Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, I just like to play!

Summary: Begins as a lighthearted Johnlock fic, with Sherlock trying to deduce what John's problem is (him). However, what happens when Sherlock kidnapped by Moriarty and forced to delete John's memory? Jim is certain that he can mold Sherlock into the perfect partner (in more ways than one) if he can just remove John's anchoring presence from Sherlock's mind... What dark potential might lie within the detective when freed of his moral compass? This fic thoroughly explores some of the more emotional aspects of the magnetic pull between the detective and the criminal, going deep within Jim's past and giving his character a more rounded feel. So, there will be much Jimlock in here…but don't give up on John yet!

When this fic finally decides to end itself, I think that folks who like either Jimlock, Johnlock, or both will be satisfied. But members of one of those fandoms may have to wait until the very. last. chapter. to see the light again. And then after, I'll be starting the second book to this fic. Ha!

Warning: M/M, Johnlock, Jimlock, and my own brand of stupid writing.

A/N: I try for weekly updates, and manage sooner sometimes. Reviews and messages always give me the strength to stay up just a bit later to go for completion! Hint hint!


Warmth. Comfort. Mmmmm… The weekend! For one very tired ex-army doctor, an extended sleep-in this morning was just what he would have ordered for any one of his own patients. Hands clasped over his abdomen, and duvet to his chest, he was as relaxed as he was ever likely to get nowadays. He smiled, eyes still closed, and felt quite content to just float in this in-between state of sleep and non-sleep for a while. And he did, but only for a few minutes. Best to get up before his flatmate awakened and realized the doctor had slept in. He didn't like it when Sherlock ever caught him sleeping. Experiments would generally ensue. Most often of a bizarre and oddly disquieting fashion. And messy. Always messy.

He rather liked this lazy feeling, though. No wonder Sherlock never picks up a job (besides the fact that he'd be fired shortly after hiring on). Maybe I could start cutting down on how many days a week I take at the clinic? he thought as he put off waking for just another minute. He sighed inwardly, his already-closed eyes scrunching up, Nah, as soon as I did, Sherlock would break things, and we'd need the extra money to fix something. Or replace it entirely… He shook his head, so much for daydreams of semi-retirement; time to get up and make sure the overgrown child he lived with did something productive with his time today. Like not seeing how far an egg could be projected through a window by use of a sock as a sling. John's sock. Never gonna be able to wear that sock again, he thought whimsically. Because for all that the detective's experiments and social inadequacies annoyed him and created problems, so too did they amuse and endear him to the younger man. Life, was never boring. Then he opened his eyes.

His hands shot down to his sides in alarm, grasping tightly to the covers. Adrenaline burst through his arteries, speeding his heart and heightening his awareness. Blood, so much of it. It covered the ceiling in great sprays. And part of the wall by the window, running down toward the floorboards. Fear chased his previous happy thoughts away. He gasped in a bit of air and was about to scream for the flat's other hopefully-living occupant when he noticed his left hand was touching something, and he turned to find a certain dark haired detective lying beside him with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as if contemplating a masterful sculpture or oil canvas. John screamed, a most manful yell if you asked him later, and promptly fell off the side of the bed hitting the ground with an eye opening THUMP. He groaned.

"John," came the unperturbed baritone, "tell me the first thoughts that flitted through your mind as you saw that."

"Ungghhhh," the doctor moaned into his floorboards.

"Well, you can wait if you want, but it's better for the observations to come out now, while they're still fresh in your mind." No further moan was forthcoming.

The only thing "fresh" in his mind at the moment was throttling the taller man until one of them felt better. Preferably himself, though he imagined the detective would find some use for the data gathered on how much pressure was needed to actually render him unconscious. John glared at his hands, now fisted in anger against the floor. Was I seriously just thinking about how interesting it is to have him pull these sorts of things? Shit. He pushed up and stood to look over the serenely composed man lying on his bed. So relaxed, as if he hadn't just sent another human being into a terror of pre-heart attack proportions. Those mercurial eyes found his with a slight turn of the pale face.


"Sherlock, hhhmmm…get. out."

"I hardly see how…"

"Get. Out!"

"Yes fine. Waste of pig's blood then. Don't know where I'm going to find such a quantity again so soon. I only needed a bit of input from an outside perspective. These trials don't run themselves…" he continued to grouse as he left John's room and hurried down the stairs. Probably to pick up on some other abandoned project that would burn a hole in something. John sat down on the edge of his bed, ran his hand through his short cropped hair, and blew out a loud breath as he stared on at the drippy bits of blood that had run down the wall and onto the floor. He nodded, then blinked; or perhaps he closed his eyes for a very long time, considering how long said blink lasted. He almost smiled, but ended up smirking instead. Messy.


Downstairs, Sherlock reclined himself along the couch after a (very graceful) flop. "Bored!" he called out to the empty room, closing his eyes. He flicked the end of his dressing gown agitatedly off of himself and squirmed a bit. His eyes reopened, but were unfocused as he looked within. What was John's issue lately anyway? Something was off. Nothing definite. Nothing tangible. Nothing he could just outright ask about. Certainly not that. He had tried that already, much good it did him…

2 days earlier:

John came down the hall toweling his hair dry, one hand operating the towel, the other clasping the paper he planned on thoroughly reading the crap out of this morning. The last few had fueled the fire for the detective's "cooking" lessons, in which he had taught himself. And failed. The doctor was looking over the front page, bad news as usual, all of it, when…

"Ah, John! What's the matter with you lately anyway?" cried an exuberant Sherlock as he dropped several feet from the ceiling, whereon he had installed two hand bars to hang from late last night. He landed within a foot of John as the doctor came out of the hall and into the living area. The older man staggered back in shock, heart racing. Until his mind cleared up what had happened and explained it to the rest of him. Then he promptly restored himself, walked right up to the dark haired man, and whacked him on the nose like a bad bad doggy. He pushed his way by a now-bewildered detective and sat down to read his paper.


Yes, that direct approach hadn't gone well at all. And he had thought he was being very casual and non-confrontational about the whole thing. Pah! There was no accounting for people's strange reactions to his friendly overtures. John's behavior was bothersome, though, and he really did worry that something was truly wrong under the surface. It wasn't anything big. Just little things, like how John wasn't quite as friendly to strangers, or how he didn't even fight Angelo anymore at the candle placement on their table. He just stared at it in what one could almost call defeat. He fought more with the stupid checkout machines at the Tesco. He'd actually broken one last time. He didn't tell Sherlock that, but the younger man deduced it instantly. He hadn't seen John out on a date, or even talking about prospective dates, for at least five months now. Perhaps a sort of midlife crisis? Good luck bringing that up in conversation…. Then an idea struck him. He hadn't had a case in a good while, and he was bored, so perhaps this could be the case of John Watson? Obviously John was suffering from something so subtle that he couldn't even recognize it for himself. So perhaps an outside perspective would be of value? Yes! He'd deduce his friend's problem soon enough, and then they'd be back to normal, and he wouldn't have to worry. He didn't like worrying. It made him feel vulnerable. Normal. Human. His eyes narrowed in distaste. Disgusting.