A/N – Thanks to ScopesMonkey for making everything I do better and she always is teaching me new things! Yay.

Warnings – Um, sugary sweetness is about it I think.

Three Cases, Three Sherlocks.


I roll my eyes; it's really all you can do when Sherlock is like this. It's his "I've solved it and it was impossible" mood. He walks around the table, the swagger in his hips that he gets when he is particularly smug. I doubt that Lestrade or Donovan notice it. I doubt they pay much attention to Sherlock's hips – but I do.

When he's like this, arrogant and smug like this – I guess I should define it as more arrogant and more smug because he's always arrogant and smug – I just want to take those thin hips between my hands and fuck the hell out of him. I want to bend him over a desk and slam into him until he cries for me to stop.

It won't happen like that of course. Not that Sherlock is even remotely opposed to that should the circumstances and his mood allow. I have no doubt that we'll shag tonight; it's been four days since he took this case. Sherlock, despite any claim to the contrary, is a very sexual being. Four days is a drought for him.

The cases come first though. Well, I believe that after all this time my personal welfare and continued health actually rank ahead of the cases, but the work certainly ranks higher than sex. Although barely if I had to guess. And should the case go on too long, allowances can and will be made. "Shag me, John, so I can think about something other than your cock," is not an uncommon sentence in our household.

The course of the shagging tonight is all but dictated by this mood, this overt arrogance and sense of superiority. Sherlock is damn near chipper, and I will benefit from this mood with a long, slow, and sultry seduction that will probably last hours. It will be torturous, and it will be wonderful.

He points to some spot on the map that has some significant value to what we're doing here. I stopped listening an hour ago. I'm annoyed by Sherlock's attitude as much as anyone but he is my friend, my lover. He's the man I'll follow to hell and back, either on his coat tails or carrying his weight, as long as he consents to my presence. And my presence is feeling more and more welcome as we settle into this, I don't know, relationship, for lack of a better word. It's starting to feel more and more like a forever deal, and I find I don't mind that idea so much.

"Let's go, John," he exclaims as he grabs his coat off the back of the chair. "I can't continue to share oxygen with these imbeciles." He stops at the door and waits as I stand up, glaring at Lestrade and Donovan over my head and then meets my eyes as I pass in front of him. The look is there, that seductive gleam. Oh yeah, it's going to be a good night.


I hear his voice coming from somewhere and I open my eyes. I don't see him though. Where is he? I try to lift my head but the room starts to spin. I press back into the pillow and close my eyes. Nope, bad idea. I open them and stare at the ceiling. Tiles, those odd fiberglass ones. We don't have them in our flat so obviously I'm not there.

"Sherlock," I try to say but it comes out little more than a scratchy whisper. I try to shake my head, clear it but the action makes me queasy. I try to swallow but there is nothing there. I'm parched.

I hear his voice, lower now, the words unintelligible. They are forceful, pointed. He's angry. I hope the he isn't angry with me. I don't like to fight with him.

I slowly turn my head to the side and make out a curtain. It's beige, hospital beige. The A&E, I remember. The ambulance. I'm in the hospital.

I try to weave through the fog to bring up an image or a memory. The only thing I remember is my leg hurting, very badly. I try to get a glimpse of it without lifting my head and all I see is blanket. It seems elevated though like maybe it's up on a pillow or a cushion. It's funny you'd think I'd feel the difference.

But, I realize, I don't feel much of anything. I'm pretty much numb all over. It's actually very – nice. I like this. I could punch myself right in the eye and I wouldn't feel it. Ha. Oh yeah, these are the good drugs.

I hear the rustle of metal on metal and see that beautiful face peak around a curtain. He's obviously just looking in to glance at me. Maybe he's making sure that I'm still here. His mind is elsewhere though, probably with whomever it is he's forcefully whispering at.

His eyes meet mine though and realization crosses them as they grow wide.

"John?" he asks and sure enough that is my name.

I smile at him but it doesn't feel like my face is working so I don't know how it comes out. It doesn't seem to scare him though so that's good. He sticks his head back out of the curtain and whispers something before entering the small space closing the curtain behind him.

He walks so that he's standing at the head of the bed and he rubs his hand through my hair. Up close he looks tired and worried. I don't like that much.

I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Thirsty, I forgot. Sherlock understands and a second later there is an ice cube against my lips. I open and his warm fingers trace it lightly back and forth. The cool liquid feels amazing as it trails over my tongue and down my throat.

When the cube is gone he traces his thumb across my lip and I hear the sound of ice in the cup as he picks out another cube.

"What happened?" I manage, sounding like a frog with laryngitis. The image almost makes me laugh.

"You fell," he says, the fear taking control of his face. "We were on the boat, you were chasing Jenkins and you both fell overboard."

I feel my face contort; I don't remember that at all. I have no idea who Jenkins is. Sherlock seems to recognize the confusion in me because he nods once and changes the topic.

"You were on the top deck, you hit your leg on the railing of a lower deck as you fell. It's broken, but surprisingly clean. They set it and it's in a cast. The water was cold though and you fell a long way. You weren't breathing when they brought you up and they had do chest compressions to get the water out of your lungs."

Wow, sounds bad. That explains why he's looking like shit. Well he could never look like shit. Shit for Sherlock is still 10,000 times regular attractive, but then I fuck him on a regular basis so maybe I'm biased. No, I know I'm biased, but he's still damn gorgeous.

I suspect his words should have had more of an impact on me, but they don't. I just hear them. "The drugs are good," I say dragging out the last vowel sound. He nods and a small smile appears on his lips.

"I told you not to follow him," he says with something that might be a snap in his voice. It's clearly the kind of snap you offer the love of your life when he's lying in a hospital bed and you're crashing from the adrenaline high. So not really a snap at all, just some words with a mild accusation behind them.

"I'm a bloody idiot," I reply and watch the smile grow. I smile back and feel suddenly sleepy. Oh yeah, good meds. I love the good meds. These are like the waking up from getting shot meds just with a broken leg instead of a bullet hole.

He leans over and kisses my forehead, his breath warm there just before his lips touch me. "But you're my bloody idiot, so sleep." Another kiss and I let my eyes drift close.

"See," he says into the phone his voice quiet from the stairwell. He's trying not to wake me but there's no need. I heard him come in. I was only half asleep anticipating it. Lestrade had texted me earlier and said they were wrapping up. I knew it would be beneficial if I was awake when he got home.

I watch the door ease open and the long, lean body enter our bedroom. I haven't bothered with the light but he'll know I'm awake – he says he can tell from my breathing. His eyes lock with mine and he nods a sort of half greeting while listening to whoever it is on the phone. He mumbles some assent to a question while he toes off his shoes.

"Certainly," he says, "please notify me then." And he rings off, tossing the phone lightly onto our dresser.

He meets my eyes again and I can see the exhaustion there. He hasn't slept in several days and probably hasn't eaten much either. I worry about him when he's like this, on cases like this. But, at the same time, I appreciate it. I am the only person who gets to see this Sherlock.

He drops his jacket to the floor and follows it with his shirt a moment later. When the trousers come off he puts his knee on the bed and climbs up to lay next to me. He buries his face in my neck and I wrap my arms around his head.

I should have been there. I should have been on this case with him, but he's been particular since I broke my leg. He won't allow me to accompany him on cases that will be physical, or if they become physical he tries to send me home. Naturally I'd first refused and then insisted I be included. That didn't work though, he'd just stop investigating or refuse to take the case. After dealing with his boredom and watching cases go unsolved without him I'd finally agreed with his terms.

It all comes back to my leg – he doesn't trust it. He probably thinks I should cut it off and get a prosthetic leg because at least it won't have a history of failing me. I've explained that it was a clean break, ideal as far as broken bones go, and that it has healed perfectly. There's no reason I can't accompany him all the time, but he still refuses. So goes life with Sherlock.

"Do you want me to make you something to eat?" I ask. He shakes his head and I plant a kiss into the dark curls.

"No," he mumbles wrapping an arm across my waist and squeezing.

"Did you solve it?" I ask and he nods. I knew that already, I also know that the last victim was found dead. Sherlock had caught the killer, but too late. That's why he's here now, not celebrating or bragging. I hate that the case ended badly and that the poor woman died, but a part of me loves this Sherlock best. This Sherlock is here not because he wants me or is worried about me, but because he needs me. He thinks he failed, and all of the errors, opportunities, and facts are swirling around in his head. They've taken over and he can't control them.

I, however, can make them go away. I make them quiet. I am the only one who's ever done this.

I place another kiss against the top of his head as his breathing begins to slow down. He'll sleep soon, which is good because he needs it.

"Will you make me breakfast?" he whispers, turning his head so that I can hear him.

"Of course I will, love," I say. This pliable, exhausted state is the only time that endearments are allowed. And, after all this time, they're expected. If he doesn't get one he will slowly become agitated and then even angry. The first time I forgot – or rather just didn't say it – he grumbled for two days before embarrassingly admitting that he needed to hear it to feel better. I'd managed not to laugh or grin with glee. I nodded, called him 'honey', and watched him cringe because the timing was wrong.

I remember it tonight and when he hears it his body relaxes completely next to me and he plants a kiss onto the side of my neck. I hum slightly and squeeze tighter around him. "Sleep now, though. Sleep now."

He nods again, draping a leg across my thighs and settling in for sleep. "I love you," he mumbles in a quiet, half-conscious voice.

"I love you, too."