A/N: Johnlock fic. LOVE THIS COUPLE TO PIECES.

Disclaimer: Blah blah, Sherlock is BBC's and Moffats, blah blah.

Everything is Experimental

There were certain times in Sherlock's life, now that John gained access inside it, where he wouldn't know where to turn if John wasn't there to guide him. Sherlock always fought with himself, before, forcing himself to contort in order to see an object or a place or a person or an idea from every which way. And then John came aboard. Now, he left nearly half of his conclusive destinations up to contingency on his partner's behalf.

John could see things. He was the eyes of everyone in the room. Not just those in the room, now, but everyone who was ever there—everyone who ever would be there. And Sherlock? Sherlock merely deciphered what lay buried deep within those eyes.

He loved it.

There was no other way to solve a case. John Watson was the key that unlocked epiphany.

However evident and exciting this was to Sherlock, John hadn't the faintest idea. He would speak the most irrelevant words and suddenly Sherlock would have the case figured out in eight seconds flat, leaving the rest of them dizzy and gasping for air.

And on occasion, John would just be right.

"George Washburn," Sherlock started, about to ramble through the murders in a way to connect them in his mind, "Vein of the right hand; the killer produced small cuts. The blood was drained continuously until the man was dead. The cuts were small and careful, instead of deep and careless, and taking into account the slice across the palm, it's safe to say the body wasn't meant to fail in haste." He clasped his hands behind his back, beginning to pace. "Why not the throat? Why not the femoral artery?"

At this point he stopped moving just as quickly as he started and gestured pointedly at John, swinging his hand as if trying to get the blond to answer his question. Sherlock continued, regardless. "Early treatment of his pneumonia—George was sick. Bloodletting. An old age remedy for what was simply a cold gone bad."

"And the number 'one' on his chest?" John asked, leaning against the doorframe and blinking in earnest as he watched Sherlock intently. The dark-haired man shook his head. He didn't know, yet.

"There's a number on all of them," but John already knew that. "Number 'six,'" the taller man pressed, putting his hand on a photograph of another man, "All the signs of a stroke and nothing to go on apart from that." This part frustrated him the most. "Number 'seven;' swelling of the legs and arms. Surely it's oedema, fluid excess… The infection that killed him, however, being tuberculosis… All of them were sick, John! But how…"

This was one of those times. One of those occasions where John was just being John and it was perfect in every way.

The blond chuckled quietly, suddenly amused. Sherlock's brow knit in the centre of his forehead. "What?" the detective demanded to know, taking a step closer to John as his hand slipped from the photograph of the body.

"Nothing," responded John coolly, still smiling despite Sherlock's most serious tone. "It's just… Number 'seven.' Andrew Jackson. He was a U.S. president who died the exact same way. Minus the numbers of course."

Sherlock parted his lips, eyes going out of focus for a moment as he raced through the extravagant palace in his head and pulled out the required information. Andrew Jackson. George Washburn was George Washington. John Allen was John Adams. All of the same symptoms and with the correct corresponding numbers marked on their chest to deem which president they represent.

"John, you are brilliant!" was the mad man's final conclusion as he strode all the way up to John and picked him up in a tight, foreboding hug. "God, John," he continued, setting him down swiftly, though still clasping the blond by the upper arms. "If I wasn't positively radiant, right now, I'd have to kiss you!"

"Sherlock, what did I—?"

"Oh, nevermind it, all the reason more!" the man pressed, swooping in to press a firm kiss to his flatmate's lips. John stiffened at the touch and it was gone before he could react.

"This is perfect." Sherlock had so much glee in his voice, he sounded like nothing could bring him down. But John just stared, rooted in place. "Of course! This is a copy-cat murder, but instead of copying murders,"

"Sherlock—"

"It's a replica of normal or accidental deaths. Now, why presidents? Is the killer from the States?"

"Sherlock, I—"

"It would only make sense, but why bring it here?"

At this point, John was feeling irate and far more than annoyed. He'd made it over to the black-haired scientist, gripping him by the shoulder to turn him around. "Sherlock," John choked out, "what the hell was that?"

They both stared at each other for a moment's time, before John grew uncomfortable and set his jaw, letting the other man from his grip.

"What was what, John?"

Was he kidding? The doctor knew his flatmate was anything but stupid, so these rhetorical questions were merely background noise to what John saw the 'problem at hand.'

"You just kissed me," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Glad you're observant," Sherlock shot back.

It wasn't until those piercing blue eyes shifted to stare at John's lips did he take a step back, reeling into a forced state of bewilderment. Any time, now, he'd be joining Adams with a stroke.

"Why… did you do that?"

Sherlock followed John's step, getting closer as he backed away, but John stood his ground, this time. The brilliant man reached out to rest a hand on John's waist, letting the other hover above his hip on the other side, as if not fully making the commitment to hold him there.

As Sherlock craned his neck to repeat the action, John's lips formed a hard line. "This an experiment?" he demanded to know, eyes narrowed in both doubt and annoyance.

Of course his response was quick and wise.

"Everything's an experiment, John. The part I'm interested in, though… is result."

John wanted so badly to command his body to stay in place—to be cool and collected—but, before he could register his own actions, his clenched hands unraveled and yanked his partner by the shirt, dragging him into another kiss. It was nothing fierce and elongated, just simple pressure on pressure contact where Sherlock relaxed and parted his lips and John focused more on keeping Sherlock close than the kiss itself.

Soon enough, they were apart again, faces close, but not too close, as they regarded each other with a spark of intensity.

John crossed his arms, staring at Sherlock Holmes as he went back to his work so diligently. That man was smiling, still, though quiet, now, eyes skimming each photograph.

The doctor wasn't quite sure he liked Sherlock's comment about experiments, but Sherlock was Sherlock, that was certain.

They were going to solve this case, like any other. And when they did and John began to write a blog entry about it, Sherlock wrapped his arms under the blond's in a backwards hug, then kissed him chastely on the hair to ensure the good doctor knew. The case was closed, so Sherlock was all his for the time being.