Hello! I must say, this fanfiction stuff is really addicting. I've found that I've been writing more and more in the last few weeks. This is my first "published" story, so I might need some advice on some bits. ^^"

Oh, and I don't own Sherlock, yadda yadda yadda, it's property of someone from the magical world of Britain.

My eyes darted back up and I was surprised to see that his were alert, waiting for mine. I felt slightly flustered. So we were staring now. This was new.

I cleared my throat and returned my attention to the illuminated screen in front of me. When he didn't return to his paper, I glanced back at him, eyebrows up, silently inquiring his behavior.

He slowly angled his head away from me before allowing his eyes to follow it, as though gathering every last detail of my expression before looking away. "London can be such a peaceful place," he said, rising and slowly carrying himself to the window. "It really is such a shame."

I gave my eyes one last roll before returning to my typing. I felt like I needed to write about our new relationship quirks. My psychiatrist told me to write about everything and everything that happened, and here was something, black and white, clear as crystal, that could change my life. And it seemed that, the more I waited, the more greyscale and tarnished it became.

I sucked in a breath and rested my hand on the keyboard, lightly drumming my fingers on the keys. It would be too easy to press the right keys and press the "publish" button, but even easier to press all the wrong ones. The hardest option was the simplest: don't say anything. It almost felt like a lie to keep it from everyone, to hide the truth behind the dark door with the gold plates reading "221B". It wasn't a lie at all, and I knew it, but my mind kept making me feel like a liar. I had a growing following of people who read my blog, and news could spread as fast, or even faster, than people wanted it to. This could be a revelation, or it could turn into the biggest mess I'd ever dragged Sherlock into.

I had felt something the moment I had met Sherlock, but I wasn't sure that it was the same feeling as the one I felt now. This was a soft, yet hungry feeling, but I didn't want to call it love; it probably wasn't that big yet. Probably.

Nevertheless, I felt something, and I knew that he felt something like it, too. Perhaps it was muddled by his intellect, perhaps he chose to ignore it, or perhaps he didn't even know he was feeling it. This blog could change all that. He could realize what he was constantly subconsciously feeling. I could also hurt him beyond repair. Either way, things were definitely going to change in our flat.
So, with the last damn piece of dignity I could manage, I added six final words to the post and clicked "publish."

I closed my laptop, heaved a sigh, and blinked a few times to straighten my head. It didn't take long for my gaze to rise back to Sherlock, who was still contemplating by the window. His brows were furrowed with concentration and his eyes were focused on a building close to the street. The rising sun illuminated his face, emphasizing his cheekbones even more than usual. To most, he seemed to be an inhuman machine, trundling about just to get a thrill. But I knew different. He cared so much more than he revealed. He could destroy the city with no outside assistance, but he chose not to. He chose to be on the good side. The side of the angels.

I stepped to his side and my gaze flickered between him and the early streets of London. "You should eat something," I stated. "You don't even have a case and you're starving yourself."

He broke his gaze away from the street immediately. "I'm fine," he grumbled before stalking away to the kitchen table with a swish of his robe. He put his hands on the table and hung his head. His hands slowly turned into claws and he spun around, ruffling his hair in anger. Sherlock was really upset. He didn't usually get this flustered over boredom; there had to be something else. He knew something or saw something or was feeling somethi-

I froze. He was feeling something. I suppose we both were, but was it the same? I couldn't ask, but I had an idea that could help me find out.

I walked over to Sherlock, turned him towards me, and hugged him.

I could feel him stiffen up, wonder what had brought this out of me. After a moment, he began to gradually melt into my embrace. I felt him slowly raise his arms and he wrapped them around me. He felt warmer than I thought, and it felt right to feel it. I couldn't help but smile. I had hugged Sherlock, but he had also hugged me.

We stood like that for a while, exchanging silent words of comfort through our embrace. Our hug was cut short by a knock at our door. We both unwrapped each other and cleared our throats. I straightened my jacket before crossing over to the door and swinging it open. "Mrs. Hudson, hello," I greeted the landlady. She gave a smile. "Yes, hello, dear. I was just about to pop out for some biscuits and I was wondering if you wanted something."

"No, thank you, I-" I started, but Sherlock interrupted. "Milk, please. We need milk."

She nodded and turned. "Alright, dears, I'll be back in a bit."

I turned to Sherlock. "We don't need milk! We have a full jug in the fridge!"

"Correction," he announced. "We have a milk jug in the fridge, but no milk."

I looked at my creamed coffee in disgust. Any minute, I'd start vomiting or sporting little green dots.

I crossed back over to Sherlock. "Do you need any more clients? We've got an extended list waiting for a reply."

"No, I-" He paused before replying slower than before. "No, I won't be needing a client."

"Well, you're not going to sit around all day."

"I have no intention of doing so."

I lifted my laptop from my lap onto the table. "Well, what are you going to do?"

He crossed over the window once more and examined the shops below. "I'm going out."

I hesitated to ask. "With?"

He turned and smiled. "You, of course."

"Well, this is different."

We were walking along Baker Street, peering in the windows of cafes and stores. The throngs of citizens were starting to grow and taxis scuttled around, filling the air with the familiar sound of London.

"What's different?" Sherlock asked.

"Never walked down the street with…never mind."

We strode side by side, not uncomfortably close, but close enough to bump hands once in a while. I couldn't help but notice that Sherlock had shortened his strides to allow me to keep up with him. I felt redness start to creep into my face and I lowered my gaze. We walked in uneventful silence for a while before we bumped hands again. I couldn't help myself and I felt like I needed to do it: I grabbed his hand.

I used just the tips of my fingers so he wouldn't think that I was forcing him into something he didn't like. After a few moments with no visible reaction, I began to slide my hand farther into his. Still no reaction. We were really holding hands now. It didn't feel as wrong as it sounded in my head. I looked at his face to see if he was upset or afraid. I expected to see a grimace or, at the very least, his usual blank face, but was unprepared for his expression.

Sherlock was crying.

WAT! Things are happening! Sherlock's awesome! I ship JohnLock! Oh mah gerd.

I've got more to this fanfiction that I'll be adding soon, so don't fret. :3

Thanks for your feedback. Let me know what you think! Laters.

(^.^) GoggleBox