The Professor NEW CHAPTER!!!

Mid-Summer's Eve

The weather had been nice. The light breeze on this particular day cooled the air outside just enough to be bearable. The knock at the door sent tingles through the detective's spine. 'John's here-home. John is home,' he corrected his thoughts, and proceeded to the door calm as ever. An exhausted John entered the flat, a slight smile in his face. Sherlock couldn't stop staring at it. It was one of his best qualities-his smile.

"It's very nice today, Sherlock. Isn't it?" 

"Yes. A bit too hot for my liking." Sherlock said as he stepped outside to feel the air, then turning around to head back upstairs. He started to play his violin-he was composing.  

"How have you been, John. Everything go well in class?" 

"Yes, yes. Very good. So this is what you did all day. Sat and played-" he saw Sherlock's hand move to write a note. "composed music?"  

"Well, normally I'm out working on a case, but this one's proving to be more difficult that it was thought. And I'm composing." 

"Right." Sherlock continued, and John sat down to read the paper.  

"Nothing of interest. The comics are terribly corny, not of any entertainment. No news on the case yet-Lastrade's probably not phoned anybody. I love when he gives me first looks. The only thing that made me laugh was in the "lonely hearts column." the disparity and utter failure of those people is just so incredibly hilarious. Maybe those should be the comics. Also, Mycroft would like to have a word with you, after class tomorrow." 

"The principle, why?" 

"He's my brother, I'm sure he is going to tell you all of the terrible things about me." 

"Terrible? I don't, I mean, sometimes you get on my nerves, but terrible?"

Sherlock looked at John with such, I don't even know. He'd never heard someone think of him positively out loud. Excluding Molly, who obviously loved him. He set down his violin and sat across from John, who set down his paper and was now looking into the detective/professor's eyes.

"John, thank you." 

"You're most welcome." Sherlock stood, and headed to his bedroom. 

"Hang on, Sherlock. What did I say?" 

"Nothing of negativity." 

"Yes, but what did I- oh, yeah...um, no- yeah." 

"You're so cute when you struggle for words." Sherlock accidentally spoke, his emotions controlled, but lingering somewhere in his deep voice was lust. He scurried off before he could catch the blush from John. Sherlock never, ever thought he would ever utter such a useless and sentiment filled-no, it was overflowing with sentiment-word. Ever. He mentally hung himself while billions of guns shot at him from all angles. He calculate each angle, analyzing what it would hit, what it would damage, what it would leave alone. All of that of course, depended on his calculated position, which he couldn't due to John swarming in his thoughts.

There would be a conversation he was not wanting to have. Not to say he wouldn't enjoy what came afterwards. He would, most definitely, but what he would have to do and/or say to get there worried him nonetheless. He wasn't a smart-arse, annoying, conceded machine on the inside. He did feel things, he just deleted it, forgot about it. It wasn't important to him enough to keep with everything else he treasured.

But, of course, data is always retrievable.

Meanwhile, sitting in the living room, a frankly baffled John sat in his chair, reading the boring newspaper. It was boring. Sherlock was right. 'Sherlock Holmes was right, big shocker.' John thought with a grin tugging at his lips. He stumbled off to his new room, taking in the new life. It was pretty plain, except for the faded floral mattress that sat in the empty frame of the bed.

He decided to make his bed-he was planning on a nap. He sat at the edge of the bed, feeling the new floor beneath his shiny shoes. He knew he was going to have a lot of fun living with Sherlock. He decided to unbox his belongings and organize his things in the room. The books on the shelves; the notebooks and supplies at the desk. Toiletries in the bathroom; clothes is the drawers; etc.; etc.

It was a couple hours later, everything in John's room tidy and organized, and a knock at the door. John had fallen asleep. His sheets scrunched up in his grip, causing the fabric to create random ripples and creases like paused waves. Sherlock slowly creaked open the door to a darkened room, the moonlight illuminating his bare back. His head faced away from the door, but he soon whited to facing the door, and let his eyes flutter open to the most beautiful sight.

Sherlock Holmes in nothing but his pants and an unbuttoned deep purple shirt. His pants were black, boy shorts. Boy shorts. Tight, incredibly flattering boy shorts. John stopped staring at his pants and looked to his chest-faintly muscular, but very thin and pale, all do his that was visible was pale. But the paleness mixed wi the darkness and the blueness of the lights makes him so much more than just a lanky Consulting Detective Professor. He was a mysterious figure.

John collected himself, and woke up enough, to notice the heavy tremor of Sherlock's, well, everything. He was shaking like a dog and sweaty. The sweat glistened in the light.

"Sherlock, are you okay? What happened?" Sherlock stepped in a bit, and closed the editor with a slight thud. He shuffled to the bed at sat down, grabbing a pillow and curling into it, encasing it in himself. He started to stifle a cry, and Muffled it with the pillow. John reached his hand and placed it on his shoulder-he was freezing.

"You must have been out in the cold for hours! Sherlock, tell me what happened." 

"I'm sorry, John." 

"For what? Sherlock, there is nothing you-" Sherlock curled into John's lap, staring up at his young, but rough face. Tears slid down his face, eyes red and puffy.  

"There's nothing you could have done to be sorry for. Just tell me." 

"I was...with Lastrade. He...um...for a case. I figured it out. Simple, really. The man-" 

"We can discuss that later, what happened to you?" John was unknowingly stroking Sherlock's head, and Sherlock loved the way it felt.  

"Right...so I was walking here, when I saw this guy wear an awful lot of purple knock a lady out and run away with her jewelry. So I chased after him, but he was too fast. Too CLEVER! And I got into an alley way, near here, and there were three, NO! Four. Four of them. All I saw was a pastel purple and I was...they..." he motioned towards his head, where there was a deep blue and black bruise.  

"Sherlock. I..." 

"John, they...they did, things..to me. Things, unspeakable things. And they took my clothes-they left the coat and scarf. Probably didn't fit any of them. And...John I can't..." he drifted into a sob, and John held him close. 

"What were you sorry for, Sherlock?" 

"For showing...emotion. I don't what to put you through that." 

"Sherlock, it's okay. It's all okay now. What did they do? If your okay with telling." 

"They, um...no, I don't wanna." 

"Okay, that's fine, Sherlock you don't have to." John rubbed small and large circles in the man's back. He fell asleep in the doctor's arms, crying a bit in his sleep. After Sherlock settled down, John fell asleep as well, listening to his breath-in, out, in, out, etc, etc.