《Events after The Great Game》vernon

1、第 1 章 It wa

　　It was warmer than usual, John realised, his brain surfacing sluggishly from the depths of sleep. As always, he listened for any sound from Sherlock's room, but it was quiet.

　　Moments later, he registered the explanation for both of these facts.

　　He was lying on his left side on the sofa, facing out into the room; the usual sleeping position he had adopted over the last two weeks.

　　What was not usual; what was, in fact, distinctly unexpected, was the arm which snaked under his neck and lay draped across his chest, not to mention the hand resting on his hip and absolutely not mentioning, or even thinking about, the body which was pressed up against the full length of his back or the long legs which were tucked in behind his own.

　　He was being spooned by Sherlock Holmes.

　　Truly, this must be national 'Torture John Watson' week, and no-one had warned him.

　　He thought back to the previous evening, trying to establish how he had come to be in this situation. The talk show watching had turned into more of a lesson in observation, as Sherlock demanded increasingly bizarre facts about the people on the programme, until John got fed up and changed the channel, just so he could eat his dinner in peace.

　　They had settled on a quiz show in the end, which John had tried to get involved in, while Sherlock merely declared the questions to be either 'obvious' or 'irrelevant' depending, presumably, on whether or not he knew the answers.

　　John could remember feeling drowsy, his head nodding as he sat in his chair. The second time he had failed to respond to a question, Sherlock had told him to get ready for bed, for once not protesting when he settled on the sofa, merely asking if it would bother him if the TV was on for a little longer and confirming that, of course, Sherlock could manage to get himself to bed, didn't he usually?

　　After that... nothing. Obviously, at some point, Sherlock had slotted himself in behind John and gone to sleep. He glanced down at the arm lying across his chest, just visible in the early morning light. It was clad in a blue dressing gown, so Sherlock must have got ready for bed; it wasn't just that he wanted to lie down to listen to the telly. As he'd spent the last week determined to get John off the sofa, this sudden reversal seemed odd, even by Sherlock's standards.

　　About to get up, John suddenly paused, considering. From the gentle snuffling against the back of his neck, and the relaxed attitude of the limbs around him, it seemed that Sherlock was still asleep.

　　Would it be so wrong, he wondered, just to relax and enjoy this for a few minutes? After all, he reasoned, Sherlock did know how he felt now, so it wasn't as if there was anything underhand about it. John had made his position clear, had repeatedly attempted to abdicate his medical role and was still intent on doing so.

　　He was not going to make a habit of sleeping with Sherlock, however tempting it might be, or however practical at the moment, knowing that to do so would only make things more difficult in the long run.

　　Could he allow himself the indulgence, just for a few minutes, on this one occasion, to stay where he was in Sherlock's arms and imagine that this was how he woke up every morning?

　　It wasn't wise, he knew that. The sensible course would undoubtedly be to get up straight away– that's what the voice in his head was telling him, no question about it. Just get up, put the kettle on, and pretend this had never happened; resist the temptation and carry on as normal, put the whole thing out of his mind and get off the sofa… get off the sofa right now... John closed his eyes.

　　He closed his eyes and concentrated on what he could feel. The wiry strength of the arm stretching around him, the way it fit so perfectly between his shoulder and his neck. The weight of the hand resting on his chest, in what he could almost believe was a possessive manner. The other hand on his hip, not gripping, just resting there – he could feel each of those long fingers, could picture them clearly, as he had watched them in action so many times, now only a couple of thin layers away from his bare skin, just resting there, touching him, as he had so longed to be touched by this man.

　　The surprising warmth of Sherlock's body, which he could feel from his head, right down to his calves. Sherlock's breath blowing gently against the back of his neck. John shivered, involuntarily, and Sherlock's grip on him tightened, the fingers on his chest splaying out and pulling him back further, while the hand on his hip slid up across his belly and around his waist, settling there, clutching a handful of the T-shirt he used as a pyjama top.

　　John could have wept. Everything he wanted, everything he had dreamed of, was wrapped around him, but he knew he couldn't keep it. Sherlock was not like anybody else. He didn't get bogged down in relationships and affairs and the messy business of personal interactions, it was all just transport to him, he was above all that.

　　This had been a bad idea.

　　He supposed he should leave really, once Sherlock was better able to manage for himself. If he had any self-preservation at all, he would have left months ago, as soon as he realised what this attraction was turning into and how absolutely futile it was.

　　Somehow, though, he had never been able to do it. Even in his most despairing moments, when he recognised the pain he was signing himself up for, he had still known he couldn't leave, that he was connected to this man in a way he could not understand, that didn't seem to make sense. There was a bond there between them which even Sherlock seemed aware of, in his own way, hence his acceptance of John's help when he denied everybody else.

　　Taking a deep breath, John pulled himself together and started to ease gently off the sofa.

　　Immediately there was a grunt of protest and the arms around him closed in, holding him prisoner.

　　"John," the voice was sleep-roughened and husky and it seemed to set John's nerve endings on fire. He pulled away again, but the arms held firm.

　　"Say something, John," his friend commanded.

　　"What are you doing, Sherlock?"

　　The detective seemed to relax infinitesimally at his words. "Well, I was sleeping, until you started squirming about," he replied, voice still gravelly, hot breath tickling against the back of John's neck and not doing anything to slow his pulse rate.

　　"Yes, but why are you sleeping here?" insisted John. "I thought it was your objective to get me off the sofa, not to put yourself on it!"

　　"You didn't seem to mind at the time," Sherlock said, cryptically.

　　"What does that mean?" John demanded, trying to turn his head, but currently unable to do so. What was Sherlock on about now? Had something happened last night? He racked his brain but couldn't remember anything past settling onto the sofa, his eyes closing on the vision of Sherlock's silhouette, as he sat in his chair in front of the television.

　　"I want you to stay with me, John." Sherlock replied, ignoring John's query. "I'm tired of all this talk about my needing a new doctor; I don't want anyone else poking and prodding me."

　　John's eyes glazed over a bit at the thought of poking Sherlock, but he tried to focus on his friend's meaning.

　　"I want you to be my doctor," the detective insisted. "And I want you to sleep with me. Or,-" he lowered his mouth towards John's ear, cutting off his attempted interruption. "Or, I can come and sleep with you. I don't mind either way."

　　John groaned in frustration, rounding his shoulders and tucking in his chin in an attempt to escape the distraction of Sherlock's mouth. He tried to turn around again, but Sherlock held on tighter – perhaps he thought this conversation would go better if neither of them could rely on visual clues.

　　"Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you, that's not feasible?" he pleaded. "You can't have a doctor who is, well..."

　　John cringed a bit, but he just wasn't getting through any other way. "Who is, quite frankly, lusting after you," he finished, gritting his teeth. "It's just plain wrong!"

　　Sherlock sighed, releasing the handful of John's T-shirt and moving to grip his left arm instead. "You're treating me as if I'm normal," he pointed out.

　　"You are normal, Sherlock," John told him, flexing his sore hand and wondering if it was strong enough to dislodge his friend without hurting him. "I keep telling you, just because you're blind at the moment, doesn't mean -"

　　"No, John," Sherlock interrupted. "No, I'm not talking about my current problems. I mean,you're acting as if I react to situations the way that other people do." He stroked down John's arm until he reached the injured hand, which he smoothed his thumb over gently, checking to see how swollen it still was.

　　"Why should it matter to me what's going through your mind when you're looking after me?" he asked. "Does it make any difference to the treatment?"

　　John was speechless, partly from Sherlock's words, partly from the feel of his stroking fingers, and partly from the way his chest rumbled with every sentence, sending vibrations all the way down John's back.

　　"I know Sally told you that I 'get off' on crime scenes," the detective continued, quote marks audible in his tone. "Does that mean that I shouldn't investigate them? Would the victim be better served by a detective who didn't enjoy it?"

　　John tried to get his head around that for a moment, then gave up – clearly Sherlock's logic was not the same as normal, human logic, and there was no point trying to unravel it.

　　"It's not right," he repeated, stubbornly. "Especially in your current situation." His voice had adopted a mulish tone which would have been immediately recognised by any member of his family.

　　"Why especially in my situation?" Sherlock sounded in no way ready to give in.

　　"You can't see what I'm doing," John explained. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but that makes you vulnerable. I could take advantage of you."

　　Sherlock snorted, releasing John's hand and wrapping both arms around him again in what was unmistakeably a hug. "I don't believe that you would, and I don't much care if you do," he replied.

　　"You don't care if I..." John felt oddly disoriented. He stopped trying to turn around, thinking perhaps it was for the best that he couldn't see Sherlock, less embarrassing that way, really. An idea was dawning on him, which he was finding hard to credit, but he had to know...

　　"Sherlock, why did you come into the living room in your towel yesterday?" he asked, quietly.

　　He could feel the shrug, even without seeing it. "To show you that you could have what you wanted," his friend replied, the words murmured so close to his ear that John could feel them against his skin, as they echoed around his mind.

　　"That is what you want isn't it? A physical relationship between us?" Sherlock asked, as if he was offering an extra slice of toast, or the sports section of the newspaper.

　　John was aware that his mouth was opening and closing but, try as he might, he just couldn't get any sound to emerge. It was no good; he had to be able to see Sherlock's face to make any sense of this.

　　The detective had loosened his grip when his friend relaxed, so John was able to squirm round in his arms, forcing him to straighten his legs, until they were face to face, although he found that Sherlock still had his eyes closed.

　　"What about what you want?" John asked, keeping some distance by pressing his palms against Sherlock's chest, so that his thundering heart beat didn't give away the crazy hope racing like a fever through his veins. The hope that that perhaps he had been wrong about Sherlock's attitude, made too great an assumption about his lack of interest.

　　Sherlock shrugged again, "I've already told you what I want," he said. "Repeatedly," he added, with a frown.

　　He sighed. "Physical relationships have never held any appeal for me, but I don't think I would mind so much with you." He paused for a moment, and John thought that it was just as well his friend couldn't see his face.

　　"I am aware that we have a connection," Sherlock continued, his eyes still closed in the dim light. "You are not like other people. You have saved my life on several occasions, and risked your own for me on even more. If a physical relationship is what you want, then I am not unwilling."

　　John felt his hope slip away, leaving his heart heavy and his body cold. He pushed away from Sherlock, who let him go this time, until he slipped off the sofa and sat beside it instead, drawing his knees up and resting his elbows on them.

　　"You can't throw yourself at me like you would throw a bone to a dog, just to stop it from barking," he said, sadly. "I don't want your pity any more than you want mine."

　　Sherlock sat up, looking frustrated, "It isn't pity, John," he insisted. "Does everyone have to have the same reasons for doing things?" He waved his arms around for added emphasis. "You want to sleep with me, and I want to wake up with you; I don't see the problem!"

　　There was a silence. Sherlock had shut his mouth with a snap, as if regretting his words and John latched on to them at once. He knew that he would never have anything like the deductive powers possessed by his friend, but he had enough to recognise that there was something wrong with that sentence.

　　"So it's not the sleeping you have a problem with, despite all that talk about me having a bad back from being on the sofa," he theorised. "It's the waking up."

　　Sherlock's lips tightened, but he didn't saying anything, which John took as confirmation.

　　"So what is it about waking up on your own that you don't like?" he mused, not really expecting an answer, which was just as well, because none was forthcoming. He looked at his friend carefully.

　　"Sherlock, are you going to open your eyes?"

　　If he hadn't been watching so closely, he might have missed the slight twitch of Sherlock's right hand, but there was no-one who watched Sherlock Holmes more closely than John Watson, so he spotted it immediately.

　　He reached over and put his own hand over his friend's. After a moment, Sherlock opened his eyes, then shook his head. Nothing.

　　"Every morning you think your sight may have returned," John realised. "Every morning you hope you'll be able to see again." He could have kicked himself. It was hope. Treacherous, dangerous hope. The same emotion he had struggled with when Sherlock first started to come round from the coma. An emotion that Sherlock himself was not immune to.

　　As a doctor, John had treated women who were trying for a baby, and he had seen what they went through every month. Analysing every feeling, convincing themselves they felt queasy, wanting to believe that this month... this month would be different, this month would be the one.

　　Sherlock was going through that every morning, and he didn't want to do it on his own.

　　"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said. "I should have realised." Again, only his close attention caught the almost imperceptible twist of Sherlock's lips, but he did see it and it made him pause.

　　"Is there something else?" he asked.

　　Silence.

　　"There's something else, isn't there?" he pressed. "What is it?"

　　Sherlock shook his head, clearly feeling he'd admitted to quite enough weakness for one morning, but John was like a terrier, he wasn't going to give up. He thought back. What problems did Sherlock have now, that he hadn't had before? Just his vision really. The occasional word blindness seemed to annoy, rather than worry, him and was no more likely to happen in the morning than at any other time.

　　So was there anything he feared returning or occurring, which might affect him in the morning particularly? Or was it more to do with waking up...

　　"Sherlock, there's no reason to think the aphasia will come back,you know," he tried, tentatively.

　　"I know that," his friend snapped.

　　"Then why did you want me to say something today, when you woke up?" John queried. "Come to think of it, why do you always look a little on edge first thing in the morning, before I've said a word to you?"

　　Sherlock looked as if his instinct was to move away, but John was still gripping the back of his hand, holding it pinned to the seat, and he wasn't letting go any time soon. After some internal debate, the detective seemed to accept the inevitable and sat back, tipping his head up and resting it against the top of the sofa cushion.

　　"I thought Mycroft was playing some kind of trick on me at first, when I woke up in the hospital," he said. "I could recognise his voice, but his words were just a jumble of noise, not even a different language, just gibberish." He exhaled sharply. "I even thought it was funny, because I often accuse him of talking nonsense."

　　He turned his hand over underneath John's, so that they were palm to palm. "Then you came in and it was the same thing. Your steps,your voice,your touch," he squeezed John's hand, "but your words were all wrong and I knew then that it was me. I knew you wouldn't mess around, I knew I could trust you."

　　John got up off the floor and moved to sit next to his friend, hitching one leg up so that he was sideways on and moving his free hand up to stroke through Sherlock's hair.

　　He got a weak smile, before the explanation continued. "Everything was dark and nothing made sense. I didn't know what was happening – I didn't know what had happened and I didn't know how long it would last." Sherlock swallowed, dropping his head forward and John's hand slipped to the nape of his neck. "I was..." he stopped, then tried again, "It was..." he was clearly struggling.

　　"Not good?" suggested John, tactfully.

　　Sherlock smiled briefly in acknowledgement. "Not good, no."

　　He didn't resist when John tugged him sideways, and they sat quietly for a few minutes, right hands still clasped together, John sitting up with one leg tucked under him and Sherlock's head resting against his collar bone.

　　Eventually, John drew a breath. "You know," he pointed out. "If you'd opened that talking watch your brother brought,you could have used it to check whenever you wanted."

　　Sherlock just grunted, which was his normal response to any mention of the watch, the rest of the 'blind stuff' or, indeed, his brother.

　　John hugged him closer for a moment, then gave in to impulse and kissed the top of his head. "Bloody stubborn man," he said. "Come on, we need to get ready." He started to rise to his feet.

　　Sherlock didn't release his hand. "John?" he queried, not saying anything more.

　　Sighing, John sat back down for a moment. "I'm not saying that I'll sleep with you, Sherlock," he said. "But I'll think of something." He wasn't sure what. "OK?"

　　Sherlock looked unimpressed.

　　"Oh, and one more thing," John continued, pulling his hand free and using it to turn Sherlock's face towards him. "If I am going to be your doctor, then you tell me immediately in the future if you have any medical concerns whatsoever, do you understand?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Even if it's just an unsubstantiated worry, or an irrational fear,you tell me, Sherlock, or I will find you a new doctor and that will be that. Are we clear?"

　　"Yes, John." Sherlock's smile was that of a man who has got his own way. He was obviously trying to avoid looking smug, but the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth made it a piss-poor effort, in John's opinion.

　　He made it to his feet this time. "Time to get dressed," he announced. "Mycroft's coming later to bring you up to date."

　　"Joy," muttered Sherlock.

　　"I don't understand," declared John, several hours later.

　　The flat stank of menthol cigarettes, the smell emanating from the coat which Mycroft had brought with him, tightly sealed in an evidence bag. The coat which was now spread out across their kitchen table, with the three of them grouped round it. Sherlock was bent low, going over it with his fingers, after having made John describe it down to the last detail of stitching.

　　Sherlock was clearly engrossed, so Mycroft spoke up. "Moriarty used the coat to ensure that Sherlock wouldn't recognise his scent," he explained. "Overkill, perhaps, but he seems a thorough sort of chap."

　　"No, I get that," John said. "That was pretty obvious," he added, not relishing his position as the thickest person in the room.

　　"What I don't understand, is what Moriarty was doing there in the first place. How did he know where we would be, so he could be prepared with the coat? And Sherlock said he smelt of cheap soap, which I can't imagine he normally uses, the poncy git."

　　He paused to collect his thoughts, "And how did he know I would leave Sherlock on his own?" Would that regret ever fade? he wondered. "And why did he bother at all? Why risk it? What was the point?"

　　By this time, Sherlock had his nose so close to the coat, he appeared to be attempting to inhale the inside pocket, so it was left to Mycroft to step in again.

　　"Your penchant for 'constitutionals' is well established, John. My brother has never walked so much in his life." Mycroft smiled at this. "The weather yesterday was unusually fine, so it would not be unreasonable to assume that you would step out at some point during the day."

　　He moved out of the kitchen, turning up his nose slightly at the smell and sat down in Sherlock's chair before continuing.

　　"Presumably he had someone watching the flat, and was notified as soon as you left. You almost always head to the park, it being so close, but he may, of course, have been prepared for other destinations."

　　John moved to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, the better to keep an eye on both brothers, and attempted to be logical. "So, his efforts with the coat and the soap suggest that he wanted to get close to Sherlock but be unrecognised by him," he said, trying not to make it sound too much like a question. "Did he just want to check that Sherlock really couldn't see him? And why go to all this trouble? He could have just sat next to him in the hospital waiting room or something."

　　Sherlock straightened up. "I'm sure someone with Moriarty's resources will have already seen my medical records," he said. "I think he wanted me to know that he could walk right up to me, sit down next to me, and I wouldn't even be aware of it. He wanted me to know that I was no longer a threat to him, that he had won."

　　It was interesting, thought John, although perhaps worrying would be a better word, but even though he was talking about Moriarty having won, Sherlock didn't sound at all defeated – there was an odd note in his voice, which John couldn't quite place, but it made him uneasy.

　　"That's whyyou had to be nearby, John," Sherlock continued. "You've seen him before. You would recognise him straight away and you would tell me what had happened. His victory would be hollow if I wasn't aware of it. He needed you to be a witness."

　　John was about to go through his outstanding questions again, when Mycroft took up the conversation.

　　"As you quite rightly point out, my dear John," he said, with a smile, "Moriarty could not have relied on the two of you separating as you did, especially as it is so very rare for you to leave my brother's side." His smile became even more approving, making John feel quite uncomfortable, before he continued. "He must have had some plan to divide you which, as it turned out, he didn't need to implement."

　　There was silence for a moment, as they all contemplated this, until Sherlock suddenly gave an exclamation and turned back to the coat, picking up the left cuff and inhaling deeply. "Happy," he announced.

　　John and Mycroft looked at each other. John took some satisfaction in not having the only blank face in the room.

　　"I couldn't quite place it before, it's extremely faint, but it's Happy," Sherlock repeated, his head swivelling around between the two of them; he seemed disappointed by the lack of reaction.

　　"The woman, John," he prompted "Did you see the woman who sat on my bench? She was wearing Clinique Happy." He waited again for a response. "Peanuts!"

　　John began to edge towards his chair, but Sherlock held out a hand peremptorily and he reluctantly changed course to take it. The detective pulled him in and gripped his shoulders.

　　"John," he said, "What would you have done if we had been walking along the path when a woman nearby apparently started choking on a peanut?" he asked. "If a cry of 'Is there a doctor here?' went up as we were passing?"

　　"Well, I suppose I would have gone to help," said John.

　　"Of course you would, obviouslyyou would – and then I'd be on my own, wouldn't I?" He was smiling now. "So then, Moriarty could have made his move and when you returned from dealing with the miraculously recovering woman,you would have seen him standing next to me. Voila: mission accomplished."

　　"As it turned out, of course," he added, "they didn't have to bother, because we made it easy for them."

　　John was still perplexed. "So, how do you know about the peanut plan, again?" he asked.

　　"The woman, John," Sherlock sounded exasperated. "The woman whose perfume is on Moriarty's sleeve, the woman who sat on my bench first, was eating peanuts. They were loud. It was annoying. She left after I appeared to glare at her – then Moriarty came. Do you see?"

　　John was still bemused, but Mycroft was nodding. "You took less notice of the man, because of the woman," he proposed. "If he had just sat on your bench out of the blue,you would have been much more interested in him but, because of the woman,you gained the impression that it was just a very busy day in the park."

　　"I ignored him," Sherlock agreed, finally starting to sound angry with himself. "I was fed up of the intrusions and I just ignored him, as he knew I would." He smiled a little. "Oh, he is good."

　　John found himself disapproving profoundly of this statement and he pulled away from the detective, moving round to drop into his chair.

　　"I still don't see why he risked it," he muttered, grumpily. "If they'd used the peanut plan I wouldn't have been so far away, I could have caught him. I would have caught him."

　　Mycroft uncrossed his legs and sat forward a little. "Forgive me John, but does Moriarty know how you feel?"

　　"How I feel about him? I would have thought it was bloody obvious!" John replied. "I feel he's a man who would be greatly improved by a bullet in the brain."

　　Mycroft shook his head gently. "No, John. I'm sorry," he clarified, lowering his voice. "I mean, does he know how you feel about my brother?"

　　John could hear Sherlock huffing from where he had returned to the kitchen and low mutterings of "Did everybody know?" and "Was I the only oblivious one?" emerged from behind him.

　　He thought back to the encounter at the pool and Moriarty telling him 'You've rather shown your hand there, Dr Watson'.

　　"Yes," he replied, slowly. "Yes, I rather think he does."

　　Mycroft spread his hands wide. "Then that's all he needed," he said. "If he'd had a knife, for example, or a gun; if he had threatened Sherlock before you reached them, would you have kept going, or would you have let him escape?"

　　John groaned and dropped his head down, until he felt Mycroft's hand patting his knee.

　　"Speaking of which," the older man continued, calling through to the kitchen. "How do you think he did escape, Sherlock?" John thought that both of the Holmes brothers had probably worked that out long ago, but he appreciated the attempt at distraction and gave the man a weak smile.

　　Sherlock emerged from the doorway and perched on the arm of John's chair, resting a hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades. Mycroft's eyebrows rose minutely, and John blushed, which annoyed him – he felt that if he was going to be embarrassed, at least he should have something decent to be embarrassed about, not just a bit of hugging on the sofa which had often been more about restraint than affection. He didn't shake off Sherlock's hand, though.

　　"He was wearing trainers," the detective observed. "New ones, they were squeaky. The park is full of joggers. He dumped the coat as soon as he was out of John's sight; probably had a tracksuit on underneath, perhaps a cap in his pocket – instantly he's just one among many, nothing simpler than to just jog out of the park amid a crowd of others."

　　Mycroft nodded and rose to his feet. "Well, I'd best get back," he said.

　　"More governments to bring down?" Sherlock enquired, with what John felt was unnecessary sarcasm. He stood up also, nudging Sherlock deliberately in the process so that he almost lost his rather precarious balance.

　　Mycroft was beaming at them, clearly not harbouring any resentment for John's swearing at him on the phone the day before. "Surveillance will continue, of course," he advised. "Although, I think the threat may perhaps be reduced from this point."

　　"I concur," said Sherlock, who seemed very pleased about this development.

　　After showing Mycroft out, John returned to Sherlock, who was standing by the window.

　　"What are you so happy about?" he asked. "I would have thought you'd be disheartened by what happened yesterday."

　　Sherlock turned around and grinned at him, which rather took him aback. It had been several weeks since he'd seen that particular smile and it made his stomach turn over.

　　"Moriarty views the connection between us as a weakness," Sherlock said. "He used it against us this time, and yes, he won that round. But do you remember what you told me yesterday; when I said I was blind?"

　　John thought for a moment. "I said 'But I'm not'," he responded, assuming that the rest of his sentence was irrelevant to the current discussion.

　　"Exactly!" cried Sherlock, gleefully. "Don't you get it, John? Don't you see? After yesterday he doesn't expect anything from me – he will have written me off. We can be one up on him!"

　　John was bemused. "I still don't understand," he pointed out.

　　"John!" This was the old Sherlock, and it warmed John's heart to see him, even though he hadn't got a clue what he was going on about. Actually, that might be why, he thought – his not having a clue made the whole thing much more realistic.

　　Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and squeezed them tightly. "I may not have the use of my eyes at the moment, but I've got you, haven't I?"

　　John swallowed. "You've got me," he confirmed.

　　Sherlock smiled, brilliantly. "I'm going to teach you to observe."