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Author's Chapter Notes:
Special thanks to [info]freckles42 for applying her amazing knowledge of guns to this chapter! I had no idea internal safeties existed, for example. ;-)
John watched the figure of Sherlock disappear around the corner of the building. It was a moment more before he could tear his eyes from the spot where he'd vanished from sight. Fuck it all -- why did this have to be so hard? What was wrong with him?

"So, what's new with you?" He turned to see Greg standing next to him, also staring down at the end of the alley. "Beyond the obvious, I suppose."

John felt the blood drain from his face. "The obvious?" God, it wasn't obvious, was it?

"Well, that Sherlock is being a prick."

Breathe. "That's hardly new."

Greg smiled. "Yeah, I suppose not." He turned to look at the crime scene behind them. "The lads have a bit more to do here. It's technically Wilson's case; he just brought me in to deal with Sherlock."

"Officially his handler now, are you?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to step on your toes." Greg winked.

"I could use a break from it now and again." Did he sound bitter? Probably.

"The paperwork can wait until tomorrow. There's a pub a few streets over. Fancy a pint?"

John sighed. "I'd love to, but you heard him. I've got to get to work on this--" He held up his phone. "--symbol brand… thingy."

"Since when do you jump when Sherlock orders you about?"

John felt his cheeks heat at that. "I don't jump. I just… you know how he is."

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets. "You'd best get to it then, seeing as the internet closes in an hour or so."

John smiled despite himself. "You know, I think I would like a pint, actually."

Greg smiled. "Give me a few minutes to wrap things up here."

*****

"It's not the cheating that gets me, mind." Greg paused to drain his glass and then signaled the barman for another. "It's the dishonesty of the whole thing. We've been married for a decade and I don't mind that she wants to get a bit on the side. As long as I knew it was only sex and that she still loved me at the end of the day, I'd be fine with it." He shook his head and glanced over at John. "That probably sounds completely fucking twisted."

"Actually, it sounds rather reasonable."

"It's just nice to have someone to come home to, you know? Well yes, you know."

"I suppose I do." The barman set another round in front of them and John reached for his wallet. "Let me get this round."

"Thanks. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Sherlock really didn't tell you I'd called last week?"

"No." John sipped his beer.

"He's a right piece of work. I honestly don't know what you see in him."

"Nor do I, most of the time."

"He must be fucking hard to live with."

"Absolutely."

"He is good-looking, though; I'll give you that."

"God, he is," John said, smiling. "It almost makes up for all the shit he--" He stopped, realizing he'd fallen right into a trap. He sighed and turned to look at Greg.

Greg grinned at him. "He must be a lunatic in bed. God, I can't imagine."

John cringed. "Is it that fucking obvious?"

"It's been obvious for a long time, John."

"Well, to be fair, there was nothing going on until fairly recently."

Greg's face lit up. "Brilliant. I might win the pool."

John groaned. "Oh, God, don't tell me--"

"I had my money on a year. Some of the lads thought you two were shagging right off, but I reckoned you wouldn't give it up so quickly."

John's face was burning. "Please tell me you're taking the piss."

"I'm not," he said, and his voice was kind. "And don't think anyone at the Yard thinks less of you for it. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"How so?"

"Most of those men have known Sherlock for years. And trust me, we all prefer the After John version to the Before John one."

John snorted. "So everyone thinks I've settled him down or something?"

"We don't think it; we know it. You've no idea what he was like."

"I think I probably do."

"Oh, but he was so much worse before you came along. Everyone hated him then."

"Everyone hates him now."

"No, they tolerate him now." Greg paused to sip his beer and then set it on the bar and turned towards John, his expression serious. "I've never told you this, but one night three years ago I pulled him out of the gutter, strung out on God knows what. He'd been banned from the lab at Bart's for doing something foul, can't remember what now. And he hit bottom so fucking fast, it was unbelievable. He'd been missing for a week, and of course he'd managed to hide from his brother completely. I was able to keep him from being charged, though I had to pull some strings. Mycroft got him into some facility to clean up."

"Shit." John stared at him, feeling the blood drain from his face. He knew it had been bad in the past, but no one had ever told him how bad. And he'd never asked, come to think of it.

"I heard he drove the rehab staff mad."

John rolled his eyes. "I can imagine."

"And then he somehow got himself back into Bart's. I think Molly had something to do with that, poor girl. He was still just as much of a prick as he'd ever been, but I think people were afraid of what would happen to him otherwise, if he didn't have something constructive to do with all that intelligence of his."

"And you think I changed all of that?"

"I don't think it. I know it. Everyone knows it. Even the ones who didn't know him before, they see the way he looks at you."

John sighed. He wanted that to be true. God, he wanted it so fucking badly.

Greg leaned in and lowered his voice. "So, what is sex with Sherlock like?"

John gave him an incredulous look. "You aren't seriously asking for details?"

"Oh, God no. Just… generally speaking."

John's lips twisted a bit as he considered how to respond. "It's weirder than you can possibly imagine," he said after a moment. It wasn't far from the truth.

"You might be surprised. I've got quite a vivid imagination." He winked at John and drained his beer.

John exhaled. "Oh God, I've just come out to you, haven't I?"

"More or less."

There were other people he ought to tell: his sister for one. Maybe Stamford. Come to think of it, there weren't many people he wanted to tell that didn't already know. And of course, it might all be over just as quickly as it had started. Then what would he do? Get on with his life, he supposed. One benefit to being bisexual was that there were more potential people he could date, perhaps.

Could he ever bring home a male lover with Sherlock in the flat? He felt a twinge in his chest at that and his smile faded a bit.

Greg plucked one of the full glasses from the bar. "You follow cricket?"

"Sometimes. Yeah."

He launched into a lengthy diatribe about the recent poor performance of his favorite team, and John leaned against the bar to listen. God, it felt good to have a conversation with someone who wasn't Sherlock. He needed to do this more often.

*****

John opened his eyes. It was morning and he was on the sofa. He'd fallen asleep with his now-repaired computer on the table next to him, looking at the screen sideways toward the end of the night. He squinted at the table to see that the computer had been shut down and closed. A blanket had been draped over him as well.

That was a level of thoughtfulness he wouldn't have been able to imagine from Sherlock not so long ago; it made something like hope blossom inside him. He tugged the blanket more tightly around him and smiled.

He hadn't heard Sherlock come in last night. The flat was still empty when he'd staggered up, properly pissed for the first time in weeks. He had a vague memory of singing some club anthem he didn't know the words to with half the pub cheering him on, Jesus fuck. He should go drinking with Greg more often.

He pushed himself to sitting and winced, though honestly he deserved to feel worse than he did. Shave, shower, and some coffee and he'd probably feel better.

He stumbled to the bathroom and got undressed. The sound of the shower reminded him that he'd actually fallen asleep watching porn -- which was a sad state of affairs, honestly. Sherlock had probably had a laugh at that, especially since John was watching gay porn towards the end, having decided to throw himself into this thing fully. Whatever this thing was. And there'd been one with two blokes in a shower taking turns sucking each other off, and now he was thinking about it again, wasn't he?

Well, damn.

It didn't take long to jerk off. The images in his head had nothing to do with barely-legal and weirdly hairless eastern European boys showering together, but instead were rather focused on his own sexually distant and utterly frustrating flatmate. He was almost angry by the time he came, which didn't make him feel any better. In fact, it made him feel worse.

He and Sherlock needed to talk, but the more time passed, the more difficult it was going to be, and the longer the list of things they needed to talk about grew. There was something fairly critical at the top of the agenda, though, and he needed to get it over with.

He didn't have any clean clothes to change into, but one of Sherlock's dressing gowns was hanging on the back of the door, so he appropriated it. It was long on him and he had to roll the sleeves up a bit, but it would do.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa when he emerged from the bathroom. He was still in his pyjamas and was staring at his laptop with an expression of concentration on his face. He didn't look up, but John hadn't expected him to do.

John headed to the kitchen to make coffee, trying to work out the best way to broach the subject. He had to get Sherlock's attention first, of course, which was no small matter in the middle of a case. Coffee cup in hand, he picked up the newspaper he hadn't managed to read the day before and sat in a chair opposite Sherlock. He flipped through it for a solid minute before finally working up the nerve to speak.

"You were right."

"Yes," Sherlock replied. He didn't look up from the screen.

John sighed after a moment. "Don't you want to know what you were right about?"

"I'm right about everything. The details are insignificant."

John dropped the newspaper to the floor with a bit more force than was necessary and Sherlock finally looked up. His eyes slid over John quickly, probably only making note of the fact that John was wearing his dressing gown, but it still made John shiver.

"If you feel the need to explain, I'm happy to confirm, of course."

"Wanking is tedious," John said flatly.

Sherlock's brows knitted together. "I disagree. Lately I've found it quite enjoyable."

John's eyebrows rose. "Are you saying you were wrong?"

"No. My previous approach to masturbation was insufficient to meet my needs, it seems."

"So you were wrong."

"I wasn't wrong. I simply needed to focus my attention on thoughts and images that were more appropriately stimulating and--" Sherlock paused and his eyes narrowed. "What?"

John grinned. "You're so fucking predictable sometimes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Anyway, thank you for your assistance in that area. I'm much better at it now."

"Are you?"

"Yes. I find it clears my mind when I'm trying to focus on a problem."

"Better than a nicotine patch?"

Sherlock frowned. "Define better."

"Well, I now find it tedious and depressing." John sank into the chair and sipped his coffee.

Sherlock went back to staring at the screen of his laptop. "Are you saying you can no longer bring yourself to orgasm?"

"No, of course not. It's just… not very satisfying lately."

"And the porn didn't help?"

John winced. "I'm not talking about last night. I meant just now, in the shower."

"I tossed off while you were in the shower and I found it very satisfying."

John looked away and pressed a hand over his forehead. He'd always heard it was possible to love and hate someone simultaneously, but he'd never believed it until now.

Still, he had Sherlock's attention, which was the goal.

"I went out with Greg last night."

Sherlock's eyes flicked back up at him. "Out? Where?"

"To a pub. I had far too much to drink and we had a fantastic time." Jealous? he wanted to ask, but it was off-topic. "We talked about you."

"Oh?" His tone was far too casual.

"He told me that he found you on the street three years ago, so strung out that Mycroft sent you to rehab." He looked over at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes were hard, but he'd definitely gone pale. "True, he did, and probably saved my life. It's the reason I volunteer my services to the Yard."

John gave him a long look. "No, it's not."

"No, but I was planning to tell him that one day when he's really pissed off at me. Do you think it would work?"

"Not really." John paused and took a deep breath. "Anyway, it got me thinking, and I have to ask: Is the reason that you don't want to engage in sexual activity with other people that you don't know your status?"

Sherlock stared at him. "My what?"

"Your status, Sherlock. HIV."

"That's not the reason, no." He looked down at the screen again, typing furiously.

"But do you know your status?"

Sherlock paused. "I'm not concerned. There's nothing to be concerned about."

"Have you been tested since you last used?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he closed his eyes. "No."

"I want you to get tested, today. I'll call in a favor."

Sherlock groaned. "There isn't time for this, John. There's a case--"

"Fuck the case, Sherlock. You're going to get tested if I have to hold you down and do the draw myself."

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to argue for a moment more before something like resignation settled over his face. "Fine, all right. What about you?"

"It's been two years since I was tested. But if you like I'll do it with you."

Sherlock shrugged, still focused on the screen. "Anything else?" His voice was tight.

One victory for the morning would have to be enough. "No, that's all. I'm going to get dressed and make a few calls. And don't go anywhere. I want your arse on that sofa when I come back down."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

John stood and left the room, feeling simultaneously relieved and more anxious. God, three days of celibacy were going to kill him. That was assuming they would go back to the club on Thursday, of course -- and that seemed a rather big assumption at the moment.

*****

"John, a word?" Sarah smiled at him and gestured toward her office. "Sherlock, nice to see you again."

Sherlock smiled tightly and returned his attention to his phone.

John followed her and she closed the door behind them.

"Getting tested together? How romantic."

He struggled not to roll his eyes. "It's not what you think."

She smirked at him. "Oh, come on, John. I've seen that one coming for ages."

"I'm here for moral support. I thought he'd be more willing if I did it as well."

"You're honestly telling me there's nothing going on between you two?"

He paused and pursed his lips. "I didn't say that."

She smiled. "Right. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I should be able to expedite this. I can get results back to you by Thursday morning, maybe even late tomorrow."

He exhaled. "That's perfect, thank you."

"I'm happy for you, you know."

His smile was tight. "Well, that makes one of us."

She raised her eyebrows, but apparently decided to leave it alone. "Jodi will call you back to do the draw in a few minutes. I'll be in touch soon." She opened the door and smiled.

"It's nice to see you again. I do appreciate it." He kissed her on the cheek and walked back out to wait with Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned at him as he sat. "What was that about?"

"I told you I'd called in a favor."

Sherlock's jaw clenched, almost as if there was something else he wanted to say. He stared at the door to Sarah's office for a moment and then looked at his phone again.

John had to struggle not to smile. That was the closest thing to jealousy he'd ever seen on Sherlock's face. He had a weird impulse to lean into him, to take his hand or do something to reassure him. Better to let him squirm, though. At least for now.

Of course, he might only be seeing what he so desperately wanted to see. He frowned.

"Sherlock Holmes?" They both looked up to see Jodi smiling at them from an open doorway. "Right this way, please."

John watched him disappear through the doorway. He wasn't exactly worried about the outcome of this test; it was more for peace of mind than anything else. But he'd definitely feel better when those results were in.

Fifteen minutes later they left the surgery with matching plasters on their arms.

"I need you to go to Scotland Yard and see if you can get those pictures and anything else they've got."

John frowned. "Greg said last night that they'd send it over."

"And then the two of you proceeded to get spectacularly pissed. Did you do the research I asked you to do last night?"

"No."

"Exactly. He'll have forgotten to send the file, which is why you need to go and fetch it for us."

"What are you going to do?"

Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance. "I'm going to go think for a bit. See you at home."

Of course. Though it was just as well that Sherlock didn't come along. It was bad enough under normal circumstances, but now that he knew everyone thought they were shagging, John probably couldn't have stood it anyway.

He winced. At some point he was going to have to tell Sherlock that. Or perhaps not: the man had been oblivious to all the innuendo that surrounded them in the last year as it was. What was a bit more?

*****

Sherlock spent much of the day reclining on the sofa in hard-core thinking mode, and John decided it was best to leave him alone. He knew that attempting to feed him was pointless, but the cup of coffee he placed on the floor next to the sofa was empty an hour later, so he felt a small bit of accomplishment there.

John spread the photos he'd brought back from the Yard on the kitchen table and studied them yet again. When he'd first returned, Sherlock had given them a cursory glance, nodded, and headed for the sofa without a word. John knew better than to ask what he saw in them; instead he focused on the task Sherlock had set him the day before: to try to find a meaning behind the symbolism of the brand.

It wasn't until later that evening when he was out picking up a takeaway that he finally had an idea of what might be going on. He rushed home to tell Sherlock, but the flat was empty. He spent the next two hours huddled over his laptop, searching.

"I think I've got something," he said the moment Sherlock walked through the door.

"Have you?" Sherlock sounded skeptical, but John didn't actually care. He'd figured it out this time, he was certain. Sherlock pulled his coat off and crossed to stand behind John, peering down at the screen.

"It's a cult of some sort. Look at these images." He opened one tab after another showing pictures of people wearing markings very similar to the ones on the victims. "These are all from a religious group that calls itself 'The Lightness'. They're mostly active in America, it seems, but there are some message forums that indicate there are members in the UK as well. No history of violence, though. They're mostly into hallucinogenic drugs from what I can gather, but they might have enemies, someone who's killing off their members."

"Interesting hypothesis," Sherlock said, and John winced at the condescension dripping from his tone. "Quite clever, actually."

John sighed. "But wrong?"

"Completely wrong." Sherlock's hands fell to his shoulders and squeezed.

"And I take it you've got it all worked out then?"

"First, even though most of those images of the cultists are fairly low-resolution, the lines are far too distinct to be the result of branding. They're most likely tattoos. Second, it's not quite the same design, though it's close. That's probably a coincidence; branching lines are fairly common imagery for certain kinds of religious groups. Third, those tattoos are located on a variety of body parts: ankles, shoulders, arms. They're meant to be seen, a statement to show the person is a member of the group. But on our victims, those marks are on the hip, nearly on the buttocks."

"So the brands were supposed to be hidden."

Sherlock's fingers stroked the back of John's neck almost absently and John closed his eyes. "Not only hidden. Think about it: under what circumstances would a brand on a person's buttocks be most visible?"

"When they're naked?" His voice hitched a bit on the last word, to his embarrassment.

"Exactly. And when are people naked?" His hands slid down over John's chest and he leaned into him a bit, his stomach pressing against John's shoulders now.

John let his head fall back against Sherlock's chest. "Well, when they're having sex, for one thing. But two of our victims were kids, so that can't--" He sat straight up and turned to look at Sherlock. "Oh, God."

Sherlock nodded. "Who brands people, John? Who brands them on the backside as if they were cattle?"

John closed his eyes. "Shit. This is a human trafficking ring we're looking at, isn't it?"

"Precisely. There's a reason none of these victims were reported missing."

"Because they went missing a long time ago, probably from somewhere else."

"Eastern Europe, Russia, perhaps from institutions who were struggling to make ends meet and willing to accept bribes for shady adoptions."

John rummaged through the stacks of paper on the table and found the close-up shots of the brands. "These are old scars. They were branded as very young children."

"How young?"

"Four, maybe five years old." John turned to look at Sherlock again. "How long have you known?"

"I suspected it from the start, but I've only just tonight confirmed it."

John clenched his jaw. "If you'd told me, I could have helped. It would have given me a place to start my searching. Instead you sent me on a wild goose chase for two fucking days."

"It was only one day. And you needed a distraction."

John gaped at him. "I needed a distraction? What the hell does that mean?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh honestly, John. You had me tested for HIV this morning."

"For very good reason, and you know it."

"Besides, I'm always hopeful you'll work it out on your own one day."

"How gracious of you." John turned back to the computer screen. It had been a month since they'd been John-and-Sherlock-on-a-Case, rather than John-and-Sherlock-in-a-Sex-Club. He'd almost forgotten how infuriating Sherlock could be when he was being brilliant. There was silence behind him, and John could imagine the frown on Sherlock's face as he worked out what it was he'd said to piss John off so spectacularly. "You said you confirmed it."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and as if on cue, the door buzzer sounded. "Put the kettle on, John. Our guest has arrived."

John winced; he would never again hear those words and not immediately think of the club. Damn it.

A minute later Sherlock returned with a young woman trailing behind him. She was a girl really, and the longer John looked at her, the younger she seemed. Her brown hair was tangled and her face was dirty; her clothes were mismatched and torn. She looked somewhat familiar, though, perhaps one of the Homeless Network that John had encountered before.

Her eyes narrowed when she saw John and she glanced around the flat suspiciously, arms folded across her chest.

"Hello," John ventured, smiling in a way he hoped was kind. He looked at Sherlock and nodded toward the sofa.

Sherlock smiled at her. "This is John. We want to ask you some questions. Won't you have a seat?"

"I know what you want to ask about," she said, her eyes falling to the floor. "But that's all I'm doing, talking."

Sherlock's forehead furrowed in confusion. "All right."

John sighed. "Would you like something to eat?"

She looked up at that and nodded.

"I'll be right back," John said. He rummaged in the kitchen and returned several minutes later with some biscuits and cups for tea.

The girl was sitting on one end of the sofa, her hands clasped together. A tattered backpack was on the floor by her feet. She looked up at John with a carefully blank expression, but it was clear she was nervous. She snatched the biscuits from the plate he held and had devoured them before he'd finished pouring tea. He went back for more; he still hadn't done the shopping and they didn't have much in the way of food at the moment.

"Do you know these people?" he heard Sherlock ask.

He returned to see her staring at the photos of the victims. Her eyes were wide with shock and her face had gone pale, making the dirt stand out against her skin even more.

John swore under his breath and crossed to sit near her on the sofa. It was completely typical Sherlock to jump right in that way, with no regard for people's feelings. He shot a glare at him, but only got a look of confusion in return.

"What's your name?" John asked her.

"Mandy," she said, her eyes still fixed on the picture she held. "His name was Karl. I knew him."

"What can you tell us about him?"

She bit her lip, as if choosing her words carefully. "He was trying to help. He knew they would come after him, but he didn't care."

"Who was he helping?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward in his chair. "And who are they?"

She looked up at him. "The others, the kids. The men who--"

"What men? You must be more specific."

"I don't…" She looked down at the photo again.

John saw Sherlock's jaw clench -- he was getting frustrated. Time to step in before he scared this poor girl off completely. John took the stack of photos from her hand and flipped through them.

"What can you tell us about this mark?" He held up one of the photos showing a close-up of the brand.

She stared at the photo for a moment and then stood. Sherlock and John exchanged a look -- if she was about to walk out John wasn't sure what they'd do. But instead she pulled her three layers of shirts up, pushed down the waistband of her worn track bottoms, and turned to show them a matching mark on her hip.

She sat down again and pulled her knees to her chest, her eyes focused on the floor in front of her. "I don't remember getting it. I don't remember anything but the trade. I don't even know how old I am or where I come from. Some of the kids remember, but I don't."

John glanced over at Sherlock to see his forehead furrowed, his expression now torn between frustration and sympathy. He always hated it when clients told their life stories. Sherlock didn't think in terms of personal narratives; his brain just didn't work that way. He never understood why people felt the need to put important information in context before stating it. But the sympathy here was new, and that was striking. John turned his attention back to Mandy.

"And the trade?"

"Sex." She blinked at him.

"I'd assumed. What was your life like, though?"

"They moved us around a lot. There's a network of houses. Some were nice, others not. They usually kept us in groups of four or five. Sometimes we'd stay with the same kids for a long time and start to feel like a proper family, and then they'd split us up again. The people who looked after us were nice enough. Well, except that they took what they wanted when they wanted it."

John sighed and leaned forward on his elbows, looking away from her to give her space. He really didn't want to hear any of this, but the fact that it had been her life was fairly horrifying.

"Usually the clients would come to us. There were rooms where they'd take us, and we had to do whatever they wanted. We weren't allowed to cry, even if they hurt us. Crying would get you a beating, but if you were good you'd get lots of sweets after."

John pressed his lips together for a moment before continuing. "When did it stop? I mean, you're living on the street now, so did you run away or did Karl help you escape?"

"The clients like the little ones the most. You aren't as valuable the older you get. Sometimes the older kids would get sent off to work in other places, other countries. I didn't want to be sent away. There were others who'd run away and were living on their own. Karl was one of them. He helped people."

"How did he help?" John asked.

"He could get you out with no one seeing. He had safe places you could stay for a bit, though we were always running. The ones they caught ended up dead, or worse." She broke off, chewed her lower lip for a moment. "So we ran a lot. Being on the street was easier after a while. Nobody asks questions there. Nobody sees you."

No one except Sherlock.

"But they finally got him, didn't they? Along with a few others." John sorted through the photographs and handed her shots of the other two victims.

She nodded. "This was James. He was really sweet. I hadn't seen him for a while, but I heard they got him. And this--" She looked at the other photo and froze, her eyes wide.

"Who is it?" John asked after a moment.

"Steffi." Her voice sounded incredibly hollow. "She was a friend. We escaped together. When did this happen?"

"Yesterday."

Mandy's eyes closed for a moment, but she didn't cry. Her face was blank, as if she was utterly unable to express emotion. "When I didn't see her last night, I wondered if… They've said they'll kill us all, you see. To show the others that you can't really escape. I suppose I'm next."

John's eyes flicked to Sherlock's again.

"Will you tell the police what you've told us?" Sherlock asked. She nodded and Sherlock stood, already pulling his phone from his pocket. He tapped out a number with his thumb and pressed it to his ear while walking into his bedroom. "Lestrade, it's Sherlock. Can you… Of course I know the time. This is important." He closed the door behind him and his voice became muffled.

"You're going to be safe," John said. "You're going to be fine."

Her eyes flicked up at him and back to the floor again. She didn't believe him. But then, why should she?

He poured her a cup of tea.

A minute later the door to Sherlock's bedroom flew open and banged against the opposite wall. "Lestrade can't come until morning. Family thing, apparently." The sneer on the word family showed precisely what Sherlock thought of that.

"You can stay here tonight," John said to Mandy. "You'll be safe here."

Mandy's face went stony and she looked away. "I can't. I'll find a place, I know a bloke who's got room. I can take care of myself."

"They want to kill you. You're not going anywhere."

Sherlock crossed to the sofa and stared down at her. She looked back and forth between them, her face unreadable. Her hand, though, was trembling.

Oh. She'd been in this position before, John realized, and there had been expectations. He could hardly blame her for not trusting the two of them.

He held a hand out to Sherlock. Sherlock gave him an odd look, and John shot him back one that said as clearly as possible take my fucking hand, you twat. Sherlock crossed to him and took his hand, let John pull him close. John wound an arm around his hips and leaned against him.

"Darling, you've nothing to worry about here, all right?"

Sherlock caught on at that and threaded his fingers into John's hair. John looked up and Sherlock looked down at him, smiled affectionately, and petted John's head. John smiled up at him and just for a moment let himself imagine it was real, that Sherlock really did love him back. If Mandy hadn't been there, John would have pulled him down onto the sofa and kissed him.

He looked back at Mandy, whose cheeks had tinted a bit. She gave him a small smile and nodded.

"You can have a shower if you like. You'll sleep in there." He gestured to Sherlock's room and felt Sherlock tense against him. He only barely suppressed a smirk.

She nodded again. John pushed Sherlock away with great reluctance, though he allowed himself a lingering touch at the small of Sherlock's back as he stood and excused himself to go upstairs. He quickly made his bed and then fired off a text to Greg:

She's a victim of sexual abuse. Bring a female officer with you in the morning, if possible.

He headed back down with a set of pyjamas.

"We're about the same height, aren't we?" She stood and yes, they were almost exactly the same height. He handed her the pyjamas. "These should fit you, more or less. Bathroom is over there. If you'd like a shower, feel free. I'll get you a towel."

She nodded and headed toward the bathroom. John handed her a towel through the doorway and then heard the lock click the moment the door closed again.

"I suppose I'm to sleep on the sofa, then?" Sherlock said.

"No," John said, crossing to the desk in the corner. "You'll sleep in my room." He opened the box he kept the Sig in and pulled out supplies to clean it. Shit, it had been a while since he'd even fired the thing.

"In your room?" Sherlock asked. John turned to see a stunned expression on his face.

"Yes. I'll take the sofa."

"That's hardly necessary. I'm perfectly fine on the sofa."

John stepped closer to him. "The killers may know she's here tonight, and they want her dead. Someone needs to keep watch."

"And you don't think I can do that?"

"Tell me, Sherlock, how many times in your life have you slept with a gun next to your head, just in case you were ambushed during the night?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "None."

"Exactly. This is my area. I'll take the sofa and keep watch, and you will sleep in my room."

"Fine." Sherlock looked adorably annoyed, and it was all John could do not to hug him. God help him, he loved this man. So fucking much.

"Toss off on my sheets and I'll kill you."

Sherlock almost laughed at that, and John grinned.

*****

The night was quiet, to John's relief. There wasn't so much as a squeak on the stairs, and he actually managed a few hours' sleep. Sherlock came down early and made coffee, then sat on the other end of the sofa, lifting John's feet up and placing them in his lap. John flexed his toes and Sherlock's hand stroked his bare foot. John pretended to be asleep as long as he could, but when Sherlock's gentle strokes turned to a firm footrub, he groaned. God, Sherlock was fucking good with his hands. That surprised him, somehow.

"Morning," he grumbled. Sherlock pulled his hand away and John whimpered. "Don't you dare stop." The hand returned and John sighed. "Feels good."

"Did you sleep?"

John smiled; concern was such a rare thing to get from Sherlock, and he'd had it in spades lately. He was going to be spoiled soon. "A bit. You?"

"Yes. Your bed is surprisingly comfortable."

"You're welcome to sleep there whenever you want."

Shit, did he say that out loud? He went as still as possible, pretending he'd gone back to sleep. Sherlock's hands stilled for a moment before continuing again.

John actually did drift off again after that, his consciousness slipping into a dream in which Sherlock spooned against him on the sofa and pressed his erection against John's arse. In the dream John shimmied his pyjama bottoms down and pressed back against him, and Sherlock rocked his hips and--

"John."

John opened his eyes. God, he hoped he hadn't actually moved during that dream.

Sherlock squeezed his foot. "She's awake."

"Right," John said, pushing himself to sitting, realizing almost immediately that he had an erection. He gathered the blanket over his lap. "I'll just… I need to sit here and wake up for a moment, actually. How much coffee did you make?"

Sherlock smirked at him. "Are you suddenly incapable of fetching it for yourself?"

John glared at him. "There's a teenaged girl in the house, for fuck's sake. I'm not parading around in front of her with a--"

Said teenaged girl emerged from the bathroom wearing John's pyjamas. She smiled tightly at them and then disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom once again.

"If you need to take care of that, the bathroom appears to be free."

"Oh, shut up."

Twenty minutes later they were all dressed and sitting at the table, eating toast and scrambled eggs in silence. The buzzer sounded, and John and Sherlock exchanged a glance.

"That'll be Lestrade," Sherlock said, popping up to go open the door.

"Are you all right?" John asked Mandy when he was out of earshot.

She stared at her now-empty plate. "What's to become of me?"

He tried to smile. "Something good."

He heard several sets of feet coming up the stairs and turned to look, thinking, Please not Donovan. Happily, Greg had brought Amy Kempton, one of the officers everyone kept referring to in hushed tones as a "rising star". She smiled tightly at John in greeting.

God, he was never going to live down that time he'd chatted her up in a bar with her husband sitting right beside her. He'd sworn Greg had said she was single.

He introduced the two of them to Mandy and they all moved to sit in the parlor while she recounted her story. Greg took notes and let Amy ask most of the questions. Mandy kept her focus on Amy almost the entire time, and John was relieved his instinct had been correct there, and also that Greg had understood the situation from just the one text.

She spoke more about her life and the myriad ways she'd been abused, and John found it no easier to listen than it had been the night before. This was the sort of thing that happened in fiction; the idea that there were real people, children, forced to live this way was hard to fathom.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Sherlock standing next to him, leaning against the chair John was sitting in. He'd been unusually quiet during this entire meeting; in fact, he'd almost stayed on the periphery. John looked up and gave him a tight smile, and Sherlock returned it, giving his shoulder a squeeze before withdrawing his hand again.

John let himself be distracted by hope for just a moment. These touches in the last two days were astonishing in so many ways. Sherlock had never enjoyed being touched as far as John knew. His displays of affection were rare and limited to Mrs. Hudson, for the most part. John didn't know what it meant, but he'd apparently decided to take whatever crumbs Sherlock would toss his way.

Pathetic.

"I'd like you to come down to Scotland Yard with me now," Amy said, kneeling before a shaken Mandy. "You can talk to a counselor and we'll find a safe place for you to stay. We're going to make sure no one can hurt you ever again."

Mandy looked up, her eyes suddenly hard. "You're going to catch them, aren't you?"

"We will," Greg said. It was the first time he'd spoken in what seemed like an hour. He sounded the way John felt. "That I can promise you."

"Come on, then," Amy said, and held out a hand. Mandy took it and let Amy lead her out of the flat.

"I'll be right down," Greg called after them, and then turned back to John and Sherlock. "You two coming as well?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock said, pushing off the back of the chair. He was across the room and out the door before John even managed to stand.

Greg winked at John.

"He's happy to have a case," John said. "It's been a while."

"Has it?" Greg asked. "I thought you had one last week?"

John clenched his jaw. "Ah, right. I meant a criminal case, obviously. You know how much he loves murders."

*****

"Remind me again: How did I let you talk me into this?"

It was well past midnight and John was operating on a handful of hours of sleep as it was. Yet here they were, sweeping through yet another of the cleared safe houses Mandy had told the police about. This was seriously the very, very last thing he wanted to be doing right now.

John wrinkled his nose as a large rat skittered away from the beam of his torch and disappeared into a gaping hole in the wall. God, this place was disgusting. The faded and peeling wallpaper -- where it hadn't been peeled from the walls -- seemed to date back to the 1960s. The floors were filthy and stained with substances John didn't want to examine too closely. Rubbish, mostly junk food packages and cigarette ends, was piled everywhere, the detritus of the flat's most recent occupation. He'd seen his fair share of squalor in Afghanistan, but something about seeing it in London -- and knowing that children were living like this -- was harder to process.

John stifled a yawn. He still wasn't sure what sort of evidence they were looking for, and asking Sherlock for hints had got him nowhere.

"This was hardly my first choice," Sherlock said as he examined the stains on a tattered sofa arm. "I'd get much more useful information from questioning the children."

"Yes, well, there's a good reason they're not letting you anywhere near those children."

Sherlock turned to stare at him. "What reason?"

John winced. "Oh, God, not again."

"I resent the implication that I'm ineffective at questioning people."

"It's not an implication. It's a fact." Sherlock made a sound nearly like a snarl, and John stepped forward and pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder with a groan. "I don't want to argue about this right now. I'm exhausted."

Sherlock's arm slid around him tentatively and patted his back. John wrapped an arm around his waist and smiled. It was almost a hug. Had Sherlock ever hugged him before? He wasn't sure. There was a brush of lips against his forehead and John stilled. He was suddenly wide awake, his heart pounding in his chest. All he had to do was tilt his head up, pull Sherlock closer, and kiss him. Sherlock's arm tightened around him. John inhaled and tried to work up his courage.

There was a sound in the next room, and they jumped apart. John headed to the open doorway and pressed his back against the wall next to the frame, gun already in his hand. He motioned for Sherlock to stay back. Sherlock nodded, listening.

They heard two sets of footsteps and then it went silent again.

"They were here, I swear," a voice said in a hoarse whisper. "They must have left within the last few hours."

"Shit," the other hissed. "It'll be my head if we don't find them, so you'd best double-check your sources next time."

"I'm telling you, they were here this evening. I saw them with my own eyes."

"Yeah, well, maybe they saw you as well."

"They're getting smarter."

The second man made a sound of derision. "No, they're not. Half of them can barely read. No, someone is helping them. Someone--"

It grew silent again and John mouthed the word "Fuck." They had realized whoever was helping the kids could still be here. He glanced over at Sherlock, who nodded. They were ready.

The men seemed to draw closer, clearly trying to minimize the sound of their footsteps. The wooden floors were old and creaky, though, so it was virtually impossible. John raised the gun to shoulder level and shifted his weight slightly so he'd be prepared to spring forward the moment they walked though the doorway. The floor beneath his feet creaked very slightly.

Shit.

The men on the other side of the doorway stopped moving. John concentrated, listening for any sounds that might indicate they had weapons. It was eerily silent.

His mind ran quickly through half a dozen scenarios, estimating possible outcomes. Remaining hidden seemed to be their best bet for now. His heartbeat settled down after a minute. He inhaled quietly, exhaled again. If their opponents were in the same position on the other side of the wall, he could wait them out. He was incredibly fucking patient. And thankfully, Sherlock was more than happy to let John be in charge at moments like this.

"There's no one here," one of the men whispered.

"Shhh, you dolt. I know what I heard."

"Maybe they slipped out the back."

Footsteps started forward again and John smirked. These two really were idiots.

The barrel of a gun appeared through the doorway first, and John let the man walk completely through before he moved to press the barrel of the Sig against the back of the man's head.

The second man shouted in surprise and raised the gun in his hand, but Sherlock surprised him from behind the doorway and delivered a painful blow to his forearm. The gun crashed to the floor; Sherlock snatched it up and had it aimed at the man before he'd even finished his howl of pain.

"Evening, gents," John said, grinning. God, he loved this shit. "I'll take that weapon, thanks."

Two minutes later he had both men face down on the floor with their hands stretched out to the side while Sherlock phoned Lestrade.

"On their way."

"Good." He handed one of the men's guns to Sherlock and tucked the Sig into his trousers again. He was fairly certain Greg knew and looked the other way, but there was no need to invite trouble.

Fifteen minutes later the men were cuffed and led away, and Greg Lestrade shook his head at the two of them. "How did you know someone would come tonight?"

"Just a hunch." Sherlock's smile was incredibly smug.

John nearly groaned. That would have been good information to have about two hours ago. "From the conversation we overheard, it seems the organization is starting to panic a bit."

Greg nodded. "And now they know we're onto them, so they'll tighten up security."

"At least some of the kids are safe," John said.

"Mandy was able to pinpoint the locations of some of the brothels as well. We've got teams staking them out right now." He smiled tightly at them both. "We'll get them. It's only a matter of time."

John nodded. He really wanted to believe that.

"I'm sure I'll be in touch. You two should go home, get some sleep. Or something." He winked at John, who rolled his eyes and did not look at Sherlock.

"Hungry?" John asked Sherlock once the police had released them for the night.

"Starving. Thai?"

"At this hour?"

Sherlock smiled. "I know a place." John grinned and followed him down the pavement. Sherlock eating was always a good sign.

*****

Sunlight was streaming through the windows when John opened his eyes, and the scent of coffee was thick in the air. He stumbled downstairs to see Sherlock sitting in an armchair, his computer in his lap.

"Good morning," John mumbled, stretching.

"It's nearly one o'clock," Sherlock replied.

John picked up his phone on the sofa table. Sure enough, he'd slept half the day. "You texted me at four in the morning?"

"You missed the excitement. Apparently they managed to rescue five children from one of the brothels during the night."

"Fantastic."

"Little ones, from what Amy said."

John frowned. "Amy called you?"

"I called her."

"At four in the morning?"

"She was awake. She didn't actually seem all that annoyed."

John sighed. "Have we got anything to eat?"

Sherlock finally looked up from his laptop. "How can you be hungry? You ate not ten hours ago."

John rolled his eyes. "Some of us are actually human and need to eat about that often." He pulled on his coat and yawned. "I'll go shopping. Need anything?"

"No." Sherlock was already focused on the screen again.

John stared at him for a long moment. These last few days had been so strange, which was odd considering that they'd been exactly like the majority of the days he'd spent with Sherlock. He knew he shouldn't be surprised things had changed between them after the last few weeks. At least, they'd changed for John -- it wasn't clear whether that was actually true for Sherlock or not. But it was still hard to go through the day and want to touch him and kiss him, and not know if that would upset this strange balance between them. If he fucked this up, they could never go back to the way there were before. They may not even be able to be friends at all.

He had no idea what would happen if he told Sherlock what he really wanted. But he wasn't sure he could go on like this much longer, either.

"We need milk," Sherlock said after a moment.

"Right." John sighed and walked down the stairs.

*****

He was staring blankly at a selection of crisps when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and recognized the number instantly.

"Sarah?"

"John, hi. I've got your results. You're both non-reactive, so nothing to worry about."

He exhaled. "Fantastic."

"This particular test is accurate to ten days back, for what it's worth."

"Good to know. And thanks. I owe you one."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine, I am. How are you?"

"Good, no complaints. Busy."

"Yeah."

There was a moment of awkward silence. It summed up their entire relationship.

"How is the private investigative business… thing?"

He laughed. "Oh, surprisingly interesting."

"I imagine Sherlock keeps you tied up with work most of the time."

"Quite literally, on the good days." Oh shit, the innuendo -- did he seriously just say that?

"I'm happy for you, John." She sounded like she was smiling.

"Thanks. I mean it."

"I'll talk to you soon."

"Of course. Bye."

Well, then, that was one less thing to worry about. One less thing on a very long list.

*****

"I just spoke to Sarah," John said as he set the sack of groceries on the table.

"Non-reactive," Sherlock said.

"Yes." John didn't bother asking how he knew. There was probably something about the way John had started the conversation or had carried the fucking sack of groceries that had clued him in.

"So that was a complete waste of time."

John gritted his teeth. "Well, now you know, at least."

"I knew before."

"No, you didn't."

"I was reasonably certain."

"Since when is reasonably certain good enough for you?"

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "Since I knew for a fact that I had not engaged in any risky behavior."

"Yes, you did!"

"How do you know?" Sherlock retorted. "You didn't bother to ask; you just assumed I was shooting up heroin with a dirty needle."

John pursed his lips and looked away. That was true; he hadn't asked. He'd assumed, but it was a damn good assumption, considering. "I'm only trying to help you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You aren't usually this concerned about me. Is something wrong?"

John blinked at him. "I'm always concerned about you, you git. I-- I'm your friend. I'm…" He closed his eyes and inhaled. "What am I to you, Sherlock?"

"What are you going on about?"

John scrubbed at his face with his hands. "Oh, God, never mind. It doesn't matter."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment and then set his laptop aside and leaned forward on his elbows. "Lestrade seems to be under the impression we're dating."

"Aren't we?" John couldn't look at him. "How else would you characterize these last few weekends?"

"It was an experiment," Sherlock said, and John felt something wilt inside him.

"Yes, it was, wasn't it? All of it recorded there in a fucking spreadsheet. Everything we did, everything that happened. What will you do with all of that data now?"

"After last Sunday, I'm honestly not certain I want to continue."

"Fine, whatever," John said, unable to keep the pain out of his voice. He had to get out of this room, away from Sherlock. Jesus, how had he got himself in this situation?

"John, stop." Sherlock's voice had that edge to it that John's body responded to instantly. "I said I'm not certain I want to continue the experiment. I didn't say I wanted to stop… this."

John exhaled. Shit. Okay then. He nodded and looked up at Sherlock, his insides twisting. "Okay. Good. That's… good."

Sherlock was looking at the floor in front of him. "Good. So we'll… continue."

"Tonight," John blurted. "I want to go to the club tonight. It's Thursday, isn't it?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched slightly. "Okay. Yes."

"I know we're in the middle of a case, but--"

"Lestrade made it clear he'd call when we were needed."

"Since when do you listen to Lestrade?"

Sherlock snorted. "Well, in the past I'd have ignored him completely. The alternative would have been boredom. But in this case there is a very un-boring alternative."

John shook his head, unable to keep himself from smiling. "There are murderers on the loose, and you'd really rather go to a sex club tonight and watch me fuck people?"

Sherlock considered for a moment and then looked up at him. "Yes."

John ran a hand through his hair. "That's… that's brilliant, actually."

Sherlock's lips twisted into a smile. "The murderers know we're onto them, anyway. They'll lie low for a few days. We might as well wait until they make a mistake."

"Quite sensible."

"Of course it is. Nine o'clock?"

"It's a date." Emboldened, John crossed to Sherlock and cupped his cheek with one hand, traced a thumb over his lips. "Think about what you want to see me do tonight. I'll do anything for you, you know."

Sherlock stared back at him, his face carefully blank, though his eyes were dark.

John smiled and walked away before he was tempted to do anything else. The next few hours were going to be torture as it was. He'd have a bite to eat, shower, and get his head together.

He had a feeling it was going to be a good night. He fucking needed it.

*****