A/N: Okay I promise glorious Sherlock shaped cookies to all reviewers (:

All he could see was the barrel of the gun before his vision was obscured by a woollen shoulder; his hearing lost to a barrage of gunshots. Time seemed to slow on the way to the floor, a mans arms wrapping tightly around his waist and he was spun as he fell causing him to land heavily on the man, those hands clenching tightly to his shirt, and Sherlock let his head drop, forehead resting on the cold hard concrete, legs entangled, hands trapped between him and his landing pad.

Almost a full second after they had landed his hearing returned and he realised they were surrounded by a swat team, Lestrade's harsh tones bursting from the now silent men as he pushed his way through to the huddled masses on the floor.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

The detective took a silent measure of himself and realised he was in fact completely whole, so he smiled and attempted to roll off his companion blinking in surprise when fingers clenched almost imperceptibly against him, muscles tensed, his gaze on Johns face.

The doctors eyes were haunted, face deathly pale, mouth gabbling silently to itself, he seemed to stare into the far distance and Sherlock frowned. Clearly something was wrong.

"Lestrade late as always, I think John needs one of those…those blankets."

His great mind failed him as the man wrapped around his frame shook and he tugged him gently up to his feet, the shorter man still clenched around him, a soft whimper the only indication that he had noticed the sudden change in position.

"Blankets? What are you going on about?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glared at the baffled man "The orange blanket."

Lestrade blinked at him and the detective could see the very moment he caught up.

"You mean you think John is in shock. No other injuries?"

Sherlock shook his head and watched the men part to allow a paramedic through, a stocky man with a forgettable face. "Come on there's an ambulance outside."

Sherlock pushed lightly against Johns back and together they stumbled through the crowds of men, rising eyebrows and confused glances following them outside of the train station and into a shocking cold drizzle that dusted the two men only serving to increase the ferocity of Watsons shivers.

The paramedic opened the doors and together they stumbled up to sit on the metallic bench inside, John's hand still clenching Sherlock's knee, the detectives' arms around his waist. He blinked, the world was gray around the edges and he was scarcely aware of the stocky man poking and prodding him with various instruments, his head whipping around when Lestrade's typically exasperated face appeared in the open doorway, hands on hips.

"Right you're going to the hospital."

Sherlock felt Johns hands tighten and he shook his head "No. we will be fine, only a little shock. Mrs Hudson can take care of us."

The older man groaned, shaking his head, a hand to a crumpled brow. "Sherlock, John is almost catatonic for god's sake."

"He doesn't want to go."

"Oh and he told you that did he."

"He didn't have to."

Lestrade glared up at him and Sherlock drew himself to his full height, well as much as he could, hunched over in the back of an ambulance anyway.

"Fine. At least let them check you over properly on the way over to your flat?"

Sherlock just nodded his head once and pulled the door shut in the officer's face, smirking at the satisfying clunk as it locked.

The paramedic finally released the pair after ten minutes of checks on John and Sherlock gently pulled him out the van and up to their front door knocking loudly. Mrs Hudson opened the door a minute later, babbling about how they should really remember their keys being full grown men and all.

Her scolding was cut short when she looked up at the doctor and silently she turned to the detective, her wide eyes full of concern.

"Oh Sherlock, what happened?"

"Nothing Mrs. Hudson, just a little shootout is all. John is in shock."

She gaped at him tottering off up the stairs ahead, waving her hands and talking about how he needs a good strong cup of tea.

Sherlock glanced at his companion, his eyelids were drooping, shoulders hunched over, hands still clasping at Sherlock's best purple shirt. His gaze was fixed on their feet, face blank and the detective growled, he hated that he couldn't understand what exactly was wrong, he couldn't solve this.

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top of the stairs hands clasped in front of her "Sherlock dear don't just stand there. Bring him up!"

Sherlock looked up at her, half dragging half pushing John down the hall and up the stairs following the old woman as she trotted up ahead leading him to John's room.

"Now I've put the kettle on, you just get him into bed."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't comment she didn't give him time before she was off again disappearing down the stairs. He had never actually been in the doctors room save for a brief glance around when he first viewed the flat, instantly disregarding in favour of his own room a slightly larger and warmer space.

The tall man turned and gently pushed his way into the doctor's space, glancing around and attempting not to read too much into the neatly stacked piles of books, the one messy drawer in the desk, the almost obscured photograph of John and a female, probably Harriet judging by the earlobes and similar wide smile.

The bed was neat, sheets folded at the corners. Typical military set up. Sherlock inched them across the room and for the first time since the explosion John actually released him, his hands slipping down the taller mans hips and onto the bed, posture slumped.

Sherlock began to panic, he wasn't sure what to do, what to say and when Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway he managed to excuse himself, rushing out and up to his own room followed by the sound of the old woman proffering a large steaming mug of England's best to the shell shocked doctor.

He picked his way through a series of practiced steps that took him over the possibly lethal mess on the floor and over to his bed, his own exhaustion hitting him with such force he simply allowed himself to fall gracefully onto the bed, the effort taken to kick his shoes off meaning he had to actually take a break before he could lift himself up the bed to rest his head against the pillows.

He was woken a few hours later by what sounded exactly like muffled screaming. Having had experience with screaming like this before he was up and on his feet without thinking, rushing down the stairs a moment later. He burst into John's room to find him cowered in a foetal position on the bed sheets, shaking and moaning in his sleep.

The detective hesitated, unsure, before crossing the threshold and approaching the bed, hands clasping awkwardly behind his back.

"John? John."

He waited but the doctor did not respond so he stepped a little closer and leant over the bed.

"John!"

Suddenly the doctor began to yell again, a awful heart wrenching cry that made Sherlock's muscles turn to jelly and he reached out shaking his companion by the shoulders until his eyes snapped open and he stared, eyes wide, chest heaving, hands jumping up to clasp the taller mans biceps.

"Wha-what happened?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow "You were screaming."

Watson blushed and let go of his arms, huddling in his covers, pulling them up and around him. "Oh."

He was quiet, that haunted look back in his eyes and the detective moved jerkily, straightening up and gesturing behind himself "I'll just leave." He turned padding softly across the carpet pausing as he reached the doorway. He could've sworn he just heard….

Turning he looked back at the bed and his cowering companion.

"Did you just ask me to stay?"

Johns blush deepened and he looked away, not commenting.

"John…"

"You don't have to? Just… I don't want to be alone, not after… not tonight."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. What was the proper social protocol here? Did he stay? Did he get into bed with his colleague, hold him, talk through his fears or just listen or did he leave and not talk about the suggestion the next morning. He wasn't sure so he looked back up tilting his head when the doctor looked right into his eyes, hands clasping the sheets tightly.

"Please."

That was enough to convince him and he crossed the room in two quick strides slowly and awkwardly lying down on top of the quilt, ankles crossed arms behind his head. For several minutes he amused himself by seeing what things he could deduce about John from the few items on show, glancing over to explain his deductions and raising both eyebrows in surprise. The doctor had already fallen a sleep, his hands relaxed, mouth hanging open just a little. Sherlock glanced at the door and considered leaving before his gaze returned to his colleague and he decided not to, just in case these night terrors reoccurred.

The next morning he awoke before the doctor, surprised to find a flowery pink blanket thrown over his legs, clearly Mrs. Hudson had come in to check on John sometime in the morning. Sherlock slowly extracted himself from the arm that had been thrown over his waist in the night and rose from the bed, smoothing his still dirty suit.

He attempted to distract his mind whilst showering and dressing by planning how he would go about killing Anderson and get away with it. He glanced in on the doctors still snoring form as he made his way downstairs, wincing at the bright morning light busting through the gunshots in the blinds. He sighed rubbing his eyes and stumbling over to his sofa pulling his laptop out to start work on some request.

John appeared almost two hours later, eyes still haunted, hands twitching, baulking at every noise.

Sherlock managed to withstand this for about twenty minutes before he leapt to his feet. "Breakfast?"

John blinked up at him, muscles tensing at the sudden movement. Sherlock strode out of the door his curls bouncing as he shook his head, grabbing his coat as he crossed the threshold.

"I know a place!"

The detective's voice echoed up the stairs as he strode out of the front door. He had held the taxi until the doctor stumbled outside, his movement sluggish, eyes constantly roving. They travelled to a near by café that served delicious pancakes and Sherlock watched as John picked at a plate of the best, glancing out to check the florist every few minutes.

So what if he could distract John and work on a case at the same time, it was highly efficient. An idea struck him as he stared out of the window, if Sherlock was tired, sick or bored all he needed was work to improve his mood dramatically and so logic follows that whatever was wrong with John could be treated with a good hard dose of detective work.

He glanced over to his companion rolling his eyes and ripping about half of the top pancake off and stuffing it in his mouth. Perhaps John would recognise that the pancakes were there to be eaten, like some great ape wanting to watch the red berries be tasted before they attempt a taste themselves.

It seemed to work, the shorter mans tongue darting out and wetting his lips, eyes falling on the stack of sweet smelling heaven. Sherlock began to explain that the thief that stole lady Chatterley's diamond was in fact a florist that had hidden the gem in a bouquet of roses to get it out of the house and was at this very moment about to arrive at their place of work.

Which they did and so with a pancake still in his hand they leapt from the table, skirting around an old couple as they burst out of the door and after a gangly grey haired man.

Six hours later and they had finally made it back to the flat having chased the thief halfway across London only to run into Lestrade and continue the chase from inside a police car. Finding themselves in warehouse on the outskirts they proceeded to chase the maniac around for over an hour before Sherlock managed to tackle him by jumping down a flight of stairs.

He was tired, even someone with half of Sherlock's IQ could tell that and when the doctor plodded upstairs without so much as a word the detective followed him, watching his retreat until he disappeared into his bedroom leaving him standing alone on the staircase. John had seemed to snap out of his reverie for a while during the chase but he was as yet to speak much more than a few words to check if Sherlock was unharmed after he finally rolled off the thief.

After a moment he also ascended the stairs, two a time on his way to his bedroom and glancing in on John as he passed. The doctor was topless rooting through his drawer, the skin of his back smooth, soft looking and for the briefest second the detective's stomach seemed to drop making him misstep, stumbling a little.

He changed into his pyjamas, scrubbing a hand through his hair he glanced to the door. Was John expecting him to join him in the bed again? Or would he rather forget that it ever happened? The detective sighed deciding that if he went downstairs with the implication he was making tea then perhaps on the way past John would give him a clue.

So he left, trying to remain his usual nonchalant state as he descended the stairs, hands in dressing gown pockets bare toes curled against cold wood floor. He glanced in as he passed Johns room and stopped in his tracks. The man was sat bolt upright in the bed one hands tangled in the soft blonde hair that hung off his forehead the other curled into a fist, a thumb nail clasped tightly between pearly white teeth.

Sherlock rubbed his hands against his hips, a nervous habit he had developed in childhood, waiting for the doctor to notice him. Finally he glanced sideways looking away and then realising he was there looked back his nail replaced by him biting on his bottom lip, eyes wide, expression somewhere between surprise and something distinctly pleading.

Sherlock took the tiniest step towards the door and Johns mouth curled upwards in a small almost unperceivable smile, the crinkles around his eyes smoothing a little and so he took another step and another and another until he was across the room and standing awkwardly at the edge of the bed, staring down at his companion who blinked up at him a glint of something in his eyes.

Sherlock looked away from him and this time he slipped underneath the quilt, the bed already warmed by his colleague's body heat, the mattress soft the pillow strangely hard and he shifted around for a few minutes attempting to get comfortable. Reaching out he turned off the lamp and they were plunged into inky blackness, the wooden blinds on the windows blocking out all but a thin strip of orange street lamp light that cast shadows on the opposite wall.

Sherlock lay in silence listening to his companions breathing slow and then a sigh and short intake of breath.

"I kept seeing the war."

Sherlock said nothing he just shifted a little as if to indicate his attention. A coward's reply.

"It was… being shot at, literally fighting for my life, both our lives and then…and then all the noise, that rattle of hundreds of rounds fired at once. For a second I was back there, back to that battle and my men were dying around me again, you were dying. I can't get it out of my head."

Sherlock sniffed frowning. "But I did not die John. I am alive, as are you."

There was a long beat of silence and the doctor rolled on his side facing his friend "I know."

This time when Sherlock awoke John was gone, his side of the bed cool pyjama bottoms folded in a neat square on the chair by the window. The detective sat up glancing around and sighed, he must've said the wrong thing or didn't say what John needed. From what he could deduce the doctor had left over an hour ago, possibly in disgust although that couldn't be proven.

Sighing he rose and wandered upstairs to his room to collect clean clothes and to shower, rubbing a hand through his still damp hair on his way to the living room. It too was deserted and he reasoned John must've decided avoiding Sherlock was the best method, although this did go against his nature. He was a man of war, a man who doesn't run from a fight.

He slumped in Johns chair and glared out of the windows, this time someone had opened the blinds as the cloudy sky greeted him, rain was imminent and he watched as a flock of pigeons on the gutter of the house across from them were scattered by corvus corone, which proceeded to turn and glare at the detective, its dead eyes boring into him and he frowned staring back out at it as the sky thundered and big fat rain drops began to drip down its feathers, to fill the plastic ditch behind it and he smirked enjoying the slightly diminished stance of his foe.

"Are you having a staring contest with a crow?"

Sherlock did not look away "Yes and I believe I am winning."

John said nothing and he heard him take a few steps towards the kitchen and then a soft thump as the groceries were set on the floor. The crow let out a defeated squawk and flapped its wings disappearing in a flutter of inky black feathers.

Sherlock laughed triumphantly and leant around the chair to watch John carry the shopping into the kitchen and place it in the cupboards, carefully avoiding the sticky substance on the unit and the large jar with the pickled rat inside. He smiled something warm settling in his chest; John had not left simply to avoid him he had just gone to get food.

Without asking John picked up two mugs and began to make a cup of tea, not looking at his gently beaming companion. He did not seem to be angry or disappointed with Sherlock, furthermore it seemed he had gotten over his shock for the most part his movement still a little guarded, eyes still slightly tight.

The detective sniffed and turned back picking up his violin and plucking a few notes, legs crossed at the ankles posture slumped so far he was in danger of sliding off the chair. His phone beeped and John habitably picked it up glancing at the screen as he placed a steaming mug in his colleague's hand.

A soft sigh and his hands tightened on the phone as he read through the text, voice wavering only slightly as he spoke. "There's been another murder. Lestrade wants you."

Sherlock glanced at him just for a second but it was enough for him to decide that perhaps work was not everything; it may in fact damage his psyche even more. He turned back and plucked a single sharp note, taking a sip of his tea.

"He can wait; if one becomes two then it's more fun for me." John hummed and dropped the phone on his lap, padding across to curl up on the sofa.

They spent the day watching crap TV or in John's case listening to crap TV whilst staring out of the windows at the grey lines of rain that poured from their gutters and the rivulets that zigged and zagged down the window pane. Much tea was drunk and little was said, the most communication occurring when John asked whether Sherlock wanted something to eat.

Sarah appeared somewhere around midday, knocking insistently on the door and inviting herself in when John answered still wearing rubber gloves.( He had been attempting to clean some of the sticky mess from the units using a industrial cleanser Mrs. Hudson's friend from down the road had given them.)

She strode into the living room and sat herself down in Johns chair smiling at Sherlock who glared at her and pointedly stood moving from his own armchair to the sofa to avoid having to look at her.

It bothered him that she felt at home enough to sit there, she had no right.

John bumbled around making tea and perching in Sherlock's chair, his eyes flickering from the clearly sulking detective to his almost girlfriend.

"I was wondering if you were up for doing something tonight. There is a new show on at the Tate."

John bit his lip tilting his head and humming. "I uh…I'm not…Sherlock's been really ill and he needs a doctor here to uh…take care of him."

"Oh is it serious?" she looked straight at him and Sherlock coughed weakly throwing a hand over his forehead.

"Not at the moment but…he is so thin you see and he doesn't eat well and he absolutely refuses to go to the hospital so…"

Sherlock sat himself up and glared at him "I don't see why my diet is any of your business and why would I need the hospital! I'm not even sick!"

John's eyes blinked rapidly and his face dropped and Sherlock got to his feet, making sure to wobble slightly and then fall back. John rushed over and placed a hand against his forehead "Oh dear you have a temperature. Maybe you should go to bed…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but nodded almost dozily and pulled himself up using Johns arms, the doctors almost instinctively grasping him around the waist much as he had done after the shootout. Together they hobbled in tandem to Sherlock's room, a whispered thank you his only reward as John quickly turned to leave.

John was avoiding Sarah and he was using Sherlock to do it. Now he thought about it, his companion had had some reason or other to avoid going on these date things with her for a while now, 2 out of 5 times in fact. Several minutes later he could hear their voice through the window and he cracked it open a little straining to hear their uttered words.

"Goodbye John."

She sounded angry and suddenly glared up at him the detective blinking down at her in confusion. Clearly she resented him for his apparent illness and Sherlock grinned, it was not that he disliked her it was that she was resoundingly dim, much more so than the doctor and yet he chose her as a romantic conquest.

He frowned what did it matter what he chose her for? Unless of course he wished to be that conquest. After a moment pondering this he concluded that this was highly likely to be the case and he smirked.

How very strange.

He turned and let himself collapse on his bed, hands behind his head a salacious smirk spreading across his features. John appeared in the doorway a minute later blushing. Sherlock smirked at him coughing weakly again and placing a hand to his forehead.

"Oh doctor save me, I'm dying."

John ran a hand over his head and scrubbed at the hair at the base of his neck. "I just didn't feel up to it is all."

Sherlock rolled off the bed and approached him much a like a predator coming in for the kill. "Hmm seems to be an increasing pattern these days. "

John blushed deeply "What are you…what are you implying?"

"You have clearly lost interest in this woman; the only thing I fail to understand is why you insist on continuing the charade that you're even remotely interested."

"That's! That's…you're wrong."

He turned away stamping down the stairs and Sherlock frowned, had he gone too far. He had offended John. Sighing he pushed his hands in his pockets and followed him downstairs turning the corner to watch him finish washing the pots. His shoulders were square, tense and Sherlock sighed padding to his chair, slumping defiantly as his fingers pulled at the strings of his violin getting lost in his music. He didn't know what to say to make it better.

The tune he was playing seemed pretty maudlin and he placed his instrument down quickly staring at the wall, his cheeks heating a little. He blinked trying to decipher why he suddenly felt so embarrassed only turning back when John was safely back in his chair and the TV was blaring again.

Only a few minutes later he got to his feet and retreated to the kitchen to complete a few experiments he had neglected. It was easier to think when he wasn't distracted by Johns face or hands or voice or his soft throaty chuckle. Sometime later the doctor got up and glanced his way.

"I'm going to bed."

Sherlock hummed in response and John opened his mouth to speak, closing it again when Sherlock cursed as he missed the exact timing of his additions. Sherlock glanced at him and smirked a little, smug.

"I'm almost done here."

John nodded blinking furiously again a smile flashing across his lips cheeks slightly flushed.

"Right…right."

He walked away and Sherlock chuckled to himself, John was expecting him to join the doctor even though he had mostly recovered and now with his revelation concerning how he felt about his colleague it would serve to be an interesting night.

Finishing his experiments Sherlock strode upstairs passing John's room quickly to change in his own and then slowly making his way back down. John was sat up reading one of Sherlock's discarded medial textbooks, his mouth twitching as he read as though he was fighting not to read out loud.

Sherlock smiled and crossed the room silently, slipping into the sheets and shifting around to get comfortable. John placed the textbook on his side unit and stared down at him, his face lit by a soft orange glow from the light his eyes warm, amused and yet there was still a hint of the fear in them, as though the night terrors were still hovering on the edge of his consciousness just waiting to pounce.

Sherlock licked his lips and the doctor turned the light out, plunging them back into the silent dark. The detective considered the swooping of his stomach not a moment before and smiled, perhaps this 'relationship' lark wasn't all that bad.

Not that they were in a relationship.

He outright froze up when John's legs suddenly collided with his as the doctor rolled over, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's features. He shivered but John's legs were warm and so he pressed back slightly, the doctor answering this move by placing his hand near Sherlock's waist, fingers just brushing the strip of exposed skin there. The detective squinted at the ceiling accepting the challenge and he coughed shifting his entire body to the right so Johns hand was now lying just on top of his hip, legs thrown over his.

He felt John chuckle silently and he smiled closing his eyes, perhaps John was not interested in Sarah because he was interested in someone else.

The next morning was wholly different again, this time John was awake next to him, hand clenched in Sherlock's top, leg still tangled in the taller mans limbs. Sherlock smiled and glanced sideways raising an eyebrow when John quickly shut his eyes and gave a half hearted snore. He licked his lips and moved gently against the doctor, inhaling deeply as he did so. Their scents were mixed and fused with the clean cotton of the sheets, it was a smell that went straight to the detectives impressive head. Sweet and warm.

"John I need to use the toilet. Let go."

To his credit the shorter mans face did not move and he simply let out another soft snore, however the effect was ruined by the fierce blush that engulfed his face and neck and by his traitorous fingers relaxing slowly so his hand was spread across Sherlock's stomach for a second before the arm was pulled back, quickly followed by the leg.

Sherlock sighed and got out of the comfortable warm bed strolling to the bathroom with sleep damaged grace. His phone beeped loudly somewhere in the living room and he trotted around trying to find it.

John appeared a couple of minutes later and picked it up off the mantelpiece flicking through the text as Sherlock glared at him.

"Don't look at me like that. If you wanted to know where it is then maybe you should use your own phone for once instead of using me like your bloody secretary."

Sherlock dropped onto the sofa still glaring at his colleague. "What does it say?"

"It's from Lestrade, another murder. He sounds pretty desperate."

"He'll be on his way over then."

John sighed and plodded back through the door no doubt going to change, Sherlock considered following him if only to catch a glimpse of that smooth skin again. This time as he passed he was graced with a snapshot of John lying on his back on his bed, wriggling into a pair of his favourite faded jeans and again he stumbled on his way up.

He was absentmindedly considering the image when he was struck by an idea, changing into a pair of black trousers and taking his time over it, waiting until the tell tale sound of Lestrade's rough tones in the hallway alerted him.

He wandered downstairs shirt still unbuttoned, jacket thrown over his arm as he pretended to fight with the pearly fastenings. It was still only halfway done by the time he entered the living room, Johns eyes landing instantly on his almost bare chest, dragging down to where the buttons were clasped and then further bouncing back up to his chest and then to his face a slight blush on his cheeks.

It was… satisfying and Sherlock smirked finishing up his buttoning and throwing his jacket on as Lestrade complained that they hadn't contacted him the day before.

The taxi ride was quiet, and he stared out at the gray streets smirking when he reconsidered some of the glances, the touches the words John had used in the past. Perhaps he had a chance after all and yet he felt what was almost a pang of fear at the thought.

Sherlock had never been this interested before and had never actually gone on a date or even…. Well there had been drunken kisses with men and women but not much more than that. These thoughts were lost as they rolled up outside a large office building, Lestrade leaping out of his car ahead and over to the taxi, yanking the door open as he began his explanation of what they knew.

Sherlock barely glanced at Donovan as he strutted past concentrating instead of the dead clerk, strange blue tint to his face. He watched as John walked away to talk to some of the other workers from the office, Donovan following him looking bored.

The case was simple really, clearly both murders were the results of a betting ring gone sour and now someone was going around killing the big losers. Obvious from the ink stains on the dead mans thumb. So Sherlock informed the detective who glared at the body like it had betrayed him, and wandered over to where Donovan and John seemed to be having some sort of argument.

He distinctly heard his name and ducked behind the nearest little grey square cubicle, footsteps soft on the tiled carpet floors.

"It just seems pretty rude; you must have a reason for being so hostile."

"It can't be that he is a freak."

"He isn't, he is strange I'll give you that but you have no reason to constantly berate him like that."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, John was protecting his honour. How very prince charming of him.

"Why are you suddenly so protective of him, what have you two finally spawned or whatever it is he does."

He heard John splutter and then there was a deadly silence before John's voice broke again, a sharp edge that bit through the air. "Our relationship is none of your business and in fact I think I know why your so rude to him, you're jealous. Jealous that he can see what you can't, jealous that he is brilliant and you are clearly lacking."

"You can't speak to me like that, you're just his pet. You know that."

Sherlock rounded the corner smiling brightly and sliding his hand across Johns arm, "Come on. This one was too easy, let's eat."

John smiled up at him. "Yeah. Sure"

Sherlock looked back at Donovan with a knowing smile and as they walked away he placed a hand at the base of Johns back as he opened the door for him.

Her gasp was audible from across the floor.

The rest of the day was spent in various housing estates following the trail of the killer, eventually coming across him sleeping on a sofa. He had jumped up and head butted Sherlock so hard in the face he actually passed out for a few seconds so the detective was yet again forced into the back of an ambulance and subsequently released into the care of Dr. Watson.

As soon as they had gotten in he had been pushed up the stairs with the express order to go lie down but don't actually go to sleep. Sherlock didn't even hesitate when deciding that John's bed was in fact the perfect place to rest his aching head.

About half an hour later the doctor came to check on him, placing his hands on the top of his head and under his chin to tilt the now bruised eye into the light.

"Can't go five minutes without damaging yourself."

"Technically Cory Gould damaged me."

John just tutted and released him, Sherlock's smile dimming a little at the loss of contact. "You can probably go to sleep. Does your head hurt? Any dizziness, disorientation blurred vision. Anything?"

Sherlock shook his head and John graced him with a half smile and a hand rubbing over the top of his skull. "No lacerations so I'd say you're okay to sleep."

Sherlock smiled "Okay."

John glanced at the bed and then up at Sherlock who raised an eyebrow and began to unbutton his top eyes still on the now blushing man. "I'll just…just go make some tea."

He all but bolted out of the door leaving Sherlock alone to shuck out of his trousers and walk in his underwear to Johns chest of drawers yanking them open and ruffling around until he found a pair of pyjama bottoms that were only slightly too short on him.

He smirked deciding remaining topless would be a fun new challenge for John. He yawned returning to the bed to slip under the sheets with a wide smile inhaling the familiar fresh linen, citrus spiked scent typical of a clean and ordered life.

John through and through.

He wriggled down so he was almost in the centre of the bed smiling and curling his toes in the comfortable sheets, his eyes aching as his eyelids drooped. He was woken a couple of hours later by Johns clumsy attempt to be quiet as he slid in next to Sherlock, his gasp audible when his hand reached out and he realised that Sherlock was in fact topless.

His breathing became sort of erratic and Sherlock pretended to shift in his sleep which prompted he doctor to slide fully under the sheets curling on his side so his chest was almost but not quite against the bare skin in front of him, knees pressed up against the back of the detectives long gangly limbs.

He heard John sigh and licked his lip pretending again to shift, this time pressing backwards so they were now connected completely and he grinned Johns hands slipped onto his waist from behind, fingers swirling in a circular pattern before he seemed to realise what he was doing and removed his hand.

"Don't stop."

Sherlock blinked, he hadn't meant to speak out loud and John sucked in a deep breath his hand resuming the soothing circles. The pleasant warm tingle of his skin resumed and Sherlock relaxed again.

"How's your eye?"

"You have the worst pillow talk."

John chuckled and he could feel the rumble through his back. It was oddly comforting. "It's fine."

There was a puff of air as John sighed against his neck and then they were silent again. For a while he just lay there in a comfortable state between fully awake and asleep, surrounded by John's soft warm skin, his steady heartbeat and the scent of his aftershave.

The next morning Sherlock rolled over to find John still facing him, this actually asleep. His eye lids were fluttering and he was making soft sounds as he dreamt. Sherlock grinned reaching out to pull the doctor closer to his chest, their foreheads almost brushing when his wide expressive eyes blinked open and he blushed, glancing down at their entwined forms and back up.

"Sherlock…"

The detective smiled and John smiled back at him "Sher-"

Johns next sentence was cut off by the detectives lips sealing against his own in a soft almost shy kiss that expanded his blush to previously unseen levels. Working by instinct seemed very productive.

"Oh… thank you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly his…friend? Lover? His colleague was very forgetful.

"John, do remember what I said last night."

There was a beat where John stared, eyebrows scrunched in confusion, the detective could almost see him replaying the night before and then an understanding smile graced his features and he chuckled.

"I'll work on it."