Just a little short fic I thought up, hope you like it! And I added another chapter! I had a review that said it seemed to short, and so I wrote up more.

Sherlock paced the room, his robe fluttering behind his quick steps. His hands would move from his sides to his temples when finally he threw them down in a huff of frustration, "John?"
"Sherlock?" The Doctor answered in that tone he used when his flat mate was in one of his moods. They'd been playing this game for the past hour.
The detective strode across the carpet, stepping over the coffee table to stand in front of John's place on the couch.

"Are you going to move?" Sherlock asked impatiently.
John didn't look up from his book. He had been quietly reading, to Sherlock's disdain, and refused to be moved.
"Why don't you meditate in your chair? Or more logically, your room?"
"I don't want to 'meditate' there. I want to think about this case, and I want the couch."
"I'll let your genius think this one out then."
Sherlock took a deep breath and stared at his John. When staring didn't work he perched himself on the arm of the couch, fingertips together, continuing to bore into the man. "You are relentless."
"And you need to give up."
He smirked, "You do know who you're talking to."
"Right. A detective that can't see the many clues that I will not be moved for your absurd need of this specific spot in the entire flat."

"Don't you know the term sharing, John?"
"That's the thing about couches, there's room for more than one."
"I can't sit like that. I need space."
"Then I can't—"
"Won't help you."
Sherlock paused. "What if I took it by force?"
John looked up from his book at this statement with a raised brow, "Would you?"