John had his head resting on Sherlock's right thigh, legs extended and crossed at the ankle, a book propped on his stomach. He seemed utterly absorbed in whatever the plot of the novel was, since he'd gone through about a quarter of the book in the relatively short time in which they'd been sitting there.

Sherlock had an open cold case file on the arm of the sofa next to him and was navigating through information on his phone, trying to pinpoint some detail that would help him clarify the motives and identity of the murderer. It was particularly troublesome and required concentration.

His ability to concentrate had been rather derailed lately and Lestrade had yelled at him once, before he'd known why. The last time Sherlock had seen the DI, Lestrade had been wearing a cheeky grin and a knowing expression and Sherlock had rolled his eyes, pointing out they had work to do. It hadn't stopped the grinning. Nor had it stopped the attempted barbs from Donovan and Anderson – as though it would actually upset Sherlock that they were needling him about this? Compared to the their standard fare – which was admittedly unimaginative – this was positively lacking in any kind of real sting.

Not that he would admit to such a thing. He dismissed Anderson out of hand, but the label Donovan had given him, "freak", it was too much of a reminder of the names he'd endured, and – for outward appearances' sake – assumed, while he'd been in school. Not at Cambridge despite the animosity he'd put up with there, but when he'd been younger.

But they'd let up recently because John had had a word with them in private and Sherlock knew this by the quick, dark glances both of them shot the doctor whenever they saw him, thinking no one would notice.

If his intelligence and ability to see patterns made him a freak, then so be it. It was almost unimaginable that anyone would choose to hide their intelligence. Why should he? He was a genius. It was simple and straightforward. If others wanted to be intimidated by it, that was entirely their own decision.

Sherlock always considered that he was spending his time well, living his life productively, doing something with value – even if that value was only applicable to himself.

He didn't think that he'd been wrong. Now he was just more right.

John was distracting him.

John had a way of distracting him. He'd noted that immediately upon meeting the doctor in the morgue at Bart's when Mike Stamford had brought him in, knowing each of them were looking for a flatmate in the city. Was Mike more intelligent than he let on? Possibly. Sherlock resolved to send him some sort of thank you card – although he'd have to ask John if this was appropriate, because John seemed to have fairly set ideas about what was socially acceptable. Was it all right to send a card thanking someone for introducing them? Even if he had just been to join up two men looking for flatmates? Sherlock was almost entirely certain Mike hadn't had any sort of romantic goals in mind for Sherlock – and probably less so for John.

He tried to concentrate on his work but it was rather difficult with John resting against his leg, creating a very focused spot of warmth on his thigh. The weight and pressure should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn't.

John shifted and Sherlock automatically catalogued the movements: he put his book face down on his stomach and raised his arms, pushing the sleeves of his jumper up to his elbows, then settled again, reclaiming his book.

Sherlock loved the way John dressed. It was so utterly John. So different from his own tastes, but John never seemed fussed about how he looked – not in a sloppy, unkempt way, but as though he were perfectly comfortable the way he was. Everything about him seemed comfortable, cosy, snug, warm. Sherlock knew John liked the way the detective dressed, so they were both satisfied.

Sherlock felt utterly satisfied right now – despite the fact that it was taking him more time than necessary to find the information he needed regarding this case. That would be John's presence, distracting him.

It was wonderfully distracting.

They hadn't just sat in companionable silence, each of them doing something quiet and mundane, for quite this long before. Not since before they'd got together, during which time John had not had a tendency to rest his head on Sherlock's leg.

They hadn't done this yet as partners because neither of them had been able to last this long before turning the situation into something else.

Sherlock smiled to himself.

Now that he'd realized that, he supposed it would not last much longer. He switched his phone to his left hand and dropped his right hand to John's right arm, stroking his partner's skin absently with his fingertips, running from John's wrist to where the pushed up jumper sleeve covered his elbow.

He felt the slight puckering of skin under his touch, the way the soft hairs on John's arm stood up in response to that. Sherlock glanced down from his phone, almost surprised.

He kept up the movement, watching as John's skin responded. Of course he'd noticed that before but he'd never really paid attention. He shifted his position slightly and felt John do the same in response without thinking about it. He wasn't really noting the reaction he was having. He was still reading, and flicked a page over.

Sherlock lightened his touch, really only brushing his fingertips over the hairs now, and saw the faint twitch in John's skin in reaction, saw John blink as his attention was diverted, then refocus on the book.

Sherlock moved his hand, covering John's right hand gently, and eased it away from the book.

"What are you doing?" John asked, tilting his head back slightly, raising his eyes to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Give me your arm," he replied, setting his phone down on the arm of the couch next to him.

"Why?" John asked, but Sherlock didn't reply, pulling John's arm toward him so that the doctor's arm was bent, his upper arm resting almost on his chest, his hand caught in Sherlock's. He tilted John's hand back at the wrist slightly, running his thumb over the doctor's palm.

This made John's fingers curl slightly and caused a very subtle shift in John's expression, desire flitting across his features.

Sherlock ran the back of his fingers down the smooth inside of John's forearm and noted the goose bumps and the faint way John's wrist jerked back up, his own fingers closing over Sherlock's left hand.

"What are you doing?" the doctor asked.

"No, this won't work. Sit up, John."

"What?"

"Sit up!"

John gave him a puzzled look but managed to fold down the top corner of one page with one hand and put his book aside. Sherlock shifted somewhat, directing John without words to lean against him so that the doctor's back rested against his chest, not quite obstructing his movements. John was still slouched down enough that he could rest his head comfortably against the front of Sherlock's shoulder and his upper chest.

"Going to tell me what you're doing?" he asked.

"Experimenting," Sherlock replied.

"Experimenting?"

"Hush."

He resumed tracing his fingers along John's arm, noting how quickly the goose bumps had subsided but how much more quickly they came back. John shifted, tilting his head down a bit so he could properly watch what Sherlock was doing. Sherlock leaned down somewhat so that he could press his right cheek to John's left, taking care not to put undue pressure on his bad shoulder.

"What–"

"I said hush."

He kept up the gentle touch on John's arm and closed his eyes, listening to the pattern of his partner's breathing, feeling the rise and fall of John's shoulders against his own chest. If he focused, he could just make out the doctor's heartbeat, slow and steady.

That wouldn't do at all.

"Sit all the way up and turn round."

Sherlock released John enough so that he could do so, noting the amused expression in his eyes – as well as the questions. Sherlock ignored these, going deeper, evaluating his partner's eyes, the colour in his cheeks, the slow and barely visible jump of the pulse on his neck.

He reached up and touched John's lips lightly and they moved immediately in response – only slightly, but it was there. Sherlock let his fingers trail down to John's jaw and trace along the sharp line and the doctor tilted his head back slightly, giving him better access.

Fascinating.

Sherlock skimmed his fingers upward, tracing John's ear then along the back of his head just above his hairline.

John sighed and leaned his head into Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock tilted his own head and brought his fingers back to John's ear, repeating the movement through his hair, earning another soft sigh.

He did this again, and did not get a sigh this time, but a hum of pleasure, which was even better.

He smiled to himself.

Sherlock leaned forward a bit, pressing a soft kiss against John's neck. He felt the muscles jump in response, working as John swallowed in surprise, and noted how the sensation warmed him, stirring desire in his lower belly. He let his lips move upward, placing light kisses until he got to the pulse just below John's jaw.

He felt it flutter against his lips when he kissed that spot and John made a small noise. Sherlock felt John's fingers lace into his hair, trying to keep him there, but the detective raised his eyes, bringing his face close to his partner's. After a moment, John opened his eyes and Sherlock smiled slightly.

John's pupils were dilated, his eyes bright. Sherlock let his right hand fall away from John's hair, tracing down the back of his neck, across his shoulder, down his chest to his thigh and slowly back up.

He watched John's pupils dilate more and wondered if his own were the same. Almost a pity he couldn't tell but it was really so much more interesting to watch John. The doctor's lips parted slightly and Sherlock could feel John's breath on his own skin, coming slightly more rapidly, although not quite as much as he'd like.

He applied slightly more pressure to John's thigh, wondering how far up he had to go before he saw any significant changes in breathing.

Ah.

Just over two thirds and John's breath hitched and his eyes brightened even more and that was no longer muted desire in his expression. He kept watching Sherlock, staying silent, eyes gleaming, lips still slightly parted.

Sherlock leaned forward, catching John's lips in a light, soft kiss, holding it only a moment before pulling away. He was fascinated by the way John leaned toward him slightly, following his movement, his eyes closed now, but his entire expression coloured with the demand, the plea, for more.

Sherlock rested his palm against John's thigh, raising his other hand to slide it under his partner's jumper. He felt the sudden twitch of muscles and skin and smiled – a combined reaction to cold and desire. Sherlock had noted almost immediately how much warmer John was, but the doctor didn't complain about his cold hands – and these always warmed up quickly in contact with John's body. John seemed to enjoy the small shock, given how his eyes flew open and his pupils suddenly swallowed his irises.

Sherlock kissed him again, just as lightly as before, and pulled back when John tried to deepen it, resulting in a low, throaty growl. He repeated the action to get the same result, but this time, the moment John gave the rumbling protest, Sherlock kissed him again making the sound reverberate through him.

His hands paused and he felt himself tremble once. John took advantage of this and pulled Sherlock closer, pinning him there, invading his mouth demandingly. Sherlock tightened his hand on John's thigh and received another moan, which he swallowed as he explored John's familiar mouth, feeling the doctor's other hand pressing into the small of his back, urging him closer.

He pulled out of the kiss again, evaluating John. The doctor's eyes were gleaming, his lips were parted, moist with just a hint of swelling from the kissing, his breathing much more rapid and shallow, his cheeks were flushed, the pulse in his neck beating rapidly, bring blood to his face.

Sherlock smiled. He liked the way John looked with the heat in his cheeks, the small red patches that came not from embarrassment, but from desire.

He kissed John again, just lightly, then pulled his hand from beneath the jumper, noting the flash of disappointment that could not be suppressed even when Sherlock wrapped both his hands over John's and stood, tugging him to his feet.

There were so many other reactions he wanted to study but these would be easier to see and draw out if they were not cramped on the couch, trying not to fall off.

John pulled him quickly into another kiss and Sherlock bent down, returning it, settling his hands on John's hips, holding him closer. The doctor gave another small moan and caught Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, eliciting the same response from the detective as John nipped at his lip, then swept his tongue back into Sherlock's mouth.

"Please," John whispered.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, stepping backwards, pulling John toward the bedroom.

He traced John's sunlit skin afterwards, lying in the tangled sheets and duvet, noting how the reactions were different, more subdued, and that John's breathing stayed slow, deep, satiated. He let his fingers trace over John's ribs and smiled into his chest when the doctor tangled a hand into Sherlock's dark curls, absently stroking the back of the detective's head.

Sherlock placed a light kiss on John's chest and raised his head, looking up at his partner who was sprawled beneath him, basking in the weak winter sunshine, eyes closed, expression blissful.

"John?"

"Mm, yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused until John slitted his eyes open, features tinged with amusement.

"I love you," Sherlock said simply.

John's eyes widened, lips parting slightly, features bright with surprise – which was surprising to Sherlock, because surely he knew?

Then John smiled, a real, pure smile, and tugged at Sherlock's hair, pulling him up for another kiss. This one was deep, ardent, but not with the same sort of desire.

John was smiling when they broke apart, sliding a dark lock through his fingers.

"I love you, too, Sherlock," he replied, and Sherlock felt himself relaxing, something settling inside him that he hadn't even known he was waiting for, and he smiled, leaning his forehead against John's. "I love you, too."