A/N: Hello, and thanks for clicking. I haven't written for a long while, and I've only ever written Harry Potter before, so this is something new for me. This is a brief chapter, just for me to get into the Sherlock style. This show has taken over my life since it first aired, and I want to do it justice. I'm a big fan of the humor in this show, and the friendship between Sherlock and John. I'm going to work on my plot before posting any more, but I wanted to get people's opinions so I posted this short first chapter. Please review and let me know what you think. K.

It was always such a bag of mixed emotions, John always thought, to have a visit from Lestrade. As he climbed the stairs in 221b Baker Street, John heard the unmistakeable tones of the Detective Inspector. That often meant several things:

1. That the DI needed Sherlock's help.

2. That Sherlock was getting a bollocking, because the DI didn't want his help.

And possibly the most crucial but regrettable factor...

3. That somebody had been murdered.

John sighed wearily. It was a Friday evening, and although he hadn't yet made any plans, sometimes it was nice to not have any plans at all, especially ones which involved chasing down piss-stained alleys and getting drenched in the rain, looking for someone who could potentially slit his throat. But enough about last Friday night...

His reluctance began to bubble down, replaced by the sudden urge to run into the sitting room and bellow "What ho! A foe?" Of course, maybe not to that extreme, but John couldn't help himself. He craved the unpredictability that followed Sherlock Holmes.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as he reached the top of the stairs and entered the sitting room. Both men fell silent, and turned to regard him as he stood there in the door way. The DI then continued his conversation in low tones. John snorted in indignation.

"Don't mind me, I just live here," he muttered under his breath as he removed his jacket and headed for the kitchen to pop the kettle on.

John stood there a moment, watching the water boil. The water churned frantically, then the kettle clicked and the water became gradually still. There came a cough from behind him and he jumped.


"You were somewhere else," remarked his flatmate.

"Yeah, I've been to work."

"No, I meant just then. What were you thinking?"

Sherlock Holmes sat himself down on a wooden chair next to his flatmate. John rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. What had he been thinking? It was a rare occasion for Sherlock to be asking that question, but John couldn't for the life of him recall what it was. He cleared his throat.

"Uh...just that it's a Friday night, and I have no idea what it will bring...and I kind of like that." He grinned at Sherlock who breathed a laugh.

"You're the oddest man I've ever met, John."

"Coming from Sherlock Holmes, I'll take that as a compliment."

John rose to make two mugs of coffee, and then sat himself back down. The pair sat there in a comfortable silence for a while.

"What did he want?" John eventually asked.

"Hmm? Lestrade? Oh, he's having difficulty with a case, wanted to pick my brain. It could turn out to be nothing."

John studied his friend's face, the way his eyes flickered as he thought words he wasn't permitting himself to say.

"Or it could turn out to be something?" John prompted. Sherlock smiled to his friend, and chinked his mug against his.

"In which case, John, I'll be there."