Title: Attached

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not my characters, sadly.

Warning: slash, Sherlock/John

Summary: John begins acting strangely. Sherlock observes and comes to a realization.

Sherlock woke, annoyed. Judging from the level of the light against his closed lids, he'd slept for three and a half hours, time he could have spent doing something productive rather than catering to the needs of his tired body. He flung a hand up to cover his eyes, feeling the springs of the sofa digging in to his back. Someone was thumping up the stairs—John, judging from the halting gait. The heaviness of his steps told Sherlock he'd walked from work and the slight hesitation on every other stair bespoke a stopped at the market. Yes, there was the rustle of the shopping bags as John swung through the door. Sherlock laid still, listening as John deposited the shopping—three bags—on the floor near the door and toed off his shoes with a stifled groan. More evidence of the long walk from the clinic to home, Sherlock decided. Muffled because John had noticed him lying there.

John gave a little chuff of-exasperation? No, softer. Amusement, perhaps-as he moved towards the sofa. Sherlock felt a blanket being draped over his frame, John's hands moving on either side of his waist, tucking it around him. Suddenly, the hands froze, retreated, and he heard John walking up the stairs to his room on stocking feet. Sherlock waiting for the door to close before he sat up. Curious. John had left the shopping by the door-something he never did because he didn't trust Sherlock to refrigerate anything. And, just as he'd pulled away, Sherlock had felt John's hands tremble. Very curious, indeed.

Sherlock knew very well that he was different from real people, the mundanes that wandered through life, never seeing what was right in front of them. He observed. So, when John emerged a few minutes later and asked Sherlock what he wanted for take away, Sherlock began to train more than his usual attention on his flatmate. John acted the same as always, ignoring the way that Sherlock made only a noncommittal noise in answer to his question about dinner, not looking up from the lens of the microscope he had liberated from Bart's. Later, John rummaged through Sherlock's wallet as he always did, using his card to pay for the food and signing Sherlock's name on the slip. He budged Sherlock's blood samples over, earning a disapproving glare, and laid out dim-sum and egg rolls on the side of the plate nearest Sherlock, piling rice and General Tso's on his half. Sherlock's hand snaked out and captured one of the egg rolls, his eyes never leaving the eyepiece. Everything was normal. No sign that John was anything other than composed and relaxed. A real person might begin to doubt what they'd observed; perhaps think it was all in their minds. Not Sherlock.

"I'm going to Sarah's. See you tomorrow," John announced after he'd finished the washing up. Nothing new there. John had been going over two or three nights a week since he's been upgraded from the sofa to the bed. Sherlock made no move to acknowledge him, most of his attention still trained on the blood samples. Cold cases were usually so dull but he had promised Lestrade he'd solve two a month in return for unlimited access to the really fun crimes scenes.

"Right then," John said and there was something strange in his voice, enough that Sherlock's eyes slid to the side and caught John shaking his head, lips pursed. He looked irritated, which made no sense because they'd lived together for months and John was used to his silences by now. Sherlock quickly reviewed the past few minutes, looking for a reason for John's annoyance and finding nothing. Usually, he'd ignore it, chalking it up to the general annoyance people felt when dealing with him. But something made it stick in his mind long after John had put on his coat and swung out the door.

Sherlock had no time to consider it further that evening, as Lestrade called soon after that with a body in the Thames. Sherlock spent the next fifty-two hours interviewing suspects, chasing down leads and finally texting Lestrade: Father's alibi is fake. Arrest him. John was waiting for him at home, cartons of take away littering the sideboard. He hitched a sigh at the mess Sherlock had made of the sink, then pushed a plate of noodles in front of Sherlock with a firm, "Eat." Sherlock did so, with the ferocity of someone who had only just realized that they hadn't eaten in three days. It was always like this after a case, mind still going with nothing to occupy it.

"Got anything on tonight?" John asked. Sherlock looked up. John's tone had been casual—too casual.

"Case solved," Sherlock answered, "And my quota filled." He gestured with his fork to the stack of folders Lestrade had pressed upon him.

"What, you've already figured out both?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A domestic homicide and a murder for hire. Nothing much to solve."

"Want to go out? There's music in the park tonight." Sherlock laid his folk down on his now-empty plate and fixed his attention on John. He was dressed the same as always, jeans and a black jumper, his bearing upright but just a bit stiffer than normal. It was the slow flush crawling up his neck that Sherlock found truly interesting. Embarrassment. No other sign of it though, but then John had always been better at controlling his reactions than most people. Came with the Army training.

He expected Sherlock to refuse, Sherlock decided. That's why he felt embarrassed.

"What sort of music?"

John's posture relaxed a bit and his right hand came up to rub at the back of his neck. "Dunno. Mozart, maybe. Classical." He waved his hand and drew another breath, to rescind the offer, Sherlock imagined, but Sherlock spoke first.

"Bring a blanket. It rained earlier and the grass will still be wet."

Two hours later found them under the stars, gentle strains of Brahms wafting through the still night air. It had warmed up after the afternoon sprinkling and Sherlock had removed his overcoat, laying it over his knees and leaning back to survey the vast canopy of stars overhead. He remembered once that he'd commented on their beauty and John had been surprised, thinking that Sherlock cared little for beauty. Not true, of course. Sherlock recognized the beauty of stars, just as he recognized that people thought him beautiful. He noticed the way they looked at him- men and women both-the way they stammered or blushed, like Molly in the mortuary. Sometimes he used their interest towards his own ends, letting them believe what they wished until they finally worked up the courage to ask him out and he said something cutting to conclude the matter.

Sherlock wasn't moved by beauty. He didn't make a fool of himself over a pretty face, had never felt a stir of lust for a lovely, muscled body. The packaging didn't interest him. Unraveling the mystery did. The problem was that so few people were a mystery. His eyes cut over to John, replaying both their conversation and his aborted attempt at tucking Sherlock in, watching for clues—body language, tone of voice, change in breathing. Yes, when John had touched him, there's been a subtle hitch in his breathing, just before he'd pulled away. And another, in the kitchen, when Sherlock had looked up at him. Combined with the flush, the trembling in the hands, the way that he'd asked to come out to the park, Sherlock was suddenly confronted with the question: Was this a date?

No time to ask John. Lestrade phoned. The father had fled the country, no leads to his whereabouts, begging Sherlock to find him. Twenty hours and a quick trip to Calais later, the suspect was in custody and Sherlock was back at the flat just as John was leaving.

"Going to Sarah's," he called to Sherlock over his shoulder.

Not a date, then.

John was watching him. Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him but when he looked, John's would slide quickly away and fix on the tellie, pretending to be enthralled in the newest episode of Big Brother. John's hands were balled into fists in his lap, Sherlock noted. The next night it was the same, and the next. John would look and then clench his fists like he wanted to strike someone. Sherlock wondered if it was him John wanted to hit—not unusual and a few people had even done it—and if so, what for? Sherlock couldn't think of any variation of his behavior of late. True, he'd cut a hole out of John's red jumper because he'd needed fiber samples and yes, he'd left a dead cat in the bathtub, but that was hardly out of the ordinary.

Perhaps John was getting tired of dealing with him. Everyone did, eventually. His previous flatmate had moved out in the middle of the night, not leaving a forwarding address (Sherlock was able to deduce that he'd gone to Cornwall and had all the bills sent on). The one before him had moved in with her boyfriend, leaving behind nasty notes stuck in random drawers and cupboards with 'Piss off Sherlock' writing in messy scrawl, and all because he'd told her about her father's affair with an Irish barmaid.

It didn't trouble him. Sherlock knew, in a remote sort of way, that he was difficult. He knew that people resented his intellect, hated that he told them things they didn't want to know. It didn't trouble him because he didn't care about people generally. The game was what mattered and if people got their feelings hurt, well, that was their problem, wasn't it? It never troubled him.

So why was he troubled now?

Sherlock pulled the bow across the strings of the violin, drawing out a long, melancholy note. John's routine had changed. That evening, he'd said, "Going to Sarah's. Be back in a few hours." Which had piqued Sherlock's curiosity, because why come back when he could stay the night? He'd come back an hour ago and bypassed the living room for his own bedroom, leaving his muddy shoes downstairs on the mat. The mud, which Sherlock had analyzed under the microscope, came from Regent's Park; the opposite way from Chilworth Street, where Sarah lived. John had been gone roughly ninety minutes, which meant he could have walked to Sarah's but stayed for less than an hour before having to double back to the park. It had started raining at 9:15 and John had returned at 10:20. Judging from the saturation from his coat, he had been outside during most of the rainstorm, possibly all of it.

Which meant he hadn't gone to Sarah's. Which meant he had lied.

But why? Perhaps he was meeting someone at the park, but why keep that a secret? True, John did like to keep his private life separate from his work with Sherlock. He never talked about his job or his relationship with Sarah, for which Sherlock was immensely thankful. Still, John didn't lie when he didn't feel a need. So whatever he was hiding was important to him and it was something he didn't want Sherlock to know about.

Sherlock thought about his deduction from this evening and his own reaction to it. If John wanted to leave, Sherlock couldn't stop him. But the thought did disturb him and he'd been asking himself why all evening. He and John got on well, which is more than he could say for his other flatmates. John listened to him, wrote down his finding in his blog, came when he called. He was convenient. And the company was agreeable; better than the skull, certainly, though he never intended to tell John that.

Sherlock liked that John watched out for him and that John thought to tuck a blanket around him while he was napping. He liked that John filled his plate with food, fully knowing that Sherlock would steal bites. He liked the way that John was contained and level-headed, that he could count on him in a pinch. He liked that John could make him laugh at himself. He liked the thought of coming home and having John here, found it comforting.

He liked John.

And, if he were truly honest with himself, he liked that he'd caught John watching. With most people it was an annoyance, a hindrance to be manipulated or squashed. With John it was…intriguing. That was a new sensation for Sherlock, to be intrigued by something that did not involve gruesome death or serial murder. To be intrigued by someone. To want to touch and to be touched.

Right. He was so totally buggered.

Somewhere around three a.m. it occurred to Sherlock that he was an idiot. He sat bolt upright, the violin sliding off his lap onto the floor, and bounded up the stairs. He didn't knock, just slipped in to John's bedroom. It took less than a minute to slip between the sheets and plaster the full length of his naked body up against John's. He felt John come awake with a start, muscles still tense even after the initial shock.

"Well, this is new," he said.

"I believe it's one of the oldest things in the world," Sherlock countered and shifted enough to grasp John's good shoulder and pull him onto his back. "I am an idiot," Sherlock informed him, conversationally. He twisted and slid the full length of his body on top of John's.

"Really?" John gasped as Sherlock's hip rubbed against his erect cock.

"A week ago, when you saw me sleeping on the sofa, that's when you first realized, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked. He bent and pressed his mouth to the line of John's neck, feathering kisses up towards his ear. John stretched to give him access.

"Yes," John moaned when Sherlock bit down on sensitive skin, then soothed with little laps of his tongue. "When I touched you; I knew."

"Mmmm," Sherlock acknowledged, working his way up towards John's ear. He nibbled on the lobe and John squirmed underneath him. "And the park?"

"Had to get away," John shivered when Sherlock's breath fanned his ear. "You were too damn beautiful; I thought I'd go mad if I couldn't touch you." The words spilled out, John's sleep-roughened voice making them unbelievably sexy. Sherlock drew in a long trembling breath and pulled back, looking into John's wide eyes.

"What about Sarah?" He didn't care, not at all. But he didn't want John regretting anything later.

"To hell with Sarah," John said and wound a rough hand into his hair, pulling Sherlock down into a kiss.

A long time later, Sherlock asked, "Why did it take you so long?"

John snorted. "Quite sure of yourself, aren't you?"

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and gave John an arch look. He was more relaxed than he'd been in ages, would probably sleep later, but not before John indulged his curiosity.

John sighed. "I…when we first met I thought you were beautiful." He noticed Sherlock's amusement and chucked a pillow at him. "Stop, you. Or I won't tell you."

Sherlock made a placating motion, which seemed to satisfy John enough to continue.

"I mentioned it. Ask if you had a boyfriend, remember? In Angelo's? Made a right fool of myself."

"Ah." Sherlock remembered. He'd told John he was married to his work.

"And then I tried to put it out of mind. But it was always there. And I realized that it wasn't going away and so I broke it off with Sarah, night before last. What I had with her…it was nice but it wasn't…" John shook his head. "It didn't move me." He turned and looked at Sherlock with a serious expression. "You do." He looked very vulnerable and a little lost.

"John…" Sherlock started. He didn't know exactly what to say, something like 'I feel it, too.' Or 'Stay.' but he didn't have the words and had never even wanted to before now. He reached across the space between them and took John's hand in his. John looked up, smiled and understood. Sherlock lay back, closing his eyes. His last thought before drifting off, his fingers still tangled with John's, was that he was never so glad to have been an idiot as he was now.