Sherlock's couch was a place for thinking. Not watching movies or eating dinner or even so much as sleeping on (had he even shared a fair amount of sleep to begin with) was tolerated. John, being his flatmate and holding certain privileges none others kept, was able to sit on it. Sit. Nothing else, not even so much as lie down. Several times John had dozed off, sprawled out against the cushions and inept beneath the soft and chilly interior. Each time Sherlock was not pleased. He'd use sharp and ear-bleeding notes from his violin to awaken his ex-army doctor colleague. This would follow up to an extent where John no longer bothered; he slept in his own bed.

Hannah Spencer was not aware of the possessive attitude toward the patterned sofa. In her eyes, even her telepathic ones, it was a sofa and nothing less. Sure, the cushions were unevenly scattered (she took a bothersome notice to this) yet walking in Sherlock's apartment caused to her focus more on cautious subjects; where she stepped, where the God-awful stench was contaminating from, and where John was in this situation. John. The only sane being in this household. He was a doctor - an army doctor, nonetheless. Anyone could fee; safe with his presence so it came as no shock to her when there was no sight of him, sipping his tea and smiling warmly at her as she walked in.

She couldn't help but ask, "Where's John?" And Sherlock glanced at her wearily. A slurred answer, most likely to convey his boredom. Even if they were simply in the same hundred-feet span to discuss a case probably and whatever relevance she held to it. She just hardly noticed his bony fingers swoop down and collect several papers laying scattered across the coffee table. Tidying up, are we? she wondered, smirking at the very thought of Sherlock, for the lack of better terms, dressing to impress. Said hand, though not in view for his back was her only concluded eyesight, furled into a rather small fist and pressed against his lips as he let out an awkward cough.

"With Sarah," he replied. Not so much replied, besides the fact that it was, but a disgruntled moan. Rush and hurried and, as mentioned before, slurred. Judging from his mess, Hannah could only assume the invitation (if a text with the mere words, "Flat. 6:00" counted as an invitation) to arrive here was last minute. Lestrade's idea? Possible. That is, if she even had anything to do with the case to begin with. She began to feel an uncomfortable churn in her stomach, most likely regarding their loneliness.

"I see. What am I doing here?" The phrase came abrupt. Sherlock let out the smallest sound of surprise as his brows knitted together, as if to question her very thoughts.

"What? A man cannot invite a friend over for tea?"

Hannah sighed. "Not when it's you, Sherlock. There's always something. Mind telling me what it is or do I have to leave because I'm having tea with my mother later." She'd almost cringed at the mention of her mother. Over irrational git, yet she loved her anyhow. Even if she did strangely, "approve," of Sherlock and his mistaken identity as her boyfriend. At the mention of this, she evidently twitched. More in shock than disgust, though.

Sherlock's finger roamed over the kitchen counter. Looking for something? "Ah, your mother. How is she? I haven't seen her since the incident with the gang members." Neither had I, thank goodness. And though many messages on the telephone left over were coated with concern, Hannah was fine and she was sure her mother knew this just as much as she did.

"Fine. But please don't change the subject," she plopped down on the patterned cushion, arms crossed and hair stalking of her shoulder as her frame staggered up - then down. "What am I doing here? What experiment are you boiling up this time?"

"Hannah, please, don't be ridicu-"

His sentence cut off. Hannah released her folded arms. Her eyes followed towards Sherlock, who seemed dumbfounded and struggling to gather up his thoughts - thoughts that not only rambled in his head but hers, as well.

What is she doing? Does this woman have no decency? Is she as clueless as Anderson? No, she isn't; I read her files from high school; A-B student. Surely she- but no. She's sitting right on the couch. Like there's no problem with sitting on someone else's couch!

His eyes were glazing over ever possible thread constructed within the three to four feet span. Her tongue clicked silently and slowly wondered if removing herself from the couch would calm his insane expression. The air transformed into a thick concoction that - excuse the pun - could be cut with a knife. Her fingernails scratched the side of her back, crinkling the blue shirt that had been previously removed from underneath her black coat.

She's confused. Her eyes are darting. She's wondering if she should get up. Perhaps I should tell her to remove her London-infected self off my couch. That would be rude. But she's on my couch. That's considered rude, isn't it? How I wonder her reaction if I even demanded she get up. Such a retort would drive her insane.

A smirk was forming. Hannah fell down to her side and kicked her feet up, sandals flying off as she did so along with any sense of hospitality Sherlock was bottling inside. "Let me guess; deducing the amount of invisible ink found in the Declaration of Independence?" What she did not expect was for Sherlock to sneer at her response and storm over, glowering down at her relaxed figure. Her smile widened.

"Get up."


"Get up."

"Sherlock, relax." Her hand flowed like a wave towards the kitchen in a gesture for him to relocate himself. "Make yourself a cup of tea. Let's talk why you've become bored enough to invite me over to unknown reasons." He huffed in a way that she'd only witnessed on a four year old.

"This couch is for thinking," he sternly made clear. "Thinking and deducing. Not"

And she wanted to know, "Why not?"

"Hair follicles and DNA prints scattered who-knows-where on this couch should not be weighed out by the likes of yours." Hannah grimaced. "And I'm afraid if you don't get up, I'll have to join you on this and I can assure you that it will not be comfortable." Even in the small time (six months now, was it?) that Hannah was aware of Sherlock's existence, she was even more aware at how he could exaggerate the most miniature specifications, especially ones involving his belongings. He wasn't alive and breathing on this earth to share, to give away what he'd so rightfully deserved. Even, quote-quote, for the likes of her.

"Try me." And he did. What else could a person do besides follow through with their threats, most pointedly when the other could call their bluff? Sherlock's lightweight body crashed down beneath her feet. She jumped slightly. Not sparing a single glance, he fell onto his back and wriggled his way beside her, almost completely knocking her off the side. Her left arm flew to the ground and held her in correct place as she whipped her head back and scowled at the curly-haired male. "Sherlock!"

"I told you," he said matter-of-factly. "Ready to get up?"

"No," she shot back.

"We can stay here all day."

No answer came to his remark. Silence spilled in. Aggregatively, she'd muttered a, "Bloody man," but that seemed to be the end of words for the next quarter of an hour. Laying there, each attempting to focus more on the competition than the effect. Effect being what? The awkward, yet inevitable, feeling of pale skin rubbing against one another. Hannah found her biting on her lower lip five minutes into the struggle for dominance.

Her skin is soft.

She glanced at him.

She's looking at me. Her eyes are abnormally large for a female her age. It suits her hair. Yet, she doesn't seem to have gotten any sleep in over twelve hours - why? Watching reruns of Dexter, more than likely. There is no work for her. What else would she do? There are bags under her eyes, she tried to cover it up with makeup. So why are her eyes so big and...pretty?

"Sherlock, I'm ho- Oh." Simultaneously, Sherlock and Hannah's head snapped towards John standing at the door. His tie was loosely wrapped together and two brown paper bags were cradled in his arms, him obviously yearning to put them down. "Sorry for, um...I'll just-"

"We're not!" Hannah fired. "We're not, um, whatever it is you think we're...What did you think we were..."

Sherlock interfered, bless him. "John, this may be half your home but I would appreciate it greatly if you knocked once in a while."

"Right," he muttered. Bags were placed down. On his way out, he stopped at the doorway and shot one more disbelieving glance their way. Hannah practically shriveled under his gaze. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed disproved and his thoughts were blank - she couldn't gather if it was because his thoughts were stranded or she simply couldn't care enough to intrude. "Right." And he was gone.

If it seemed possible in any way, the atmosphere became more silent.

"What did he think we were...doing?" Finally managing to find a verb that matched her assumption towards John's.

"Most likely sexual intercourse."

"I see."

Well, there it is. I can honestly say I'm stoked I got finished tonight and before 2AM, as well! I think I deserve a bowl of Cheerios. Sherlock flavored Cheerios? I think yes. This, obviously, was written for the fabulous She Steps On Cracks. Haven't read her story, Weighing His Words? Well, then you're a loser. Go read it.

Anyways, disclaimers! Because where would I be today without them?

Hannah Spencer belongs to She Steps On Cracks, or Kat, if you wish.

Sherlock belongs to BBC.

And I'm done talking now.