlock is right about the subject of the conversation splitting, however. John's interest is something else entirely and the way he turns his face away from Sherlock -- while letting his gaze at his profile -- ought to be more or less revealing of the difficulty John is currently facing with this.

There's some uncomfortable silences here.

"You told me a very long time ago that you're married to your work, that you've no time for relationships, that you were...what was it? Flattered that I'd shown an interest but--" Flattered he'd shown an interest. Just something for flatmates to say to one another?

Get it together!

"You don't necessarily have your work anymore. Right, yes, the cure, that's certainly important and perhaps a case, but--" Do not call him out for babbling again. "I mean to say, have you bothered, these last three years, finding anyone to share time with? Like a girlfriend? A boyfriend?"

Sherlock watches John's internal struggle. He can pick up glimpses of what must be going on in his friend's mind, but nothing he can put specific detail to. He's good, but he's not that good.

The 'oh' makes it to his lips, but it passes over the larynx complete so it's not audible. With the palpable atmosphere between the two of them, he shouldn't be surprised to hear this question. In fact, he'd expected something along these lines, just not so specific. Not in the way that reminds him of that first meal they 'shared' together. Waiting for killer cabbies and chasing them across London just to prove to John that he's got something in life worth looking for. No need to cater to a depression-induced disability.

"No," Sherlock tells him once John's stopped tripping over his words. That's the short answer. "I haven't had the time or desire for any of that. Up until my last week, my 'work' had been finding my way back home." Read: Finding you.

Boyfriend. Girlfriend. He doesn't have time in his life for that. He's just got one friend and that's all he needs.

"And now, my work is finding a cure for this plague. And, as far as I'm concerned, besides myself there's only one thing in common between all three." Does John need him to be more straight-forward than that?

No, he understands, Sherlock. He just understands wrong. And the smile, because he feels he must give one, is filled with sort of internal acceptance of his lot in life. He's found someone perfect for him in absolutely every way save one...and that one thing is what he really needs most right now. Even so, it's not a deal breaker. He'll never leave Sherlock, not voluntarily.

He's never wanted to leave Sherlock, not since that horrible text summoning him to Baker Street to find the man with three nicotine patches spread out on the sofa.

He knew it. Knew then. Knew he'd never be the same.

"I'm sure I don't count," John says to himself and it's almost whimsical in it's sadness. "But I'm glad to help you this time. I am always glad to help you and I will always be...here." It's been such an emotionally draining night. This isn't helping.

This is the second time Sherlock's heard someone tell them they don't 'count' in this hospital. Molly Hooper had been mistaken. John Watson is just entirely wrong.

"John," Sherlock starts, then stops speaking. His eyebrows furrow together as he looks for words that would come easy to him if he were explaining the difference between diethyl ether and chloroform in the role of a non-polar solvent. Or if he were deducing where a victim had been hours before their death by the layers of soil on the bottoms of their shoes.

He can't move his left arm very well. It hurts and even wiggling his fingers pulls at the biceps and triceps brachii, which just irritates the area surrounding his break. He does it anyway, though. Reaching out to touch John's arm lightly because he doesn't know what he wants to say or how to say it.

"You count, John," he starts again, then frowns. "I guess... what I'm trying to say is that you're part of my work."

He knows that has to hurt and yet, John can't help but smile. Something real, something genuine this time. He grins wide and proud and reaches up to press back on Sherlock's chest before he hurts himself even more. It means... Everything. Maybe he'll just start to sob again because of it and wouldn't that be something to discuss later? Such a child, is he.

Sherlock is delicate right now, but it feels right to do so and therefore, John embraces the taller man somewhat awkwardly as he half lays, half lounges over him.

"You guess," he says, just by Sherlock's ear, meant to be a happy sort of sound. "You never guess. So yes. All right then. I'm part of your work." The world's gone to shit but at least there's this little beacon of hope out there.

John sets his forehead to Sherlock's. Still smiling, still in his happy place. Perhaps his breath isn't all that fresh but does that really matter?

"John," Sherlock says his friend's name. How many times has he said John's name in the last thirty or so seconds? Three. An average of once every ten seconds. He's starting to sound redundant, but that's what happens when great minds get confused. And, the change of expression going over John's face adds to his confusion. He looks happy. Severely happy. But then there's water forming in the corners of his eyes, which is what sparks that questioning.

But, it's good. John's moving closer and it just feels... good.

"I do sometimes," Sherlock admits about the guessing. Much like he'd guessed with the pills, but he's still adamant about 'not guessing' there. His face is starting to feel too hot again. It's not the fever. Fevers don't come and go depending on how close your friend is.

John is all smiles, but Sherlock isn't. He's enjoying this a lot, but he's also testing the waters in an area he's insecure with. He's got no knowledge of things like relationships and it's hard enough managing a friendship. He'll step on John's toes and they'll fight. It'll be worse than when they were just flatmates. And, then there are certain other aspects of relationships that he's very unfamiliar with in any sense other than forensic. Moriarty had been very right when he'd dubbed him 'The Virgin'.

As far as breath freshness goes? It would matter more if his breath weren't equally effected by sleep.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

John snorts through his nose. "Yeah," he replies softly, pulling his head back. He's not the expert at reading people like Sherlock is, but he's pretty sure he's not reading Sherlock's reactions poorly either. John makes himself comfortable because he knows Sherlock can't and he's nearly sure that he's not going to be pushed away.

Everything ended for him when Sherlock was lost. Everything...including the world. If that hadn't been a sign, no matter how superstitious John Watson simply isn't, he wouldn't know what was. There's nothing left. He'd had no one but Bill and these few people left over that managed to stay smart and stay alive.

And then Sherlock came back. At the low point. All over again.

"I just wanted to be sure that you wouldn't morally object." So yes, he's so very sure now. John's had a great deal of practice with this particular thing and Sherlock will get the benefit of an expert here. A twist of the head to avoid the collision of noses and John presses warm, rough lips from too much tongue wetting against very full, very soft ones.

It sort of makes this whole end of the world scenario worth it.

John is reading him very well. Ever since his friend's face found the place just a breath away from his, there's been one thing on his mind. An odd thing for him, considering kissing in general always seemed like such a waste. A disgusting exchange of bodily fluids that he'd rather just keep to himself. But that's not how he feels currently. He's imagining pressure and John's breath against his upper lip.

There's something else too. The warmth isn't limited to just his cheeks. And after John's admission of 'yeah', Sherlock shifts around under the blanket. Does he want it off? Does he want it on? On seems safer right now, so that's how he'll leave it.

A few times before John finally takes the plunge, Sherlock gives little half attempts to close the distance between their mouths. He second guesses himself, moves back, tries again. It's a pleasant kind of torture he's inflicting on himself. It's more than enough movement and gesturing for John to know exactly what he wants.

"No objections," Sherlock whispers at his friend. He's done enough to work himself up for this over the last couple of minutes to make it better for the wait.

John's lips are slightly rough. A little bit too dry. Sherlock doesn't mind so much, but he instinctively wants to moisten them. Like with any other social protocol, he doesn't take into consideration that the use of a tongue in a kiss means something more than just a dry kiss.

There is nothing more surprising than having Sherlock kiss him back. He's not talking about the moulding of mouth to mouth, the parting of lips, the sharing of breath-- The introduction of tongue and moisture makes the older of the two shiver as if he's back in secondary again and doing this for the first time with an aloof but attractive classmate who is way too smart for him.

If Sherlock is noting heat elsewhere, it's probably not just him. John is almost coming apart at the seams. He gently touching Sherlock's cheek, not quite so gently threads through his hair, and pulls back to follow the path Sherlock's tongue had taken over his own lip.

It just lasts for a second, that blinking wonder.

His own name had been said quite a few times and it's about now that he ought to express his own appreciation of the name his best friend had been given. It suits him so well. "Sherlock..." He just wants to check here before there's another kiss to be had.

This one will be with a great deal more tongue, perhaps some teeth, and the solid muscle of John Watson, soldier and doctor and in fantastic shape for his age, pressed firmly against the leaner, lankier form beneath him.

Sherlock decides very soon after the kiss begins that kissing is nice. He finds himself leaning in toward John with one arm trapped and useless under the pillows and the weight of his head and the other lying mostly prone at his side except for the little motions he manages to get from his fingers without causing too much of a nerve uproar.

When John starts to pull away, Sherlock follows after him for a second. Don't stop. But he can't keep up when the tension in his right shoulder reminds him that his muscle is still inflamed from his fight.

He chews on his lip for a moment, watching John. His stare is intense, maybe bordering on predatory as he pays too much attention to John's mouth and not enough attention to his eyes.

Give an addict something that feels good. Is that really such a bright idea, John?

During the short break, Sherlock frees his arm from the pillows, tucking it in the space between John's neck and shoulder so he'll be able to hold his friend still if he tries to sneak away from him before Sherlock's had his fill of this kissing business.

He'll welcome the second kiss and with it all of the new things John throws into it. The passion, the heat, and the physical manifestations of them. Sherlock is a fast learner and while he doesn't have much in terms of experience, he takes note of everything that John does that he finds pleasurable in some way, and then he practices those things right back. He really likes John's tongue against his bottom lip and the way John feels when he shifts their bodies together. Which he's more than eager to demonstrate.

One doesn't expect to find hope so late in a game like this. John's lost everything from the moment Sherlock stepped from the roof and his sanity, his humanity, and his ability to live have been whittled down to stubs. It seems fitting then that Sherlock's return has ignited everything within him again. Why'd he wait a week for this? Why'd he wait those eighteen months? How could he have denied so much what everyone else had seen?

He supposed, and idly at that, Sherlock's learning curving keeping him busy, that sometimes things might just happen for a reason. A series of chance accidents and wrong turns have led to this moment and, given the heat of it, John is very unsure if he'd change even a single thing in case they never did get here.

John is careful. He is in control. Sherlock might be squirming around like a puppy, but John knows better than to advance forward guard too quickly. Sherlock's interest has been known to fizzle out after an experience. If there's always something more to want, John will always be there to give it.

Yes, the worry is silly at his point but--

Well, it's hard not to just drag his shortened fingernails over Sherlock's ribs. He sticks to his hair and chin and throat for now because, yes Sherlock, kissing your neck is nearly as fantastic as your mouth.

There's a sweet juxtaposition between the aches and pain in Sherlock's limbs and the hum of pleasure in his core. Biochemical pathways are opening up that he's been ignoring his whole adult life. Morphine had given him a euphoria similar to this and the cocaine had been the upper that sent his heart flying right out of his chest. But together? Without the risk of landing himself passed out or hung over?

What's kept him disinterested in sex in general is an unfairly long list of how gross people are mixed with how much time he didn't care to spend on such activities. Sex and romance just aren't as important to someone who finds more pleasure in brain work. But, by God does it feel good.

John might be unhappy in the morning if he asks Sherlock too much about the experience. He cares more about his friend than anything else in the world. More than he ought to, since it's led him to some dangerous decisions. Though he's enjoying this physical outlet for frustrations and the human need for intimacy, he doesn't directly combine it with how he feels toward John. They are separate things, but John's lucky enough to fit in perfectly into each role, since there's no one he trusts more to see him at his most vulnerable than the doctor he's practically writhing against currently.

Who knows. Maybe John will convince him through gentle coaxing (or by throwing him against the wall after any adrenaline fuelled rumble with other survivors or the Infected) that he can link the two.

Sherlock doesn't follow after John when the kiss breaks this time, because his lungs are starving for oxygen. Breathing each other's respired breath is romantic in theory, but difficult to maintain for long periods of time in practice. The way he says John's name when he tilts his head to the side to expose more of that neck for John to work with might sound a bit more like begging than he means for it to. His left foot and knee try to find a way between John's legs.

"God, John. I've never been this aroused in my life," he complains, proving once again that he's a bit different than 'normal'. Although he's a virgin and feels certain apprehension because of lack of experience, he's not shy about it in any way. He's not going to beat around the bush like school girl, because that's now the kind of man he is.

John had been doing fine, just fine, until that came out of Sherlock's mouth. The older man shudders with desire, scooting his lower body so that he could see for himself if the former detective is exaggerating. He isn't. There are all sorts of things going through John's mind right now. He'd planned on holding on. On behaving. On bringing Sherlock along, little by little--

But God, he wants to be touched. He wants to touch back. He wants to see just what it is they're working with. He wants to make Sherlock moan his name again. That voice--

He swallows thickly and noses his way to Sherlock's collarbone before lightly nibbling on it. The desire to mar the skin, to place his mark upon it, becomes a deafening groan in his ears.

So why not? He indulges. Sherlock's throat is worried into a bright pink hickey. How very secondary school.

Sherlock welcomes the change in position. The way John's hips push against his to find proof and verify Sherlock's comment about his present state. In the back of his mind, he admires John's objective sense to remain thorough, but there's a different sort of feeling coming through the forefront. Basal human instinct. The humming desire to be touched.

The friction of John's exploratory reaction makes Sherlock shudder. Mildly electric. He really doesn't know what to expect. He's never had a sexual climax before. What does it feel like? Good, obviously, or people wouldn't do it. All of the small things John's been doing makes him desperately curious to find out.

"I can't reach you," Sherlock tells John as he kisses at the side of his friend's head and ear. The sensation on his neck is a good one. It sends a warm kind of throb to his groin. That makes him seek more contact. More of the friction. Sherlock's hips roll toward John's and when he gets another electric taste, John will know it because Sherlock isn't at all quiet when he moans his appreciation. "My arm, John," Sherlock mumbles, his breathing starting to sound noticeably quicker. "I want be able to do more than just lie here."

It's generally impossible to think when Sherlock normally puts him on the spot but this is something else entirely. He isn't trying to observe as Sherlock observes or rattle off facts from medical school that may or may not be useful in the current situation in an attempt to get a pat on the head from his friend. John pauses at the dip of neckline and runs his long nose up Sherlock's throat to his cheek. Just one more kiss for now, no less passionate, certainly enough to tide him over.

"Just lay back," he says, wondering if Sherlock, a man of action and of deep thought, can be contented with passivity. "Let me show you something for once."

John's by no means expert on things with men but he knows what he likes and Sherlock isn't his first male bedmate.

Clever fingers, skilled in so many things, pull at the drawstring of Sherlock's sleeping trousers before he slips his hand past the waistband and into the right leg.

He breathes in the gasp before tentatively nibbling on an ear. It might be too many new sensations at once but as long as Sherlock doesn't close down to sensory overload, it should be worthwhile.

He's a little surprised at Sherlock's girth now that he holds him in his hand and, swallowing excess saliva, tugs his hand upward.

It would be easy to get overwhelmed by all of the stimuli John's giving him. His mind desperately tries to keep up by adding actions and reactions to a temporary storage area where he can go through them and analyse them later. Light kisses on his neck do one thing, suction another. The feel of John's tongue sliding against his tendons. Even the sound of his friend's voice seems to be having a positive effect on his journey toward sexual release.

But, John's not being fair. He's getting so much data for how his own body works, but hardly anything from how John's does. A scientific mind likes reproducibility of results. Sherlock wants to give John every touch and sensation he's getting if for nothing else than to observe how similar their physical responses are.

"Laying back is worse than lying back," Sherlock grumbles. "Telling me to lay is telling me to be no more than an immobile object." As Sherlock gives his ill-timed grammar lesson, he has to pause every few syllables. Sometimes with a gasp, but usually just to mentally follow every little movement of John's fingertips over his skin. There's a little spot just over his hip that makes him gasp as John works his hand down into his pyjamas.

Distracted from his complaints, Sherlock curls his good arm around John and tucks his face down against his friend's shoulder. "John," he moans, once again squirming toward him. "You want my attention, too. Why don't you let me give it to you?"

The grammar correction is enough to make John laugh, though it's by no means mean spirited. It's just that he's reminded again of how very Sherlock Sherlock is. And he loves that. He could never completely keep that to himself. He might as well shout it out, but instead, he just kisses the words out of his mouth in an attempt to quiet it.

Alas. That's not going to be possible. And he ought to have known.

Fingers still wrapped around the throbbing member of a man who likely has never even bothered to touch himself this particular way, John props himself up to look down at the poor creature yearning to do more than simply enjoy.

Likely, John realizes, Sherlock can't enjoy anything being passive like this.

"Can you allow me just to touch you? If you want to touch me after, you're more than welcome to. I want to... I just want you to watch me." That small realization, and admittance, makes his stomach burn. But it's true.

To have Sherlock's eyes on him--

"I'm going to take your trousers off...and light a candle so you can see better," he explains. "All right?"

John would be right in his assumption that Sherlock's never bothered to touch himself like this. He'd tried it. Once. But that had been when he was fifteen years old and he became bored with it shortly after beginning and simply viewed erections as a minor irritation after that. Right now, it's much more interesting.

Sherlock lets John slip away from his embrace. His grip loosens, thinking that his friend might be moving like he'd asked him to. Into a position where Sherlock will be able to use his good arm to return some of these touches and find out things no one else knows about John's body.

"But," Sherlock starts as John begins his request. It goes uninterrupted, so he listens to what John has to say. It's difficult to think too much on speaking with John's hand stroking him.

"That's all... just watch?" Sherlock asks him, but he's uncertain. He wants to touch, too. There's so much vulnerability in succumbing to physical pleasure. Whether it's drugs or this, there's a certain amount of himself that he always keeps closed away and boxed deep down inside his Mind Palace in a locked room at the very bottom level. Showing John that makes him feel anxious. Doubly so if the pleasure will be going one way for now.

He trusts John implicitly.

A slow nod. It might be too dark to make it out. "All right. Fine. It's... it's fine," Sherlock tells him, rolling onto his back and kicking himself back so he can prop his neck up against his pillow against the headboard. "We'll do it your way this time."

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Your icon....

Take this one too!

OMG THAT ONE IS CUTE

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I thought I replied ages ago! Blast!

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