To put it very, very mildly, John was not happy.

Now, there was an endless number of possible reasons for his current unhappiness, ranging from the hole in the table (caused by one of Sherlock's experiments, no doubt) to the unpaid bills that lay scattered on the floor. But the main cause of John's emotional state was something far, far worse. It was something that had caused him to drop his Sainsbury's bags onto the wood below, caused eggs to (probably, who knows how good packaging is these days) shatter and a tiny orchestra to start playing Rise of the Valkyries in the back of his mind. It was something so diabolical, so utterly disgusting, that John himself could not truly comprehend the sight that lay before his own eyes.

Jam.

Jam everywhere.

Jam on the counter, jam on petri dishes, and jam in test tubes and in globs on the table. Jam everywhere but in its two rightful places- in a jar, or on toast.

It was the picture of a violent battlefield, but with no blood spilt- only sweet, pure, innocent jam.

John silently wept for his brave comrades, and promised retribution to the bastard that had hurt his jam. Except, since the culprit of this heinous crime was most likely Sherlock, John had little-to-no chance of revenge. But, still. This could not go unpunished.

Sherlock Holmes was rather pleased with himself. Now, this wasn't an uncommon occurrence; Sherlock was often pleased with himself- every time one of his deductions was proved right, (which happened on an average of about once every nine and three-quarter minutes or so) for example, and every time he received conclusive results for any of the many experiments he liked to conduct. This current smug feeling came from the latter.

You see, Sherlock had a rather boring, yet interesting (and this was just one of the ways John could be so paradoxical) flatmate, with an exceedingly common name. The man had a few dull hobbies, a dull sister, and a daily routine that was dull, dull, dull.

And yet, he was perhaps the most extraordinary homo sapien Sherlock had ever met in his life. The ability to be a constant paradox, both commanding and submissive, adhering to society's rules whilst also unconcernedly breaking them, was something that Sherlock thought nobody could possess.

Until John.

It was all until John. The boredom of mundane life, only slightly alleviated by heroin and crack and the danger that came from slinking down seedy alleyways in the middle of the night, trying to avoid camera-riddled London streets where his brother could catch him. It kept him entertained, until he almost died. And then it was back to boredom.

Until John.

Somehow, meeting John, this unassuming, jumper wearing soldier, had been a pivotal point of the consulting detective's life. It had triggered an insane chain of events that had led to the genius faking his own death, led to three years of running around the globe and tearing Moriarty's criminal web apart with his own two hands and a gun. It had meant lying to John- a task that Sherlock had stupidly assumed would be of no hassle or difficulty. But it hadn't, it'd hurt so, so much, in ways Sherlock thought he'd become impervious to long ago.

And this was the exact reason why he'd decided to run a few experiments.

John made him feel feelings that he predicted were somewhat synonymous with the shudderingly sentimental feeling of 'love'. This also meant that he, a self-declared sociopath, was capable of love, which gave the obvious conclusion that Sherlock had simply not done his research. That was a worryingly Anderson-ish thing to do. (Was stupidity contagious? Sherlock made a mental note to conduct several investigations later.) It was also something he needed to rectify immediately. So, The Experiment. Like The Work, it was capitalised to represent its importance in Sherlock's Mind Palace. Filed under Humans\Relationships\Important Relationships\John Watson, The Experiment was a gamble that Sherlock had been wary in taking. In fact, he'd only theorised about it until Mycroft had stuck his big fat nose into Sherlock's personal matters again and threatened (in that disgusting, slimy way politicians liked to threaten) to have a 'talk' with all of the local shops about selling Sherlock cigarettes. Of course, this wouldn't have stopped Sherlock in any way… but it would have been inconvenient, and an annoyance which could easily be avoided simply by pretending to be the good little brother Mycroft had always wished he'd been.

In the end, Sherlock received important data this way. He'd just…have to be careful of fucking things up. Because the last time he'd fucked things up, he'd made his best friend (and when he'd come to the heart-stopping conclusion that John was his best friend on The Roof it had terrified him for a split-second, terrified him into being unable to think straight for almost a whole second) stand over his seemingly dead body, regain a psychosomatic limp, and go back to having nightly terrors about fire and sand and heat and blood and a baritone voice that cracked as it muttered weakly through a phone.

Truly, there wasn't much that could go wrong. But John was unpredictable in many, many ways, and the evidence gathered from this experiment (it wasn't even an experiment, more like a first last attempt to gain John's affections which hadn't been thought out well) could lead to his feelings of smugness swirling down the drain; just like the cocaine he'd washed out after that night with the cabbie because John had hated it, hated that he'd been on drugs.

Sherlock was so screwed.

"Sherlock!" The irritated shout came from the kitchen, and it was shortly followed by an irate, greying man who wore one of the most appalling jumpers man had ever created. Sherlock sighed, and prepared himself for a possible confrontation. John had come back 9 minutes and 34 seconds too early, which meant his plan was already going wrong. Sherlock would have to play this one by ear, but John was not a violin.

"Yes, John?" He drawled, shifting slightly from his position on the sofa. John glared at him, holding the empty jam jar like he would a club. Sherlock suddenly found himself fearing the cheap glass.

"You… the jam… for God's sakes, why? You know the jam is off limits for your bloody experiments! My dinner? Fine. My jumpers? Not fine, though I can deal with it because jumpers comprise half my closet. But not the jam, Sherlock!" John's face was tight, army glare in full effect. Sherlock adjusted his legs a little bit, hoping John didn't look too carefully because his physical reaction would likely be counter-productive to current matters.

"I…it's an important experiment, very urgent, and the jam was the only thing I could think of using." John gave him the 'no really I'm not believing you you idiot I want the truth' look, and plonked himself down by Sherlock's feet, moving them so that they were on his lap.

Sherlock found himself blushing.

"What on Earth do you need my jam for, you plonker?" John asked, but it was no longer quite as aggressive as it had been before. That was surprising; Sherlock had predicted that John's anger would have remained for at least another 2.5 minutes. It was yet another anomaly in the list that made John Hamish Watson.

"An important experiment, like I said." Fuck! No, no, that wasn't the script! Sherlock had forgotten- but how had he forgotten, he'd memorized it, moved it to a predominant location in his Mind Palace, it was right there for God's sake! Sherlock could hear mini-John, (the file of John's voice that constantly mimicked the things John would say to him when Sherlock was without his blogger) saying 'well, you've buggered that up, you git!' in his mind. This was a disaster. He'd failed in following one of the most important rules of science- follow set instructions for each and every experiment, don't make it up as you go along. He had failed, utterly and completely failed, and now he had no idea as to what he was supposed to do; he couldn't think properly, mind reduced to a state that only John could leave him in. Confused, and panicked (not in the way Jim had though- this was both more and less painful, or perhaps it simply caused a different type of pain?), and at a loss as to what to do. His Mind Palace had firmly shut its doors on him, leaving the curly-haired man without any plan as to what to do.

John, noticing Sherlock's not very atypical silence, poked at his feet. The ex-Soldier's brow was creased slightly- Sherlock did tend to explain these things to him, these days, without John having to ask first, but perhaps he was considering whatever results he'd discovered?

"Sherlock? Why'd you need my jam, of all things? Normally you ask me before you use my stuff now." Sherlock gave him the look that could either mean one of two things; 'don't be an idiot John you know the reason perfectly well', or 'I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm trying to act suave and mysterious and shit'.

Normally the context of the situation made it clear which one was meant, but this scene, though it would have been common in the first year and a half of their rooming together, was extraordinarily out of place in their current time and relationship. And there John went again, using The Word! The Word, which made him think of Sherlock in ways that couldn't be replicated in real life, because no matter how much things had changed between them, Sherlock was still devoted to The Work. The Work left no time for anything more than friendship. Relationships were, to put it bluntly, a no-no. But sometimes John would be lying awake at night with an empty bed, and his thoughts would stray to the most brilliant man he knew. John couldn't be blamed for that, surely. But he certainly could be blamed for expecting them to happen in real life, though he could easily chalk it up to low levels of oxytocin or high levels of stress. Ugh, these feelings were so normal, Sherlock would be disgusted by them….

Sherlock still hadn't stopped giving him the look. Oh.

John rested his hand on Sherlock's leg, stroking it like he wold a cat. The effect was instantaneous; Sherlock's shoulders fell slightly, and his head reclined by just the smallest amount while his eyes shuddered closed.

"I, um…" Sherlock muttered, not completely aware of what he was saying, "The jam. Sticky. Thought you'd make me clean it up, either that or you'd clean it up, and then one of us would complain about showering and I hoped it would escalate from there." John stopped his petting of Sherlock's leg, and stared at the man who unfalteringly believed in John's ability to shoot at anyone who'd hurt him. Sherlock seemed to have finally realised what he'd allowed to escape his lips, and looked at John with wide eyes. Like a meerkat who had just been caught stealing a lion's dinner.

That was… Sherlock was hoping to…jam. Sticky. And showers. And hot water and two people and…oh.

"Sherlock, was that your way of prepositioning me?" John cautiously questioned, well aware that a single miss-timed word could have Sherlock shutting himself away from the world and refusing to ever re-join modern society.

"Yes, John, and it was a foolish thing to do." The man made to swing his legs from John's lap, but the grey-haired tea lover lay his arms on them, preventing further movement. Sherlock shot another glare at John for that- couldn't he be allowed to feel ashamed in peace?

"No, no, wait! I, uh, just wasn't expecting that." Sherlock's self-deprecating look made him hasten his words. "It's not unwelcome! Really, it's not! I figured you were still…married to your work, but I guess that's not quite as true anymore?" He took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. "Look, Sherlock…if you want this, whatever this is, because I don't know if you want sex or an actual relationship, then please ask. With words. Since we're using words now." John trailed off awkwardly, tapping his fingers on Sherlock's admittedly freezing feet.

"I want a relationship." John's head snapped towards Sherlock's in a vaguely painful manner, but John was unflinching in his look of slight wonder. "I want all of that ridiculously sentimental stuff from TV. With you. I also want to take you to bed. If you're willing, of course. And sometime in the future, if we ever live that long, I would very much like to show you to a ridiculously idyllic manor in the countryside, and it would be disgustingly romantic, in the way you always try to be with those boring women you date. And I think you want that too, because I've seen the way you look at me sometimes, and it matches up with the looks of both lust and love that I have on file, but if I'm ever wrong about anything it tends to be with you and so I can understand if I have managed to make a complete mess out of everyth—"

John, whose smile had been growing during Sherlock's little speech, cut Sherlock off by poking at his shoulder, moving so that he was seated on his legs. Sherlock gave a little groan of friendly protest at that.

"I'd like that. A lot. And later we are going to use words and talk about this like responsible adults, but right now…" John took a deep breath. "Right now I just kind of want to kiss you."

"Oh," Sherlock responded intelligently.

John leaned forward, and then it was sparks and fireworks and the taste of tea and nicotine- Sherlock had been smoking again, John thought. The Kiss (as Sherlock would come to name it, under Humans\Relationships\Important Relationships\Lover\John Watson) was both perfect and imperfect; a mixture of moans and bumped noses and slight breathlessness that had them both quietly laughing and Sherlock burying his head into John's neck.

The Experiment, whilst Sherlock hadn't quite complied with its original instructions, had been a resounding success.