You hear voices, so you turn to glance at the man accompanying Stamford into the lab. Trim, attractive, reserved, ex-military, walking with an unnecessary cane he despises.

Ah.

Well, you do need a flatmate, and this man does not seem easily intimidated. He'll do.

You deduce him, and he compliments you.

You challenge him, and he matches you.

You need to run, and he leaves his cane behind.

You scan the crowd and see him standing there. Calm and completely innocent, despite having just shot the cabbie to save your life. You are struck by his level of composure, of control. You envy it, want to emulate it. You want to break it.

Yes, you want to see John Watson lose control.

You grab his head and spin him around. Nothing.

You enter a flat and do not let him in. Nothing.

Tied to his chair, with his date next to him, weapon trained on her. Nothing.

But oh, how you wish you'd witnessed his row with the chip and pin machine.

Even in his anger over your approach to the game, he does not fully lose his composure. He expresses his willingness to continue to help instead. A better man than you've ever been.

Kidnapped, a bomb strapped to his chest, watching you wield his gun ineffectually, he exhibits more control than you could have ever hope to have over yourself.

He slides to the ground, his knees giving out. But even then, what seems like a loss of control is actually chemistry, the adrenaline pumping through his veins after you both think the danger had passed. He delights you by giggling. How does this man even exist?

A step forward.

He reiterates he is not actually gay, but sucks in a surprised breath of recognition at the concept of being a couple. Distracted as you are, you forget to silence your phone. You flee at the sound of your text alert, but not before you see him take a step forward to follow. His inclination is to always follow you.

A step back.

He almost tells you about her being alive. He steps back into the kitchen, his conflict written on his face, but the good soldier sticks with the plan and the lie. But he almost tells you.

Almost.

You are the one to lose control. There must be an explanation. You are not afraid of the dark. You do not imagine creatures in the fog. You do not ever lose your composure in front of him. You must have been drugged.

There is only one way to be sure.

And that is how it finally happens. Drugged in the lab, scurrying for safety, pleading for help. Although his brain functions admirably, finding shelter, remembering to whisper, you finally see him lose control.

This time does not count.

You hear your name torn uncontrollably from his mouth, and then you're falling falling falling… Truth was, you had fallen long ago.

You see him next to your grave. He reaches out and touches it, as tentatively as he had ever touched you in life. He bows his head, and you realize he is crying. For a moment, you think This is it, the moment he loses control. But then he wipes his eyes, straightens his spine, and walks away, completely reserved.

Ever the doctor, ever the soldier, ever your John Watson, ever your reason for returning home.

As his hand crashes down on the table, you realize you never wanted it to happen like this. Not in public, not in front of her. But as you fall to the floor, he lands upon you, hands at your neck. You reach up to caress them, without thinking about it, and you revel in the feel of him touching you in the heat of passion.

And he screams for help in the bonfire as you sprint towards him, your heart beating only for as long as he still has breath to yell.

And he reins in his emotions to forgive you in the train carriage.

And he speaks of his time by your graveside without mention of his tears, and you know it is your loss.

You have lost him, the dream of him if not the reality, to her.

The feel of his arms around you almost tempt you to hold him back. But your control is already under so much stress that day, you fear you would never let him go. And then everyone would know. She would know. She probably already knows.

And the knowing, it hurts. There is a baby on the way, their family is complete, and you are unnecessary to his happiness. You feel your control slip just briefly, and he sees it on your face and looks away. Pity, that was pity, and Sherlock Holmes does not want anyone's pity.

Back to Baker Street alone, but before putting on your coat of armor, you text an old contact. Liquid fire in your veins will help you regain control. And you will never lose it again.

But of course you do, for him. You run screaming through your mind palace for him, you claw your way back to life for him, you lie about her for him, you murder for him. Always for him. Only for him.

But you can control this last thing. You can control how your story ends. You scroll to the story of your first meeting and smile through your tears and wait for oblivion.

Then the call and the impossible. A dead man alive and you, a dying man by choice, brought back to the world of the living. To a world with him, but still without him.

Because it's not the fall, never the fall, that kills you. It's the landing.

You slowly unravel the mystery. The mystery behind Moriarty, the mystery of the lady in red and the poisonous man, the mystery of the baby who never existed and the woman who created herself from lies.

You slowly unravel the depths of his resolve to forgive those he loves and to mourn those he loves and to avenge those he loves.

And you slowly unravel. Just unravel. He is no longer there and the drugs no longer clarify and your beloved landlady no longer helps and your older brother no longer, well, he no longer.

But then there is a knock on the door and a suitcase on the landing. Suddenly the kitchen has food and the sitting room has warmth and 221B Baker Street has the sounds and silences of companionship.

It takes a while, but you heal. You both heal.

You both reassert control.

And finally, finally, one night after a long case and a fast chase, you return home with him. His complimentary words and irrepressible grin cause the feelings you hid for so long threaten to flood from you.

Instead of reining them in, you channel them into action. You walk slowly towards him. He stands firm, looking up at you questioningly.

As you lean in to kiss him for the first time, a surprised gasp is your initial reward.

But he reins his feelings in, too, and grabs your wrist with an unshaking hand. His stride is steady and sure as he leads the way to your room.

You match him, kiss for kiss, button for button. You fall to the bed side-by-side, each waiting for the other to move.

So you move.

You breathe in the scent of where his neck and shoulder meet. You kiss your way down his flat stomach. You brush your hand lightly up his thigh. You lick his iliac crest.

You kiss the scar on his shoulder over and over. You hear yourself whisper, Thank you for finding me.

He pulls away, just enough to see the sincerity of your words. He reaches out to touch the scar in the middle of your chest, the one you know he blames himself for.

And then, he loses control.

He flips you on your back and pins your hands above your head. He straddles your waist and his weight grounds you. He kisses, nips, pants, bites, gasps, licks, growls, caresses, cradles, murmurs…

You have never felt so confident. You have never felt so sure. So ready.

You hope desperately to make him feel the same way. It's a gift, one you want to give to him, only to him, always to him. To reciprocate. Complement. Balance. Match.

You feel wanted, trusted, cherished, needed, loved, whole.

And then, you lose control.