It's showtime.

((This scene now has suddenly become filled with sexual tension, or is it just me? XDD ))

John looked into Sherlock's eyes and he felt hope fill his chest. Maybe then, he wouldn't die in vain. He only hoped that Sherlock would not forget of this promise once he was... well... gone.
"Thank you..." he whispered.

His cheeks burned red when Sherlock fiddled with his jumper, he was not used to having him so close and he felt suddenly self-conscious.

"I- well, fine," he muttered and took the garment off, his shirt under was spotted with red all over his back.

He took that off as well and it turned out his back was black and blue with bruises and covered with knife wounds. Deep enough to bleed, but not enough to cut the muscle.

Sherlock stood up. As John removed his jumper he took it and placed it to one side then watched as he undid his shirt, slowly revealing the cuts, marks and bruises all over his upper body. Sherlock's eyes were blind with rage, his hands balling up into fists ready to strike.

"Bastard..." he muttered, barely audibly. He took a couple of shaky deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He had to stay focused, not lose control, but seeing John in this state was making it rather difficult.

"OK. It's fine. We can fix this," he said finally and headed to the kitchen. The cupboard underneath the sink contained the first aid kit which he grabbed before returning to the living room and crouching down next to John's armchair. He opened up the box and examined its contents. The wounds would have to be washed and cleaned with antiseptic first, he decided. He took the bottle and poured some out onto a cloth.

"Lean forward," Sherlock demanded gently. The wounds on John's back were the worst, so they'd deal with them first. "This might hurt a bit," he added, as he slowly applied the antiseptic to the cuts.


(( I know what you mean, lol. XDD ))

John did as he was instructed, leaning a bit forwards, hissing softly as his skin stretched and his bruises throbbed in pain. It was slowly coming down to realize just how much it hurt. He was used to pain, but he was starting to be very tired.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he whispered, and before he could stop himself he started to think about everything that he would miss the most about this. About being with Sherlock.
Would the detective miss him?
Would he hardly notice his absence?
Would he blame himself?

He jumped slightly when Sherlock started to apply the antiseptic, but then relaxed, closing his eyes and hoping it'd be over quickly.

Sherlock tended to John's wounds gently, and as quickly as he could, washing each cut with antiseptic then either applying a plaster or, to the larger cuts, a full bandage wrapped round his stomach.

Once it was done he carefully replaced John's shirt and slowly did up the buttons for him, crouched in front of him at his feet. He remained silent, his mind focused on a potential plan. Eventually he stood up, and slowly picked up his coat off the back of the chair.

"Where's your gun John?" he asked calmly. "I'm going to go and kill James Moriarty. Right now."

When Sherlock knelt in front of him, doing up his shirt, John felt his heart clench in his chest. He just wanted to lean closer and melt in a hug, he just wanted to tell Sherlock he would always remember him, and he would do anything for him, but his words were stuck in his throat and Sherlock was standing up before he could move his hands to bring him closer.

"I don't have it any more... he took it..." he admitted, looking at him. "And I doubt you would be able to find him, Sherlock... challenging him now would only get you killed..." he muttered, shaking his head.

"OK fine," Sherlock huffed impatiently, and hurled his coat back down on the chair. He headed through to the kitchen and sat down at the table, sorting out his test tube rack. "We'll wait for him to come to us....I've got an experiment I need to finish anyway..." He continued setting up for the experiment, his mind still turning over the events again and again.

Sherlock sat down at the table and blew out a deep breath slowly, letting go of his anger. He glanced at John with a small smile, "Let me know if you need anything," he said kindly, then turned his attention to his unfinished experiment, pouring one strangely coloured chemical into another and watching with a satisfied grin as it bubbled slightly.

"This won't be the end John," he continued speaking whilst working, "He'll be in contact soon enough. This is a game for him. And it's only just beginning...."

John looked at Sherlock for a long time, it was amazing just how much he could guess just by simple things.
He couldn't possibly imagine what had really happened though. How could he? It was crazy to begin with.
"I know," he said simply, wincing a bit as he stood up.

"I think I will go rest... too much excitement for one day," he muttered, moving closer, leaning down to press a kiss on top of Sherlock's head.
He would have never let himself do this in normal circumstances, but he was going to die, he didn't have anything left to lose. He could be a bit selfish.

Sherlock shivered as he felt John's lips touching the top of his head. It was an unusual gesture, he thought, and not something his flatmate had ever done before, but these were unusual circumstances, and it was understandable that he would be stressed, in shock perhaps, in need of comfort.

Without looking up from the microscope Sherlock moved his hand down to grasp John's.
"Sleep well John," he said quietly.

He felt the other's hand grip his and for a moment his heart stuttered. If it had been a girl, he knew it would have been the signal, but Sherlock hadn't surely meant it that way.
He looked at him for a long moment, hesitating, his hand still in Sherlock's as his fingers moved to squeeze back.

"Sherlock," he muttered, even though his friend didn't seem to want to look at him at all.


((Am I allowed to Johnlock this? 'Cause John is a bit desperate about having to die >> ))

(( Be my guest. The sexual tension is ridiculous. ))


Sherlock continued to work with his one free hand, moving a slide to place under the microscope and staring at it thoughtfully. He was vaguely aware that he could still feel John in his other hand, and wondered why he hadn't gone to bed yet. Then John said his name.

"Mmm?" he responded without looking, but when no further utterance from his flatmate came, he forced his eyes away from the work and turned his head up to face John, standing by his side. "You OK?" he asked quizzically.

John was about to give up and go to his room when finally Sherlock turned to him, he felt his heart clench in his chest and then beating fiercely in his throat.
He wanted something, anything, everything.

He nodded, squeezing his hand again.
He leaned closer, his forehead against Sherlock's.
"I just-" he whispered, if this was his last month on earth, he wanted to try to have what he had always wanted.

So he kissed him, softly, innocently, closing his eyes and trying not to sigh at how warm Sherlock's lips felt against his.

And then he pulled away, looking at him, hoping that his friend wouldn't take it badly.

John's hand was still in his, and Sherlock wondered what it was his friend wanted to say. He could tell by his tense body language and worried expression that there was something on his mind. John leaned in, their heads were touching.

Sherlock could feel his friend's pulse racing as he held his hand. Then suddenly their lips were together. A kiss. John was kissing him. Why? Why was he kissing him? Why...why...why did it feel so...good? It only lasted a split second but Sherlock could feel an odd tingling on his lips from where John's had been.

"You kissed me," he said simply, staring up at John's face. "Do you....I...do you like me...like that...?"

John's eyes sparkled softly as he pulled away, his head a bit dizzy for the amount of feelings that were swirling in his head.
"I did," he confirmed, almost leaning in again to prove that he did it and could do it again.

The personal question made him grimace, of course Sherlock would want to know what it meant. John hadn't thought about what to say though.
"Maybe," he whispered, his fingers squeezing his hand away.

"It's an experiment..." he added, leaning a bit closer, their lips brushing against each other's again, but he didn't dare do any more in case Sherlock wanted to pull away.

Sherlock nodded slightly. John was at least using a term he understood, a concept he could grasp more easily. He stood up from the table and as John's hand fell away from their grasp, he grabbed it again, moving his other hand gently onto his friend's hip.

He stared deeply into his friend's eyes, studying them with a small frown. His pupils were dilated. His pulse was racing. Sherlock made a simple deduction. "John, how long have you been in love with me?" he asked outright.

John felt himself come undone under Sherlock's gaze, he knew he could read into his soul and it scared him. He knew he had secrets he could not share.
He felt his heart jump in his throat at the question.
What was he supposed to say?

He wanted to say the truth, but at the same time, he knew that it ran way too deep.

"You are mistaking attraction for love, Sherlock..." he muttered, looking at him with an unsteady grin. He was pleading with his eyes, pleading he wouldn't get any more questions because he knew he'd end up spilling everything otherwise.

Sherlock smiled imperceptably, slowly shaking his head. Then, as if to prove a point, he grabbed John with both hands and forced their lips together.

This time Sherlock was kissing John, and he smiled into the kiss as he recognised how John's body was responding, and registered with some surprise that his own body was responding in a similar fashion.

It was indeed, rather thrilling, kissing John, and Sherlock pulled back breathless and grinning. "Well," he said triumphantly. "That rather proves it I would think." He looked John up and down with a small smirk. "Explains a lot actually John. It all makes sense now."

John wanted to protest, but Sherlock was quick to grab his face and kiss him one inch of his life. John's body was shaking by the moment he pulled away, his mind whirring with feelings and thoughts of despair.
He wanted Sherlock.
He loved Sherlock.
But what about him?
What would Sherlock do once he was gone?

He had taken for granted his friend would pull away disgusted. That if anything, he would have more reasons to not mind John leaving.
Instead he was looking at him with a sort of happy expression that he had never really seen on him.

"It makes sense?" He repeated, confused.
Sherlock was always two steps ahead of him.

Sherlock held onto John's shoulders and stared deep into his eyes with a grin.

"Yes of course it makes sense John," he explained. "That's why you can never keep a girlfriend, why you go on endless amounts of dates but they never get anywhere, why everyone assumes we're a couple, why you spend so much time insisting you're not gay, that you're not my date and yet you still want to live with me, hang around with me, go on dangerous adventures with me. Why? Because you're in love with me John. I was foolish not to see it sooner but you've never really give any real signs until now. Now it's...glaringly obvious."

He looked John up and down, then chuckled.

John was blinking, confused, his mind was trying to find a connection between what Sherlock was saying and his actual feelings, but it seemed that the detective's leaps of logic were on a tangent.

"My inability to keep a relationship is something I had even before you came around, and you forget I like the rush and adrenaline just as much as you do, surely you don't think my whole world revolves around you, Sherlock?" he commented, and squared his shoulders proudly. "Don't laugh at me, and don't laugh at my feelings," he exclaimed with a growl, why the hell was Sherlock chuckling?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and pushed him away a little angrily.

"Don't try to turn this back on me," he snapped. "You're the one who kissed me in the first place. I was just trying to prove a point. Your heartrate increased when I kissed you. You liked it!"

Sherlock sighed, even more confused than ever. Maybe he'd misread the signs, jumped to conclusions. But why had John kissed him if he didn't love him? Was it just lust? Did John 'fancy' him? Find him attractive? But then why did he bother going out with girls if he found men attractive? Or was it just Sherlock? God knows. Things were becoming increasingly more complicated.

"Fine, fine, you don't love me," he muttered coolly, turning his back away and playing with a beaker of chemicals on the table with one hand. He knew it was too much to expect. Why should John love him anyway? He'd not exactly done anything to deserve it. "Goodnight then."

John stepped back surprised at Sherlock's tone and words, he hadn't realized how accusing he had been, his defenses had come up instinctively.
"Of course I liked it, I wanted to do that!" he exclaimed, his cheeks burning red, anger and guilt mixing in his chest as Sherlock dismissed him coldly.

"What is it, Sherlock? You want me to be in love with you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing, why would someone like Sherlock care about this?
This was the kind of reaction he would have expected from him in the first place, coldness and rejection, but why now? Was he upset because John wouldn't admit he loved him?

"Sherlock, I, I am sorry... it was a long day... I guess I am... emotionally unstable at the moment..." he took in a deep breath. "I shouldn't have done it..."

Sherlock didn't quite know what to say. He was surprised by the reactions of his own body to the kiss he had shared with John. He'd liked it, enjoyed it, and in some ways wouldn't be averse to trying it again.

It made sense to him that John was in love with him. It was logical and it followed Sherlock's own mental guidelines and rules for what love was. If John didn't fit into those parameters then suddenly the world became even more of a confusing place.

Denial. That was one of the stages of love. Sherlock had read about it. He knew all about it. It was his job to know. Just because he wasn't interested in love didn't mean he didn't know about it. He had to learn to understand it simply so he could get inside the heads of various criminals. It always amazed him how many crimes had love or jealousy as a motive.

It was clear to him that John was in denial. He'd kissed him because he loved him and was unable to contain his feelings. He'd got embarrassed because Sherlock had successfully deduced him and now he was denying everything like it never happened. Suddenly it became all too obvious to Sherlock, like when the pieces of a crime just fall into place, and frankly it bored him. Time to move on to the next case. If John wanted to mess with his head and play games, so could he.

"It's OK John, I didn't mind you doing it," he said honestly, then brushed past his friend's shoulder heading towards his own room. "Time for bed," he muttered, stretching and yawning even though he wasn't particularly tired.

John stared at Sherlock confused, suddenly feeling like they were oceans apart. "Yes, right, time for bed," he muttered, more to himself than anything, even though he didn't seem to be able to move his eyes away from Sherlock.
He said he didn't mind what he had done, but it felt like a lie after their nervous fight.

John was an honest man, he would have told Sherlock the truth had they been normal circumstances. There was nothing normal in this though, and honesty would merely make him selfish.
He had to protect Sherlock.
It didn't matter how much it hurt now... he had brought it on himself after all, kissing him like that.

He tore his gaze away, his hands balling into fists on the counter and his eyes squeezing shut as he bowed his head, willing himself to stay still until Sherlock was gone.

Sherlock quickly retreated to his room and closed the door behind him, leaning his back against it and sighing heavily.

He didn't know what to think anymore. Was John really in love with him or had Sherlock just jumped to conclusions? Was it really just lust? Either way he felt sad and lonely. Why should John love him anyway? He wasn't exactly the best friend in the world, and he hadn't given John any cause to find him even the least bit attractive.

He frowned and moved away from the door, hurling himself down onto the bed, not bothering to get undressed or under the covers. He just lay there, sinking into a deep daydream, trying to go somewhere in his mind palace that didn't hurt him.

John wasn't sure what to do.
He wasn't good at this kind of things, because his instincts were working against his mind. If he had to follow his heart, he would go to Sherlock's room and check whether his friend was really okay with what had happened, he would confess his feelings and he would apologize for being an ass.
But then what would happen?
Did Sherlock like him?
Did he want their kiss to mean something?
Would they end up in a relationship?

He shook his head, all sorts of scenarios playing in his head and he really couldn't afford himself to become emotional.
He had to do something, he had to find a way to get out of this situation.
And if he managed, then maybe he could tell Sherlock about his feelings.
Otherwise, it was better to stay silent.

He pushed himself off the counter, grimacing at the pain that throbbed down his back and to his legs.
"Fuck," he mumbled to himself, and slowly limped towards his room.