Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not one damn thing. My soul, you say? Well, see, there was this passing man who offered some money for it, and well… one thing led to another, and here I am broke and soulless. I pass that thing around more than my movie collection.

Summary: I'd like to see a problem that can't be solved with explosives.

Boom.

John Watson was a lot of things. A soldier. A doctor. A friend. On occasion, a lover.

Above all of those things though, John Watson was a patient man. After living with Sherlock Holmes for two years, he'd have to be.

Sherlock loved to experiment, though. And it would seem, to John, that Sherlock's latest fixation had been finding exactly how far John's patience could stretch. If anyone could turn his breaking point into a quantifiable science, if was Sherlock Holmes.

The breaking point was reached at exactly 3:28 AM on a Tuesday morning. John wondered if that's what Sherlock had been writing down when he walked into the kitchen approximately two minutes later.

"What," John started, his voice seething with barely concealed rage, "the bloody hell are you doing at three o'clock in the bloody morning?"

True to form, Sherlock didn't even look up from his journal. John could picture him taking notes:

Subject's face is turning red – clearly angry. Eyes narrowed, teeth grinding together so as to not say something in a fit of anger that he'd regret later. Hands balled into fists -

"An experiment." Sherlock's nonchalant voice snapped him away from his train of thought.

"There was a drill," John said. "I heard a bloody drill, Sherlock."

Again, Sherlock didn't look up. He moved to the counter to pick something up instead. "Correct."

"Why did I hear a drill when I should have been sleeping?" He was become slightly more exasperate with each second that passed.

"Why are you trying to sleep while I'm drilling?"

Apparently he found what he had been looking for on the counter, because he grabbed it and moved to the table with purpose.

John's eyes found what Sherlock was working on. What he saw was much more worthy of his response than Sherlock's poorly timed drilling sessions.

"You built that in the kitchen?" John sputtered out a few seconds later.

"Well, I could hardly build it in the living room, now could I?"

"That's a bomb, Sherlock." Way to go, John, you've been reduced to stating the obvious. "A bomb. You built a bomb in our kitchen."

"Oh, don't be so plebeian, John!" Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. He does that a lot when he needs to explain things to us mere mortals, John observed with a hint of disdain. "It's not an actual bomb."

John waited for him to go on. He didn't.

"Sure looks like one."

"To you, maybe," he said. "I've constructed it to look like an exact replica of one, but it only has one sixteenth of the explosive materials regularly used."

"Great, so I have to worry about leftover explosive materials now, too?"

"No!" Sherlock said with that devilish grin on his face – the one he gets when there's been a particularly devious murder. "That's the best part, John! A bomb made out of normal household appliances. While the police are searching for traces of cyclotrimethylene trinitramine, what they should be looking for is table salt!"

"You're making a bomb... out of table salt." Not a question. He was just asking for confirmation to assure him that he wasn't just hearing things.

"Among other things, yes," Sherlock rushed around the kitchen quickly, fiddling with things. "We're out, by the way. You should pick some up tomorrow."

"You mean later today," John clarified. "Because it's three in the morning."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Details."

"Sherlock, why are you making a bomb now?"

"Why not?"

"Because I was sleeping?"

"Well you obviously aren't anymore, so as long as you're up, care to observe?" He had that devilish glint in his eye again. "A second perspective is always welcome."

One look at him and John knew that this had been his plan all along. And John couldn't even be mad at him for it, because, as much as he was loathe to admit it, this whole idea did... seem... rather intriguing.

Damn that man.

John glared at him for quite a few seconds before eventually acquiescing. He didn't even have to say anything for Sherlock to understand – just like with everything else, he knew the answer immediately.

"Excellent." He clapped his hands together.

Then he went back to fiddling with things.

John was way out of his depth, here. He didn't know the first thing about the assembly of a bomb, so he had no idea what Sherlock was doing or if it would blow them up or something. He just didn't know. The fact that he was trusting this man to blow an actual bomb up in their flat was slightly unnerving, but it just felt so... natural. Like he just knew that the natural progression of their relationship would involve exploding bombs in the kitchen one day.

Not that they had a relationship. At least, not the kind everybody thought they had.

"John," Sherlock said, bringing his attention back to the present. Bomb. Kitchen. Sherlock. Right. "Do you trust me?"

"No," John responded. The lie effortlessly escaped his lips before he could recant it.

"Good," Sherlock said. "One of us has to be the voice of reason here."

John realized a second too late that that was Sherlock's attempt at a joke. They had a bomb in their kitchen, and he decided to make jokes now?

"If we die now, I just want you to know that I'm still mad at you for waking me up." He tried to keep his voice strict and authoritative, but his tone lacked the appropriate level of venom.

Sherlock noticed. He smirked. "This will make up for it, I promise." He left out the assurance of Don't worry, we won't die John, which was, unsurprisingly, not at all reassuring.

"You think an explosion is going to make me not angry with you anymore?"

His smirk remained firmly in place, but he was now giving John the wow your life must be so dull without my brain look. He turned his head away slowly, making a couple final adjustments on his latest creation. "I'd like to see a problem that can't be solved with explosives."

John didn't even have time to respond before a wave of heat sent him flying to the floor of their living room.

The 'BOOM' that pierced his ears for a fraction of a second wasn't the worst part.

Neither was it the shock wave that pushed him back.

Having one Sherlock Holmes crash into him en route to the floor wasn't, either.

Crashing into the ground with Sherlock Holmes on top of him was, though. For multiple reasons.

The first and foremost of those reasons being the physical pain of a full grown man – as slender as he was – crashing into him with the combined force of gravity.

The rest of the reasons were variations on the idea of he's in my personal space.

Sherlock groaned from on top of him. It was obviously because he was in pain, but John's mind couldn't help but jump to-

No.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked.

John chuckled, remembering their first case. "A bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock lifted his head from John's chest a bit onerously. He looked straight into John's eyes, and he was pleased to note that glint of mischief was still present there. He face broke into a grin.

Then, they started laughing. For no good reason. It could have been that it was three – no, probably closer to four in the morning now. It could have been because of newly exposed chemicals in the air. It could have just been because it was funny. They didn't really know, but they were laughing anyway.

That was when John noticed two things. One, Sherlock hadn't gotten off of him yet. Sub-note: he didn't seem to mind it all that much.

Two: Sherlock was facing towards him. His forehead was on John's chest. He clearly remembered facing Sherlock's back when the explosion went off, which could only mean one thing in John's plebeian mind: Sherlock had seen what was about to happen and turned to shield him from the blast as soon as he realized it.

The thought made him feel... oddly content.

Eventually the laughter died down. Without the laughter there to occupy the room, both of them seemed to realize the awkwardness of their situation simultaneously.

Well, under normal conditions it would have been awkward, but the way Sherlock was looking at him... it was intense, like a specimen in the petri dish that he hadn't yet encountered. If John's brain had the capacity to feel awkward in that moment, it definitely would. As it was, though, he could feel nothing but frozen under Sherlock's gaze.

"Sherlock...?" he questioned. His voice came out a bit softer than he had wanted it to be.

Damn this man.

"Shh," Sherlock said, eyes still scanning his face, looking for... something.

"What are you...?"

"John," he said, his voice deadly serious. "Be quiet."

Before he even knew what was happening, it was... happening. Sherlock's lips were lightly pressed against his, and John could no longer hear, see, or feel anything that wasn't him. He was everywhere all at the same time, and it annoyed the hell out of John.

In that moment, he was reminded of the explosion; sudden, definitely surprising. Loud. Falshes of light and colour, thought there weren't any there. Just... boom.

It was the softest, shortest, and most tentative kiss he'd ever received.

And yet, it was the most intimate thing he'd ever experienced.

Sherlock pulled away after only a few seconds. John's hands tried to keep him there (hey – when had he moved his hands?) but it didn't work. He kept his hands where they were, on either side of Sherlock's face, even when he started speaking. "Not good?" he asked.

The look on his face was small. That was probably the only word to describe it. He frequently resembled a little kid in his mannerisms, but never in this way – he looked like a small boy who didn't know whether or not his mother would yell at him.

"No. No, um...," John coughed lightly to try and get his mind to think straight. "Good. Very good."

A smile broke out on his face. A genuine smile – not a fake one, not a sly one. A real, honest-to-god smile. "Does this mean you aren't mad anymore, then?"

"No, Sherlock," he said. "I'm not mad."

And the sly smile was back. He knew the I told you so was coming any second now...

"See? Explosives always work."

John just smiled in response.

Sherlock got up then, and extended a hand to John. He readily took it, and for a couple of seconds, they just stood there staring at each other.

Until, of course, John spotted something over Sherlock's left shoulder.

"Sherlock," he started, "the microwave's on fire."

He honestly wanted to sound alarmed, but he just couldn't wrap his head around the idea of that being a 'surprise'.

Had living with Sherlock really desensitized him that much?

"Right, um... yes. So it is."

John rolled his eyes and ran to get the fire extinguisher – a permanent fixture in their flat. He re-entered the living room at the exact moment he heard the sound of the door opening.

In walked Ms. Hudson, in all her sleepwear glory.

"Just what are you two boys up to this time?"

Sherlock looked to John.

John looked to Sherlock.

Together, they broke out into wide grins.

That was all Ms. Hudson needed to figure it out.