Watson's Final Problem (Sherlock Holmes/John Watson MD, Jim Moriarty)

Sherlock stared down between his legs and noticed the offending body part had started to behave itself once again. Confident that he could get up without having a giveaway tent in his pants, he slowly sat up on the sofa, then got to his feet.

He wandered over to the kitchen area to get a proper look at John. The naked image from his phone flashed through his mind and for a minute all he could see was his friend's private parts burning a hole in his eyes. He screwed them up tight shut and shook his head slightly before opening them again, leaning against the wall of the partition and studying John carefully.

"You should um...you should sit down," he mumbled. "I'll finish making the tea. Then I'll get the medical box and redress those cuts. It's the um...it's the least I can do John." He stared down at the floor for a moment before adding, "I am your friend after all."

John looked back at Sherlock as he heard him approach, he didn't seem to be exactly himself, and for a moment he wondered if he was still upset from the day before. "Have you slept at all?" he asked, remembering the sound of the violin disturbing his dreams, it wouldn't be that uncommon for Sherlock to pull an all-nighter, even though there was no case involved.

He shook his head at his friend's suggestion, "Do you even know how I take my tea?" He teased him, smiling at him feebly. "I'll take you up on that offer to redress my cuts," he muttered, reaching up to get his cup and wincing at the shot of pain in his back. Maybe he should also sit down, damn he was tired of this.

"No," Sherlock mumbled, staring at the floor feeling like a child about to be told off by his father. "Stayed up all night."

Trying to avoid any further interrogation he brushed past John and crouched down at the sink, opening the cupboard at the bottom to bring out the medical box. He really didn't want to have to tell John about receiving the photograph. He'd only get upset anyway.

"I do know how you take your tea," Sherlock insisted, quite indignant. He headed back through to the living room and sat down in his armchair, opening up the box and preparing some new bandages. "Milk and um...one sugar?" He asked, not entirely confidently.

John wanted to tell Sherlock that it was not good for him to miss sleep, but he realized he was too tired even for that, he just shook his head, and went on making his tea. "Sherlock, you have never made me a cup of tea in the years we've been living together, I might feel like I'm about to-" die if you act like that, he trailed off, realizing that it wasn't so far from the truth, he could very well be at the end of his life if Moriarty had his way.

"No sugar," he corrected him, putting the hot water in the cup, sighing. How important was he to Sherlock that he didn't even notice this? Especially considering he, on the hand, knew all of Sherlock's habits.
He took a sip of his scalding tea though, and he felt a bit better as he walked towards the sofa.

"Damn it, there's always something," Sherlock cursed himself when he realised he'd got it wrong. "No sugar. I'll...I'll definitely remember that now John."

He found the items he needed in the medical box and headed to join his friend at the sofa, dragging over a chair. Sherlock felt the anger begin to build up again as he saw the wounds on John's body. He gritted his teeth.

"Just...um...lie down," he muttered. "Don't worry about anything John. I'll take care of you. I'll always...I...I always will..." Sherlock squeezed his lips together, struggling against his emotions.

John would have shrugged if his back hadn't been painfully tense and sore. "No point in learning now," he exclaimed, knowing Sherlock was never going to make him a cup of tea, and did it matter really? When he had to kill himself soon?

He sipped his tea for a moment before he agreed to do what Sherlock asked. He took off his shirt and moved to lie down on his stomach, "Careful... it hurts like a bitch today..." he mumbled, burying his face in the cushion under him.

The words seemed hazy as they reached his ears.
"It's me who usually takes care of you, Sherlock..." he whispered back, his eyes closed. "It's nice to know you would do the same, though... I did wonder at times."

Sherlock opened the medical box and had a peer inside. He picked out the bottle of antiseptic and a clean cloth.

"Of course I would," he insisted quietly. "I do care about you John. I know I don't always show it." Sherlock bit his bottom lip, feeling awkward. This conversation was getting difficult for him to handle so he closed his mouth and stopped talking, instead concentrating on the task at hand.

He squeezed some of the antiseptic onto the cloth, then shuffled a little closer to John's body, reaching out, poised over his back. "OK, this is going to hurt John, but I'll be as quick and as gentle as I can." And he slowly pressed the cloth to his friend's wounds.

"I know you do, it's clear by the fact Moriarty can manipulate us so easily," he muttered, sighing. Indeed in this case caring wasn't going to help them in any way, but somehow John knew it had been unavoidable, he couldn't stop himself from caring for Sherlock, and he didn't think he would want things to be different either.

"Okay, I am ready," he replied, but he couldn't help but moan in pain when Sherlock pressed the cloth to his wounds. "Jesus," he mumbled, grasping the cushions under him and shutting his eyes tight.

Sherlock said no more about caring. He already found the topic difficult and at least John was aware that he wasn't the emotionless machine he sometimes made himself out to be. That was all he needed to know for now.

If he'd thought about the kiss, and the way he'd imagined John might be in love with him, his head would start to ache. He still wasn't sure about that one, whether his deductions had been correct or not...

Sherlock winced as he pressed the antiseptic onto John's back, aware of how painful it was. He'd been in that position many times in the past. Funny, it was normally John that looked after him, not the other way round.

He continued to clean the cuts as quickly and effeciently as he could, then applied a soothing cream followed by more bandages, lifting up John's chest slightly so he could tuck them round his front, wrapping them all round his body.

By the time Sherlock was wrapping the bandages around his chest, John was feeling better, his cuts weren't throbbing any more and his headache seemed to be subsiding for some reason.
Laying down seemed to help.
He needed sleep, that was sure, but he knew that if he went back to his room he'd end up having nightmares again.
He remembered it then, the way Sherlock talked to him in his dream, it still made his heart clench in his chest.

"You..." he muttered, sighing. "You were in one of my dreams tonight..." he admitted, even though the truth was that he was in almost all his dreams. "You mocked me..." he had meant it as a joke, but it came out bitterly, and he regretted his words right away.

Once Sherlock had done he offered John his hand and gently helped him back up to a sitting position, before crouching down again to pack away the medical kit.

He put the box back in the cupboard then came to sit down next to John as he began talking about dreams.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, initially hopeful, wondering in what capacity he had featured in his friend's dream. He knew that he sometimes had dreams about John too, although most of the time they were a little hazy and he couldn't remember the details properly.

"Oh," was his second reaction when he heard what he had done in John's dream. "I would...I would never do that John," Sherlock muttered quietly, a little upset that his friend appeared to be taking the dream as if it was reality.

"Look, I know I make fun of you sometimes," he continued. "But I don't mean it...it's just a joke. I would never...I would never say something...horrible, and mean it." He frowned, hoping John believed him, suddenly worried that perhaps he had occasionally gone too far with his teasing.

John looked up at Sherlock, blue eyes stopping on the other's face for a long time as he thought about the other's words, his dream replaying in his head, adding another layer to reality, but the Sherlock of the dream did not match the Sherlock that was looking down at him.

"I know," he finally said, nodding. "It was just another nightmare," he mumbled, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "I am just so bloody tired, this feels like another dream too..." and it was true, his feelings were hazy and surreal, and he felt so frustrated he knew he could burst into tears any moment if he wasn't careful.

"This isn't a dream, John, this is real," Sherlock insisted, worried for his friend. He wrapped his arm around John's shoulder carefully, knowing that he was still pretty sore.

He toyed around with his bottom lip, debating whether he should make this next move or not, but he needed to know for certain, he needed to observe John's reaction. Scientifically, it was always best to repeat experiments twice.

Sherlock leaned towards John and planted a small kiss on his cheek, lingering close to him for a few seconds to mumble softly in his ear. "I'll look after you, John."

John wanted to say that he knew that it was real, that he was not asleep any more, but if he had to be honest with himself, he couldn't be so sure. The feeling of Sherlock's arm wrapping around his shoulders made his senses fill with warmth, and his head spun for a long moment.

Sherlock had never been affectionate with him and his heart skipped a beat when he felt the soft pressure of lips on his cheek.

His face turned to him, surprised, almost upset by the feelings that made him tense, his pupils dilating just because of that sweet whisper in his ear.
"Sherlock..." he whispered, his voice lower than he wanted it to be. He didn't know what he wanted to say, his thoughts lost as he looked at the other's lips.

When John turned to look at him, Sherlock stared into his eyes, studying them carefully for any kind of reaction to their physical contact. They were clearly dilated, and his eyelids were heavy like he'd just been drugged. This only served to further prove Sherlock's hypothesis.

He found his hand reaching up and two fingers gently touching John's cheek. Not because he'd told them to. They seemed to have done it automatically, as if he didn't have any control over them. Once he realised what he was doing he quickly snapped them away again and felt a bit embarrassed.

"Do you want me to make breakfast or anything?" Sherlock offered out of the blue, just wanting to do something, anything, to help his friend.

The touch on his cheek only made the moment feel suspended in time, the warmth of those two fingers seemed to spread quickly on his skin down to his neck, and John realized he could hardly deny how much he loved Sherlock. If Sherlock had asked him in that moment, he would have spilled all his feelings in a quivering shaky voice.

It didn't happen though, Sherlock moved away and something snapped, the magic disappeared and it was again like any other day.
"I... am not hungry..." he muttered, looking away and settling better on the sofa, feeling uncomfortable for what had passed through his thoughts.
He had never thought it could get this way, that he would or could love anyone like this.

Sherlock headed through to the kitchen and ignoring John's remark that he wasn't hungry, put some bread in the toaster. His mind was almost aching running through everything that had been going on. He felt like he was going to explode, he just didn't know what to think anymore.

"Moriarty sent me the pictures," he suddenly blurted out, almost unable to stop himself. He needed John to know. It was a big weight off his mind. To walk around all day with his head filled with those images and have to keep quiet about it would be impossible.

After his outburst, Sherlock re-emerged round the corner to see John's reaction, watching him on the sofa. "He...um...he sent me them," he repeated. "I'm...sorry. I am going to kill him, John. I really am."

Sherlock's voice came through to John like one from a dream and it shook him to the core. He looked up, but the detective was not in the room, still doing who-knows-what in the kitchen. He swallowed hard, shame filling his lungs and making it hard to answer in any way. He just sat there, frozen, embarrassed, ashamed, his cheeks red as they had never been.

"Did you delete them?" he asked, his lips feeling incredibly dry. He knew he was not supposed to let this get to him, that Sherlock wasn't going to think anything less of him, but he still felt utterly humiliated.

Sherlock coughed and cleared his throat, still hovering halfway between the kitchen and the living room. Even from that distance he could see the look of shame on John's face, and it hurt him.

He swallowed down his emotions, determined to target them into anger at Moriarty instead of anything else. Right now he would be strong and supportive for his friend.

"There...there was only one picture," Sherlock replied, taking a couple of steps into the room towards the sofa. "And I kept it. It's evidence."

Suddenly it sounded like a feeble excuse, but there was no way he was about to tell his flatmate that he stared at the picture for ten minutes and gor rather hard over it. He really hoped he never had to tell John about that. He felt his own cheeks flushing with shame and was relieved to hear the popping of the toaster, an excuse to vanish back through to the kitchen.

John couldn't look at him, he knew the shame would feel even more sharp if he met the other's eyes. Sherlock's eyes who could read him through and through. He couldn't possible survive that now.

He shivered when Sherlock pointed out it was only one picture, it meant Moriarty was going to send them all one by one, torturing him. Of course. Why would the most dangerous man in London do anything too simply? Why would he have pity for him?

"He's going to send more..." He whispered to himself.

When Sherlock spoke again, he stood up angrily, his face still blotched with red patches of humiliation. "Evidence, Sherlock?" he snapped. "I don't want anyone to see those pictures! You have to delete them!"

"Why did Moriarty do anything like this, I really don't know, I don't know what he's gaining by humiliating me like this, but I cannot stand the idea of people staring at me naked... it's just... horrible..."

Sherlock used the tips of his fingers to take out the hot crisp toast, burning them slightly as he dropped the rounds onto a plate. Then he opened up the fridge door and reached for the margarine and the jam. He knew John liked jam. It was sure to cheer him up.

He had been expecting his friend to be angry about keeping the photograph, he knew John would find it difficult to understand. "I can't do that, John," he called through apologetically. "I can't just...delete the evidence. This is a very important case and anything like this needs to be stored and kept."

Sherlock popped his head back round the partition to find John was now stood up and looking rather angry. "To humiliate you, exactly," he nodded. "That's why he's doing this. He likes to play games. Listen to me, John, there's no need for you to worry about any of this. Just concentrate on getting better. No one's going to be staring at them except me and - "

The detective cut himself short, suddenly realising what he'd just said. He felt his cheeks flushing and he darted back into the kitchen to hide. "I mean...no one's going to be staring at them...um...at all," he mumbled, hoping to correct himself.

"But that's the thing, why would he want to humiliate me? He doesn't care about me, all he cares about is playing with you, he would want to mess with you, but this has nothing to do with you," he protested, trying not to look at Sherlock even though he knew he was now watching from the kitchen.

John'a face turned even more red as he heard Sherlock's words, somehow it aggravated him even more to know that his friend had felt the need to stare at the picture, he couldn't help but feel he would see disgust in his face if he only dared to look.
"This is bullshit," he protested, pacing the room. "You can't even see Moriarty in the picture, it's not going to be useful in any way... Sherlock, please, you've been much uncaring about evidence before, this is a personal favour I ask you... I don't think I can live with the fact the only picture of me you have is that one..."

"He knows that I would get upset by seeing the photographs," Sherlock answered with a heavy sigh as he buttered up the toast. "He knows I care about you. And he knows you would be embarrassed about me seeing them. And you do realise, John, that this...what we're doing now..." And he popped his head back round again to look at him. "This is exactly what he wants. Us arguing, falling out over a stupid picture."

He returned to the kitchen and opened up the jar of jam, spreading some out onto the three pieces - two for John and one for himself, rolling his eyes as he heard his friend going on about deleting the picture again. He could just imagine John's face right now, he smirked slightly.

But despite everything, John's request tugged at his heart strings slightly. John had said please, that it was a personal favour. There wasn't really any way he could ignore that, despite any misgivings he might have. Their friendship would always come first, before anything. Sherlock gave a small shrug. He was planning to kill Moriarty anyway, so why would he need evidence against him. Dead men don't go to court.

Having finished preparing breakfast, the detective picked up the plate and carried the two pieces of toast through to John, popping his own one into his mouth. "I'll delete the picture," he mumbled whilst eating.

"What?" John's head rose. "We're not falling out, that's ridiculous, why would we fall out over some bloody pictures? I don't think you seeing me gagged and naked is going to make you want to hate me, as much as it might disgust you," he commented, shaking his head. "It just seems to me like a huge waste of time on his part... no one is going to get distracted or overly upset about those pictures..."

He rubbed his forehead as Sherlock came in; he was relieved his friend finally agreed to delete the picture, but he knew that he owed him an explanation. "It's just... unsettling for me to know you have them, that you hold proof that Moriarty has done that to me... for some reason I think I wouldn't care if it was printed in the paper... but knowing it's on your phone angers me and shames me beyond my control..."

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock snapped, his voice rising slightly. He took a deep breath and sat down on the sofa next to John. "I'm not going to hate you or feel disgusted. Of course I'm not. It makes me upset, because I hate to see my friend getting treated like...like that."

He sighed and stared at the floor. "And we might have fallen out if I hadn't agreed to delete it." Or if I'd told you what happened when I looked at it, he thought, but kept that bit to himself.

Sherlock stood up and went to grab the phone from his bedroom, returning and allowing John to watch as he deleted it, holding it up to show him he wasn't lying or trying to decieve him. "There, all gone," he smiled and popped the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown. "Now, you just concentrate on getting yourself better. Let me worry about Moriarty and his stupid pictures."