A/N: John Watson is played by the ever wonderful Calabash, while Sherlock Holmes is written by me. We both hope you enjoy this little two part story as much as we do.

Warnings: Graphic content! Nudity, foul language, graphic sex scenes, you know, everything that makes a PWP good. ;)

Sherlock was in a foul mood. Nothing seemed to be going right. He hadn't had a case in days, two of his experiments had gone wrong because of Mrs Hudson's propensity to meddle, and now he couldn't find his favourite pair of pyjama bottoms. How was he supposed to lounge around without them? "JOHN!" He shouted out, pulling clothes from his bureau with a fury. "JOHN! WHERE DID YOU PUT THEM?!" The detective stood up and pulled an entire drawer out, upending it completely, trousers falling haphazardly to the ground. He growled and hurled it across the room, glaring. He was in quite a state, wearing only a very large white tee and his blue dressing gown, hair still damp from the shower he'd taken twenty minutes ago. Sherlock was boiling. So angry he was on the verge of becoming livid. He was bored and upset and now he couldn't find his pyjama bottoms. The world seemed to be plotting against him, and he didn't like it. "How in GOD'S name am I supposed to be able to sleep WITHOUT MY FAVOURITE TROUSERS?!" He cried out, kicking the mound of clothing on the floor and folding his arms petulantly.

John didn't answer him. He was making a cuppa, and he had a headache. A nasty one. Sherlock wasn't helping matters. He'd been lurking about the flat since Thursday, when he'd wrapped up a particularly high profile case, and at a time when his name was on every tongue in London, Sherlock Holmes was victim to a marked sense of fury and irritability. It wasn't a depression, though John had seen his fair share of those in his time with the volatile man. Sherlock was just... angry. Like a child bored with his toys, he'd slipped into a familiar pattern of temper tantrums and hellish behavior, and at some point the previous day, during a high pitched rant about the state of his toiletry products in the loo, John had tuned him out. He continued stirring his cup of tea calmly, wondering if there was any more pain medication in his room upstairs. He yawned, scratching his head and shuffling bare footed to the stairs. It didn't hurt to look. From Sherlock's bedroom, a howl of wrath rose, and John winced, taking the stairs two at a time. Perhaps he'd nap.

Sherlock bounded out of his room, his head whipping about wildly. He saw John plodding up the stairs and his eyes narrowed. "Where are YOU going?" he demanded furiously, folding his arms and tapping his foot. He was bloody cold in nothing but his shorts, tee, and dressing gown, and without his silk trousers, he wouldn't be able to get warm in bed for at least three hours.

"Upstairs." John didn't even bother looking behind him. Sherlock had been in the same attire for two days anyway. John rolled his eyes, ascending slowly. "I'm taking a nap," he added, mostly out of habit. Sherlock wouldn't bother to keep the noise level down.

Sherlock sneered. "Well at least SOMEONE can sleep." He said scornfully, turning on his heel and stomping about in circles. "Mrs Hudson has done the wash again, despite my CONSTANT reminders that I am perfectly capable of the small task, and I CAN'T FIND MY DAMN TROUSERS."

John paused on the stairwell, turning at last to frown at the man below. "Don't," he warned, raising a finger and shaking his head. Sherlock paced, his bathrobe flapping out behind him. His legs were long and pale and gangly, and he looked a little comical, stomping in his shorts. "Just because you're in a nark, don't start with Mrs. Hudson. She would let you do your wash if you DID it, Sherlock. But you leave it all over the flat for weeks, and she gets weary of it, and come to think of it, so do I. Excuse me." John took another step, and hesitated again. "Sherlock, you did check the machine for them."

Sherlock stared at him balefully for a few seconds, a sneer distorting his features. "Oh no, John. I would never think of checking there for them. It's the perfect solution! So clever! So wise!" He spat out sarcastically, his jaw jutting forward. "Of course I checked the machine. It's the first place I looked when I couldn't find them in my drawer or on the floor." He hunched his shoulders and stalked into the living room, flinging himself on the sofa and hugging the union jack pillow. He sighed languidly and rolled over to face the sofa, pouting. "Now I'll never find them. I'm dooomed."

John glanced longingly up the stairs at the closed bedroom door. Within was a warm bed. Comfortable clothes. Soothing music. Downstairs... Sherlock Holmes. He exhaled in resignation, and descended the steps once more. A quick sweep of the sitting room produced the trousers, wadded up and stuffed into the hollow space of Sherlock's damned skull. John lifted his eyebrow as he tossed them to the prostrate man, clearing his throat. "Experiment?"

Sherlock felt the familiar sensation of silk on bare skin and turned his head about suspiciously. "John, if I didn't know better I would say that my trousers could walk." He narrowed his eyes at the blue things and pulled them on one leg at a time, muttering about people taking to hiding his clothes and that "it wasn't as though he was addicted to his pyjama trousers, so what was the bloody point of hiding them in the first place." He flung himself back on the sofa and grumbled softly to no one in particular. Presently he noticed that John was still standing by the couch, as if waiting for something. Sherlock sat up and blinked at him, cocking his head. "What?" He asked peevishly.

"You could say thank you." Great. Brilliant. John was beginning to reflect his moods. He crossed his arms, glaring down at the man on the couch with an expectant expression. Sherlock was such a DICK sometimes. He tapped his foot, waiting.

Sherlock snorted and buried his face in the pillow, his arse high in the air as he hugged the fluffy object to his head. "I believe you said it was 'nap time'." He replied bitterly, wiggling his head about for maximum comfort. There was no way in hell he was going to say thank you now that John had pointed it out. No. Bloody. Way.

John waited another ten seconds before turning and marching to the loo, ripping his shirt off as he went. Shower. He'd take a shower and have a wank and he'd feel better, well enough to ignore Sherlock for the rest of the day, and go sit in his room and read. Or watch telly. Or better yet, take some pills and sleep. He slammed the door behind him, hissing at the jolt of pain that tore through his head, but it was worth it. At least Sherlock knew he was angry. John disrobed swiftly, stepping into a hot stream of water and sighing. Years now, three years he'd been with Sherlock in this flat; one would think he'd be used to the emotional outbursts by now. It was bound to happen. Sherlock squelched his emotions in day to day life. They were bound to come pouring out in odd ways once in a while. But days like today... John just wanted the cold, stoic back. He washed quickly, had his wank, tried not to think about it, and wrapped himself in his dressing gown to shave. Maybe he'd go out. Even with a headache.

Sherlock waited until John finished his biological urges before he padded over to the loo and opened the door. He peered in and blinked owlishly at the man angrily shaving his chin. As John turned to stare expectantly at him, Sherlock suddenly wished he hadn't bothered. But he had, and he wasn't about to back down now. The detective cleared his throat, shifting about. "Errm... thank you..." He muttered uncomfortably, licking his lips, his eyes downcast and mostly contrite. "I'll, um, I'll try to keep it down."

John's hand stalled, so suddenly that the razor slipped, and he nicked his jaw. "Damn it!" He dropped the razor, grabbing up a small wash rag and pressing it to the shallow cut. Slowly, he turned his eyes to Sherlock in the mirror, and blinked, the shock on his face glaringly apparent. Sherlock had apologized. To him. He was speechless. John watched as the man shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, clearly embarrassed, but before Sherlock could open his mouth and say something biting to cover it up, John spoke. "Cheers. That would be helpful." He rotated to study him closely. "You should do something constructive, Sherlock. Get out of the flat for a while. Ring up Greg."

Sherlock flushed bright red and scowled. He hated apologising. Hated it even more when John acknowledged it. Hated it even more now that he always felt a pang of satisfaction and pleasure when John accepted it and moved on. "I don't need to get out of the flat." He insisted dully, kicking the door frame and staring down at his clean toes. "Lestrade is away on holiday." The younger man frowned and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Turning away he hunched his shoulders and bit his lip. "If I were you I would clean up that blood. It could get painful and irritated if you don't." Sherlock knew that from experience. He had very sensitive skin, and when he first started shaving, though being the lucky sort that never really was able to grow facial hair, he had cut himself quite often with a razor. He kicked the air and sighed, making his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

John wavered in the loo, and sighed deeply. He washed his face, dabbed a bit of antiseptic on his nick, and followed Sherlock to the kitchen. "Hey."

Sherlock continued to make his tea, boiling water in the glass kettle, taking down various boxes and tins, eventually discarding all of them until he found the one he was looking for. Opening cabinet doors, he bypassed all of the regular cups until he found John's old mug from Bart's, Sherlock's secret favourite. He did not answer John. He was far too embarrassed to do anything except repudiate any and all conversations that alluded to his earlier bout of weakness.

"Sherlock." John took the mug from his hands, proceeding to pour his tea and prepare it, just the way his mate liked it. He gave him a tired smile. "Stop moping. A case will turn up. Always does." John stepped in close, taking Sherlock's hand and pressing the cup into his palm. He could smell Sherlock's morning skin, the sweet natural scent of his hair. When he wasn't being a prat, Sherlock was quite pleasant to be around. John patted his arm, grey eyes affectionate. "There now. Cuppa will make you feel better. I need to lie down."

Sherlock huffed, his cheeks puffing out for a moment with indignation at John's motherly behaviour, but he deflated. He was tired and upset and lonely and bored. All he had done the previous night was stare at the ceiling and play his violin, just as he had done the night before. Now that he had no cases, and no probability of cases (it was one of the "off seasons" that all criminals seemed to abide by), he was depressed and angry and dejected. "Go on then," he said mournfully, plodding back to the sofa and sitting carefully down. Staring at his tea, Sherlock propped his feet on the sofa and sighed. Get out of the flat. The notion. He shook his head and sipped at his tea. Silly John.

The doctor nodded, and drifted towards the stairs. "Loo's free..." he mumbled, taking the steps one at a time, his feet dragging. He was exhausted. His head throbbed. The cut on his jaw stung, and he needed sleep. "Night." John shut himself in his room, and leaned back against the door. Sherlock's sad face swam behind his eyes, and he groaned a little, staggering towards the bed. He couldn't stay up all night watching telly with him again! He couldn't. He wasn't a machine, like the consulting detective. He needed some rest. And hopefully, tomorrow, Sherlock would get a case and be in a decent mood again. Because secretly... John missed him. He threw himself into bed and was snoring before he hit the pillow.

Sherlock stared at the opposite wall for a long time, and then got his violin out. With a flourish of his wrist, the sleuth began playing a soft, soothing melody, one he noticed John appreciate. He was quite sure his friend was sleeping, but he also knew that different sounds helped create different dreams, and Sherlock wanted John to have a pleasant dream. He sat by the foot of the stairs, serenading his best and only friend in all the world, without John's even realising it. Sherlock smiled a little. John was one of the most unobservant men in the world. He had been playing his violin for John Watson ever since the man had expressed his pleasure in hearing the instrument played. Of course John hadn't guessed, and would never know that Sherlock played it for him. But that was fine. It was the sleuth's little secret, and he was happy with it. After all, who knew what sort of reaction John would give him if he said that he liked seeing the short man smile appreciatively. No doubt he would tease Sherlock unmercifully.

When John woke with a start, fresh from a nameless, faceless, pleasant dream, the first thing he was cognizant of was that he was desperately thirsty. He stared blearily at his bedside clock. 1:34 AM. He grunted, rolling out of bed and assessing himself. He was parched, and needed more sleep, but... his headache was all but gone. He smiled, stretching as he lumbered to the door and down the stairs, yawning. His dressing gown still hung from his shoulders, loose about his naked body, and he yelped as he nearly tripped over a large object at the foot of the stairs. John peered in the darkness, rubbing his eyes. "Sherlock?"

The detective was asleep, curled at the base of the staircase, violin still in his limp hands. John grinned, bending to look in that serene face. He crouched before him, one hand reaching up to brush a dark, damp curl from the high forehead. John felt a rush of fondness. "Sherlock," he whispered, thumb grazing a high cheekbone. Sherlock did not answer, but breathed deeply. John licked his lips, watching the beautiful man sleep. He was remarkably pretty. That is, when he wasn't hurling insults and sneering. John shook his head, leaning in closer.

"Sherlock, wake up, it's bedtime." For a moment, the pale face was translucent and angelic in the low moonlight, and John could not resist. He pressed a chaste, fond kiss on his temple. "Come on, then." John slid his arms around the lanky man, hauling him up.

Sherlock moaned a little in his sleep and shook his head violently. "Don't want to." He muttered blearily. "John's sleeping... good dreams..." The young man leaned heavily against John, resting his nose in the crook of his friend's neck. "Must play... pology..." he sighed and nuzzled gently into the warm flesh, murmuring happily. He was warm and comfortable, two things which rarely ever happened to the lonely detective. Yawning, Sherlock's hand slid to John's naked chest and he smiled, still mostly asleep.

John laughed a little, moving Sherlock's hand as best he could to his shoulder, and half carrying the detective to his room. He nudged the door open with his foot, and stepped across the threshold into the darkened sanctuary, a place where he rarely entered. It was a bit of an unspoken rule of the flat: bedrooms were private. For Sherlock's part, John was well aware that he had a natural distrust of anyone going through his things, mussing his careful, logical system of socks, knickers, and undershirts. Thanks to dear Mycroft, Sherlock assumed that anyone entering his private quarters was most likely searching for drugs, or worse. It did no good to attempt to disavow him of this idea; Mycroft's influence was too strong. And so John respected the aversion to intruders, and for the most part, stayed clear. As for his own room... well, it was easier to allow Sherlock the impression that he shared his fear than to explain the reason Sherlock wasn't allowed to come bursting into his room at all hours was because he was likely to find John enjoying a wank. At this thought, the doctor blushed fiercely, and deposited Sherlock in his large, elaborate bed, yanking the sheets over his body and patting his face. "Sleep well," he whispered. Sherlock grunted, and John bit his lip as he gazed down at him. He looked so gaunt... so thin. He'd been good there for a while, but lately, he seemed to be slipping back into bad habits, old patterns. John would have to watch him closely from now on.

Sherlock shook his head wildly, sitting up and frowning. "No. It's never a..." he trailed off and flushed a little, blinking as though he was seeing John for the first time. "Sleep, then." He murmured, flopping back down and pulled the covers back over himself. It was frustrating trying to sleep and being left alone, but it was even more frustrating being so dependent on someone else for easing that loneliness. He rolled over, tossing about, trying to get comfortable, stalwartly ignoring John's presence in the room. Maybe he would sneak some cocaine or heroin once John left the room.

John waited until he settled again, until his breathing turned rhythmic, and low. He turned to leave, but his eyes fell on the bed. The damned violin. Sherlock was still clutching it in his long fingers, hugging it to his chest as he slumbered. John sighed. He'd be devastated if he rolled on top of it in the night and broke it. John padded silently to the other side of the bed, climbing on the mattress and gently, gingerly slipping his hands beneath the instrument, working it out of the iron grip. Damn, Sherlock was strong. Even in his sleep, he had fingers of steel. John gritted his teeth, trying to maneuver the thing from his chest without waking him. The silver light from the window fell on the placid face, and John was momentarily distracted by the frown on Sherlock's brow. He freed the violin, but hesitated there, curious. Was Sherlock having a nightmare? Was he disturbed? John reached out once more to thread his fingers through the dark curls, as his mum had done to him when he was caught in the throes of a restless sleep. "Shhh, Sherlock," John soothed, setting the violin aside and petting the tangled head.

Sherlock curled in on himself, whimpering a bit when he felt a hand on his head. His brow tightened and he bit his lip, his hand shooting out and searching for his violin. The detective didn't want to be alone. He needed something, needed...

Sherlock swallowed thickly, his hands patting the surroundings until he found a solid form. Sherlock clutched onto John's robes, shifting closer to the heat he felt radiating from John's small body. He let out another small noise, his head coming in contact with John's stomach. The firmness felt so comforting, as did the hand on his head. Sherlock had never felt someone comforting him like this before... half awake he mewled, wrapping his arms around John's waist and nosing the bare chest and breathing deeply, the dark tendrils of his barely remembered dream began to inch back from his brain. "Johnn..."

John sat very, very still on Sherlock's bed, his grey eyes wide and wondering as his friend tightened the grip on his waist. The doctor's tongue darted out to wet his lips nervously, and he glanced around, debating what his next move should be. Sherlock looked restless and hollow in his half awake, half asleep dreamy state, and John was fully aware of his need, desperate and powerful, for sleep. If Sherlock did not sleep, everyone would suffer for it tomorrow. But he could not see a way to extricate himself without waking the poor bloke. His head throbbed once, and John winced. "Sherlock," he whispered. There was no response. He sighed, moving his hips a little, trying to slide out from under the curly, warm head. Sherlock pulled him closer, now really and truly asleep, his soft head cradled on John's lap, arms limp and resting on his thighs. Well, this wouldn't do. John scowled in frustration, his knees bent, legs pulled underneath him, feet squashed between the plush mattress and his arse. Damn. John grunted as he leaned down and slid his arms underneath Sherlock's, lifting him with great effort and lying him backwards into the bed once more. He was forced to straddle one hip, his arms tucked neatly behind the slender man, bringing their faces close. John was not embarrassed... He actually took the moment to study the perfect curve of his acerbic mouth, the flow of those cheekbones into smooth, pulsing temples framed with dark curls. Sherlock was beautiful; anyone with eyes could see that. John pushed his hair back again as he freed his arms. He worried about him so.

Sherlock grunted, his brow furrowing as he tossed his head. The loss of warmth was a terrible blow for the poor detective, he held his arms out, grabbing onto John's body and pulling him down, sliding a leg over both of John's and rocking up into the compact body. Sherlock moaned again, his lips brushing John's cheek. This was nice, comforting, safe... Sherlock didn't want to let this feeling go.

Shock echoed through John's skull and his little body as Sherlock rolled his bony hips into his thigh, and he gasped aloud, momentarily frozen to the spot. Sherlock's wiry arms effectively pinned him to his chest, and he felt his frame shudder against Sherlock's, responding involuntarilty to the stimulation. There were some things a man could control: his temper, his decisions, and most of his reactions, for instance. But some things were completely and utterly at the mercy of Mother Nature, and Mother Nature was a sick and cold hearted bitch. John's body recognized and reacted to the heat and proximity of another human being in the darkest watches of the night, and immediately, he felt the flush of arousal warming his cheeks, a rush of blood galloping to a central point between his legs. John choked in horror, and wriggled away, his limbs flailing wildly as he scrambled for the edge of the bed. He jostled Sherlock awake, but at this point, Sherlock's well being was secondary to his frantic need to get the hell out of the room before his best mate discovered John had an erection, and spent the next five years making snide comments about it. "Sorry, sorry," John hastily stammered under his breath to the groggy man behind him. "Didn't mean to wake you, sorry."

Sherlock rubbed his forehead and blinked up at his friend, slowly raising himself from the reclined position. "What are you still doing in here?" He asked, flushing a little. John had obviously caught him in a compromising position. Clearly from the tone and pitch of his voice he'd seen something. Not only that, but he'd been close to Sherlock physically. The detective remembered the previous warmth, the sense of security... it had to do with John, clearly, and that was not good. Sherlock refused to let himself be swayed by a base emotion like... like... whatever this was. Sherlock waspishly grabbed the blankets and pulled them up over himself. He glared at his friend, and then flushed red. John didn't have a shirt on. No shirt. Sherlock flipped around and pulled the covers practically over his head. "Well?"

"I..." John stood shakily at the side of the bed, frowning down at the petulant man below, and he narrowed his eyes. He wanted to shout that the only reason he was here in the first place was because he'd had the decency to help Sherlock to bed, save his violin from an untimely fate, and was repaid for his kindness by an extremely unwarranted cuddle. But... a thrill ran up his thighs at the recollection of the entire affair, and John's cock twitched. He coughed, turning on his heel to make a quick exit, trying desperately to keep the thickness out of his voice as he called out, "You're right, sorry, I'll just be going. Good night, Sherlock." John slammed the door a bit too hard on his way into the hall, and he stalked to the kitchen for the glass of water he'd gotten up for in the first place. Damned Sherlock. What the hell was he doing falling asleep on the stairs with the damned violin? Why couldn't he sleep and eat and shower and work like normal people? Why did he had to be so... so... Sherlock? John huffed, standing still in the kitchen a moment, glaring down at the tenting in his shorts. "You might as well go back to sleep, too," he admonished quietly. "I'm not touching you after THAT." He thumbed towards Sherlock's bedroom, chuckling at himself.

Sherlock heard John's footsteps go up the stairs and waited twenty seconds before he got up again. Padding out of his bedroom, Sherlock peered around the corner, making sure the doctor wasn't anywhere in sight. He darted out into the kitchen, still looking about. The detective had a... problem. One he had never had to deal with before John Watson came into his life. Normally Sherlock would make himself a cup of tea, sit on the sofa and read some absolutely absurd "scientific" publication. That usually calmed the unwelcomed bodily function down. Sherlock set the kettle on, looking around for John's Bart's mug. It wasn't in the room, so John hadn't brought it in yet. This would mean he would HAVE to use a different one. Sherlock hated using different mugs. He liked John's mug. Tonight maybe he would play his violin again, perhaps watch some telly. All he knew for certain was he would not be going back to sleep this night.

Upstairs, John placed his mug down on the bedside table, and crawled back into the bed, exhaling softly through his nose. He wasn't sleepy anymore. Damn Sherlock and his lanky body and lack of boundaries and his...


John sat up straight, his mug half way to his mouth, and he listened intently. The violin again. Sherlock was up, and playing. He sighed, shaking his head and settling back into the pillows, sipping on his water and letting his eyes slide shut as the music seeped under the door, rolling like fog in his eardrums and burrowing into his heart. It was a beautiful, sorrowful melody, one that sounded as if it could be one of Sherlock's own compositions. John wondered if Sherlock would ever know how much he loved listening to the music he made... how peaceful and content it made him feel. He pulled the blankets up, shutting his senses down one by one in anticipation of sleep... except one. John's eyes closed, and he fell asleep to the beautiful strains with a smile on his handsome face.

Sherlock played his violin for three hours before he finally decided to take John's advice and "get out of the flat". He set his violin down carefully and stared up at the bedroom from which he could hear John's breathing, soft and whispery, barely there. The detective closed his eyes for a few moments, giving himself up to the images that roiled about in his mind. Images of John's smile and voice and, oddly enough, his body... his hands... his legs...

Sherlock shook himself quickly, pursing his lips. No, not that route again. That always brought on bad reactions. He practically stomped into his room, frowning angrily. He yanked his trousers off, pushing down the blue robe and pulling off his ratty white t shirt. "God!" He snapped, rummaging through the dark dresser that held his clothes. Today was a Friday, so therefore he would wear the black shorts with the white waistband, and his socks would be coal instead of black.

John was startled awake once more by the sound of an angry shout from below. He blinked blearily at the clock, and reclined back, groaning. It was too late to go back to sleep now... and too early to be up for work. He cursed under his breath, throwing his blankets off with a huff. This was really unacceptable. Just because Sherlock Holmes had nowhere to go today did not give him the right to wake his flat mate at all hours. John did not bother with a robe. He marched down the stairs with his fists clenched, and stood with his feet planted on the hard wood floors, staring at the half naked man across the sitting room. "What the hell is it now, Sherlock?" he demanded. He did not care that he was in his boxer shorts, or that he was still wearing his woolen socks, or that he was bare chested, and his cheeks were ruddy, and his eyes lidded, and his golden hair stuck up in the back. John Watson was not the sort of man who would ever have noticed a single one of those things. He simply jutted his chin out irritably, and crossed his arms over a tanned, hard chest.

After the initial glance, Sherlock did not look at the short army doctor. "Go back to bed!" He snapped, pulling on his purple shirt and buttoning it up quickly. John looked... ridiculous... and... fuck. Sherlock glared at the empty packet of cigarettes crushed in his left hand. "I'm going out!" He snipped, storming over to the sofa and getting on his hands and knees to retrieve the shoes which had somehow found their way from the door to here in the past three days. "I'm out of nicotine patches and I need at least five." He snarled, yanking the shoes out and practically throwing himself on the sofa.

John's eyebrow lifted at the pert, round arse that waved at him from the floor. Sherlock was in a nark. And a pretty one at that. The doctor sighed, and trudged to the door of Sherlock's bedroom, ignoring that indignant shout that his flat mate threw at him. Privacy be damned. This was getting absurd. "Here," he muttered as he made his way back to the sitting room. "You might need trousers." He smiled wanly down at the man on the sofa, neatly ensconced in socks, dress shoes, his purple shirt of sex, and a pair of snug black boxer briefs. John cocked his head, unable to keep the twinkle from his eyes. "Pants are always helpful when purchasing nicotine patches."

Sherlock hissed, snatching the trousers from John's hand, glaring furiously. "They never SAY you need pants. They always say shoes and shirt, and I HAVE shoes and shirt!" He ripped the shoes from his feet and stood up once more, muttering angrily to himself. He was flustered. That was the problem. John made him flustered. "I never forgot them." He insisted sullenly, yanking the trousers on one leg at a time, pointedly ignoring the smirking man behind him. Fuck. Why the hell had John woken up? He wasn't supposed to be awake now. This was supposed to be a secret outing in which to search out a brawl, perhaps provoke some poor, unknowing citizen into throwing a punch at him. After all, Sherlock was BORED and there was nothing, absolutely nothing here to reduce that boredom. John wouldn't even play Cludeo with him.

"Here, stop it now, just calm down." John shuffled over to the twitching man, the earlier incident forgotten in his sudden, overwhelming need to fuss over his friend. Sherlock looked terribly irritable and tense. "Don't get your knickers in a knot. It's not the first time you've forgotten your pants," John smiled, reaching up to adjust one shirt button and run a calloused hand through the mass of thick, dark curls. "You look a fright..." Grey eyes met silver, and John frowned. "Are you all right?" he asked softly. This looked to be more than a nicotine craving. Sherlock did not answer, and the doctor's brow furrowed. "Do you want some company?" He was certainly not going back to sleep.

Sherlock blinked at him, flushing a little. "Only... only if you can get ready in seven minutes." He said, his eyes shifting about looking anywhere but at John's practically naked body. Sherlock did not like to be this aware of someone's body. He did not like to be this aware of someone's near nude proximity. He wasn't like this with anyone else. So why John? "'m just going out for nicotine patches.." he repeated, hunching his shoulders just a little to make himself shorter, giving John an easier shot to his head. Sherlock very much liked getting his hair played with, though he would never, ever admit it.

John's hand was just leaving the curls when the subtle, almost unnoticable movement caught his eye. Sherlock tilted his head... just a little. Nearly imperceptibly. But John saw it. Instead of removing his hand, curiosity got the better of him, and he continued to smooth the silken locks, as if making him more presentable for his jaunt to the pharmacy. "Yeah, well, I can use some air. And I can be ready in ninety seconds or less, you know that." John grinned, winking up at him, standing close. Now that he'd escaped Sherlock's bedroom unscathed, he was quite comfortable with being this close to his friend... they had few personal boundaries, and part of the fear he'd experienced earlier that night was a terror of losing that dynamic between them. John had never had a friend like Sherlock before. Maybe it was his anti social behaviours, but Sherlock Holmes did not seem to have the standard hang ups most blokes did. This, for instance. It was pleasant to touch his hair, to smooth it, to feel the soft threads dragging between his fingers. No other bloke would ever let John touch him this way. Not without calling him an arse sniffer anyway.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered a little as John's hand ran through his hair creating pleasant sensations that the detective was loathe to put an end to. "Yes... I know." he murmured, butting his head into John's hand a little before realising what he was doing. Immediately his eyes popped open and he froze. Did John notice? Obviously, yes. Should he really care that John noticed? Perhaps. It really depended on how the shorter man reacted. Best thing to do was act as though nothing happened, yes, continue to let John stroke his hair, because it DID feel wonderful... very, very wonderful. It calmed him down, soothing over his irritations, and made him want to curl up in a little ball with his head on John's lap, just lying there while John stroked his hair and... oh shit. He could feel himself begin to stir a bit. That was NOT good.

As Sherlock's head curved into his palm, applying a little pressure in a silent plea for more contact, John's mind flew to primary school, to standing in front of a classroom with a copy of Lewis Carrol's Alice in his hands, and repeating the phrase... "Curiouser and Curiouser." For a moment, he considered moving his other hand to Sherlock's hair, and seeing what sort of reaction that would elicit... but a quiet warning bell had begun to ring in his ears, and so John slipped away, striding quickly to the pile of laundry Mrs. Hudson had left on their sofa and grabbing a pair of jeans and a shirt. He pulled them on quickly, not looking at Sherlock, and true to his word, John was ready and standing by the door in under two minutes. "Come on, I could use a chocolate," he said cheerily.

Sherlock nodded, mostly silent as he slipped into his coat. John was a little uncomfortable, a thing plain as day to Sherlock's experienced eyes, which were never far from the short man's body. He always found himself staring a little longer than usual. It wasn't as though he couldn't tell exactly what John had been doing or what he was going to do, it was simply that he did not know what he was THINKING, and that was an interesting dilemma. Sherlock could almost always tell what people were thinking in most instances, but every time he seemed to get a grip on John Watson it seemed that he was wrong. "Let's go." He said gruffly, opening the door and turning up the collar on his coat. "You'll have to be to work before long, and by my estimations it will take almost an hour to walk the entirety of the route, not to mention the ten minutes it will take for you to find the chocolate of your desires. As for me I know exactly where my fix is." He sniffed the early morning air and smiled. Ah, this was always something the sleuth appreciated; early morning senses. Everything was fresh and new, the battle field that was London seemed to have a lull for a few short hours before dawn. It was truly peaceful.

John followed his friend down the stairs, eyeing the dramatic flapping of the long coat, and he wished for perhaps the hundredth time that he was able to pull something like that off. It was sweeping, majestic... and bloody warm inside that damned thing. He knew, because on a few occasions, when their investigations had taken them on frigid stakeouts for hours on end, Sherlock had allowed him to slide in close and wrap his arms inside the silk and wool of The Coat, shaking and grumbling, his fingers nearly turned to ice as he warmed them against Sherlock's back. Sherlock would hiss, and they'd sit and look in opposite directions, but at least they were warm. John was fully aware of how Sherlock hated the cold. The rail thin body did not retain heat. As he burst onto the street next to the detective, it struck John that this was probably what had prompted Sherlock's earlier actions; he blushed furiously. Poor Sherlock had just been trying to curl around him, get a bit of warmth on a cold night, and John... John had been so hard up he got a stiffy. The doctor silently berated himself for his lack of recent sexual activity. He'd make it up to Sherlock. "Come on," John said with a puff of frosty air. "Let's hurry and get back and build a fire." He linked his arm through Sherlock's, steering him down the street.

Sherlock looked down at the arm threaded around his, but said nothing of it. John was feeling guilty for something, but what it was Sherlock could not fathom. Still, he wasn't about to say anything, he never did when John allowed him these small moments of skinship that the detective so enjoyed. It seemed to Sherlock that these little gestures were some of the most natural and happiest he had ever encountered, and they were all carefully stored away in a special vault of his Mind Palace under the name John Watson.

He allowed John to guide him down the street and passed the houses that they sped by every day, not saying a word. The silence was companionable, and almost more comfortable than conversation. Sherlock liked that. He never understood humanity's need to chatter on about inane little facts that he could read just by glancing. He liked silence, well, he liked silence sometimes. Other times he liked noise. A lot of noise. But this was good, pleasant, comforting, and Sherlock was happy to continue in such fashion until John decided to talk. He smiled a little, his hand itching to move slightly and grasp John's. That would make this walk pure perfection.

John was pleased that Sherlock seemed to be in one of his quieter moods. Oftentimes on walks like this, particularly if Sherlock was on a case, the man could not stop running off at the mouth to save his life. Suspects, clues, possibilities, all of it slipped together, like oil on the street, until the rainbow swirl of dirt and information trickled out of John's ears and covered him in filth which he would never, could never, wash off. It was difficult to feel clean around Sherlock Holmes. John looked and saw the florist. Sherlock looked, and saw the sex addict with a penchant for torture. John saw the cabbie. Sherlock saw the serial killer. It was thrilling, to be sure, and John wouldn't trade it... but this morning, he was grateful for the chance to feel clean. If he could stop thinking about what had happened earlier. He sighed, glancing down at his feet, and beside him, he felt Sherlock stiffen. Of course. The man was deducing him as they walked. John rolled his eyes and smirked, shaking his head a little. Fine, he'd have to address it. He cleared his throat, the first rays of the rising sun lighting on his face, pink, gold, and glorious. "Sorry about... last night. I didn't mean to wake you. That was the whole point of rolling you in bed, actually."

"Think nothing of it. I understand the actions on your part." Sherlock jerked his head back to its previous position of staring at the street in front of him. He was, in fact, very surprised that John hadn't woken him up before then. Sherlock never knew John could be so quiet, after all, the detective was a light sleeper, and could always tell when someone was in his room. The fact that he might have slept through it because he was just so comfortable and safe around John did not factor into it. Sherlock wouldn't let it. "I... overreacted." He said a little stiffly, licking his lips. "You were trying to help."

John laughed at this, his white teeth flashing in the grey morning light, and he shifted just a hair closer to Sherlock as they walked. His friend looked down at his with an uplifted brow, and John distantly wondered what Sherlock would say if he knew the reason that he'd fled his bedroom in such a bloody hurry was because he was sporting an erection. "I overreacted, Sherlock, but it was the middle of the night, and I think we can probably both forget about it. What the hell were you doing on the stairs with your violin at that time of night anyway?" John inquired, lifting his chin to gaze up at him curiously.

Sherlock stiffened, fighting off the sudden rosy hue that threatened to colour his cheeks. "Nothing. Why would I have to be doing something there?" He inquired quickly, his eyes darting from a lamp post to a stone to a poorly parked car to a stray cat sitting on a low stone wall. Like hell he'd tell John the reason he was there was to play for him because he knew John liked it so, because he knew certain sensory stimulations helped a more restful slumber. No bloody way.

"Fine, have your secrets." John mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Bloody bastard," and he continued on in silence, his hand resting comfortably on the crook of Sherlock's elbow. The Coat smelled lovely, and it mingled with the early morning smells in John's nostrils, recalling pleasant memories of the years gone by. Sherlock had come a long way since their first meeting at Bart's. John was proud of him. He was a little more polite, a little less volatile... a little more human. They continued on quietly until the pharmacy came in sight, and it occurred to John that a walk which had to have taken a good twenty minutes seemed to fly by when he walked with Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps they should do it more often. "Thank god for twenty four hour pharmacies," John murmured, letting his arm slip from Sherlock's as they approached.

Sherlock placed his hands in his pocket as soon as John let go of his arm, a sudden chill wrapping the place that had moments ago been warm and cosy. "Did you... did you sleep well, earlier?" He asked suddenly, walking through the automatic doors and turning to look at his friend. "Your headache gone?" Sherlock was sure he had and was sure it was, but a small nagging thought made him ask anyway, even though he knew the answer already.

"Yes, thanks." The doctor followed him inside, staring at his back in surprise. Wonders never ceased. Sherlock was worried about him. Without another word, the moment that they stepped inside, Sherlock and John turned and went their separate ways. Sherlock wandered down towards the counter for his nicotine patches; John took the opportunity to quietly snatch a bottle of lubricant. He was nearly out, and when one's sex life consisted solely of wanking, a few luxury items were permitted. He selected a bag of dark chocolate truffles... another luxury... and spent the next ten minutes window shopping while Sherlock argued with the clerk who did not want to sell him a box of nicotine patches alongside the carton of cigarettes he asked for. John sidled up to him with a serene smile, nodding to the clerk and softly murmuring that the carton was for him. The clerk eyed them suspiciously, but when John reached out and took the cigarettes and pulled out his wallet, he shrugged, and allowed John to pay.

Sherlock glared daggers at the half wit clerk and stood behind John, tucking the patches into his pocket. He COULD have just stole the items, but he had decided to pay. Moronic humans trying to make his life miserable with their petty morals and... John was buying lubricant. Sherlock flushed, though he did not know why. It was a perfectly normal thing to buy for some people. He knew how often John pleasured himself, and it was not a problem. In fact it was quite an interesting subject, not that Sherlock had ever given it much thought, no. He knew how bodily functions worked, even if he was above all that... high above it... so high he never noticed.

Turning about, Sherlock stormed out of the building, waiting by the door for the doctor. He pushed up the sleeve of his coat and rolled up the shirt as well, placing one patch on his forearm. Good thing he'd bought two boxes. This week threatened to be a patch a day problem.

John sauntered out of the building into a much brighter morning than the one they'd left. People were beginning to wake, to wander about their flats and make coffee. Shower. Dress for the day. London was a-bustle, though still bitterly cold. John shivered in his jacket, and turned to Sherlock, handing him the carton of cigarettes sombrely. "Here. You owe me dinner."

Sherlock pocketed it and pushed down the sleeve. "Chinese?" He asked briskly, stepping forward. John wouldn't link arms with him now, not when there was a chance to be seen because "people would talk". As he often reminded the detective. As for Sherlock, he didn't give a damn what people said. He wanted what he wanted and no one stopped him, not one single person, because if they ever tried he would take them down. He'd done it before, many times.

"Sounds brilliant. Tonight?" One small, muscular, firm arm slid in the crook of that woollen elbow. John's steps fell in line, his heels clicking against the pavement.

Sherlock did not skip a step or even give notice that he felt John's arm around his once more. He simply slowed his steps just a little and shifted his arm about. "Absolutely. Take-away or dine out?"

The rough, work-calloused hand rested on the very cusp of Sherlock's sleeve, where fabric scraped the supple flesh of a lily white wrist. Tanned fingertips grazed the sleeve hem, playing with the loose pills. "Your choice. If you like, we could eat out, get you out of the flat. Or we could do take away, watch telly. Play a game." Please not Cluedo. Anything but Cluedo.

"Cards, then. Something for two?" Sherlock asked loftily, still not staring at the hand that was creeping closer to his own.

The pads of those coarse fingers danced over pale knuckles, and John did not move them away. He had not even been aware of Sherlock's hand until that moment, and now, it seemed perfectly natural to leave his fingers where they were, simply skating over the silken skin on the back of Sherlock's thin hand. "You know what I like," he said casually. "Nothing with those black peppers."

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. "Very well." The smile lingered on his lips as he clenched his other hand in excitement and gratification. Perhaps John didn't realise where his hand was, perhaps John put it there on purpose (most likely not, due to the very gradual movement). Whatever it was Sherlock would not interrupt it. Not for the world. There was a slight spring in his step as they continued the walk in relative silence, every so often one of them would make an observation, usually that person being Sherlock, and the other would smile and nod, the other almost always being John. In fact it was such a pleasant walk that it passed by all too quickly and soon Sherlock saw their building, 221 B. Well, everything was finite, and it all had to end sometime.

John yawned in dramatic fashion as Sherlock unlocked the door to their flat, standing back and waiting as John slipped inside first. He trotted up the steps and was half way up before he realised what had just happened. He did not stop, but his sluggish, tired brain slowly processed it, and he frowned as he ascended the stairs, glancing behind him at the detective making his way up. Sherlock had opened the door for him. Like John was his bloody date. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head and letting the pair of them into their upstairs apartment, his eyes twinkling with amusement. They'd been called a couple for so damned long, they were beginning to act like one. The night previous, for instance. John smiled across the room at his flat mate, and they deposited their purchases on the coffee table. John stared down at the bags, his arms crossed, and he grinned up at Sherlock. "Cigarettes, chocolate, and lube. We look like we're in for a damned good time."

Sherlock froze, unable to hold back the sudden blush. "Wha.. I... don..." he saw John's smile slip a little and realised it too late. John was making a joke. Oh. "Ahem, yes, quite." He turned around quickly, removing his shoes as fast as he could. "I'm sure people would feel quite vindicated if they were privy to this shopping list." He laughed a little, but it was forced. Damn his brain! Damn his over active, bloody smart, absolutely impossible brain! In another part of his mind, Sherlock found it quite amusing that he was cursing his brain, the one attribute about himself he completely adored, his best and worst quality. This was a first. "Well, I'm, ah, I'm going back to bed." He still did not turn around, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the wall next to his scarf. "I suppose you'll be getting ready for work."

"I suppose." John did not want to go to work. He was tired, and wanted desperately to go back to sleep. With Sherlock.

The thought struck him, and he nearly groaned under the weight of it. Fuck, but that sounded lovely. John Watson had slept alone for far too long... just to wrap his limbs around someone comfortable, someone that was easy to breathe next to, someone that needed a little extra warmth... He collapsed on the sofa, grunting and thinking longingly about the massive bed in Sherlock's room, and the feather pillows, and the down comforter covered in silk. Envy shot through him, and he glanced up at the ceiling and his bedroom above with its 200 count sheets. "I might kip here a while.."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, twiddling his thumbs. "I, ah..." he trailed off, looking at his bedroom. "It's cold in here, isn't it?" He asked lamely, stalling for time. John kept glancing at his door, at Sherlock's bedroom. Why? Sherlock had to know. "Or maybe it's just me again." He mumbled, looking at the ground.

"Right. Fire." John forced himself off the sofa, shuffling over to the fireplace and yawning again as he knelt down, his brown hands moving swiftly and deftly. They liked fires, he and Sherlock. Neither took the time to build them often... though he'd noticed Sherlock managed to build a nice, roaring one for the bloody Adler bitch when SHE was cold... but this morning was very bitter, and damp, and he was in the mood for one, damn it. He stoked it lazily. The flames licked up, throwing golden shadows about, and they danced like ghosts across the walls. The sun had not managed to penetrate the heavily curtained windows yet, and so as John scooted backwards, reclining against the couch, it was as dark as night in their sitting room. He smiled sleepily. "Better."

Sherlock nodded and settled down by his friend, leaning up against him. "You're warm." He said softly, staring into the hungry flames. John was warm. Sherlock would very much like to keep him in bed just for the extra body heat, something John exuded on a higher than average level. "It's nice. Thank you." He smiled a bit and yawned, closing his eyes. The fire crackled at them, popping and prancing merrily on the walls.

A long silence stretched between the two men, and after several minutes, John did the only thing he could possibly have done. He lifted his arm, as he would have done with a date at the cinema, and he stretched it around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling the lanky body to his side, encouraging the soft head to rest on his shoulder. The flames were reflected, warm and orange on the sharp cheekbones, and as John drew him near, he turned his face to look at him fondly, a tiny smile playing in the corners of his mouth. "There, now," he murmured, his thumb brushing Sherlock's thin shoulder. "Are you warmer?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered simply, the slightest hint of an answering smile on his lips. "I don't want to go back to bed now. It's cold in my room." John's arm around his shoulders felt just right, the perfect amount of pressure and heat. Sherlock didn't want to lose it. Not at all.

John glanced around, his mouth twisting a little. "Well, then..." He arched his back, reaching for the afghan that lay on the far end of the sofa, just beyond his reach. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, and retrieved it for him without moving so much as a chest muscle, and John smirked, rolling his eyes and draping it across their backs. "Let's just... kip here a while. Together." He waited for his friend's inevitable disdain, but it never came. Sherlock only turned his face a little, curling closer and inhaling at the hollow of John's throat as they slouched against the couch, wrapped in warmth, friendship, camaraderie... and one another. John's free hand that was not grasping his friend came up to dig into dark, thick, silky curls, as it had done earlier that evening, and like earlier that evening, Sherlock's pretty lips parted a little, and he butted into the touch. John's eyes widened a little. How had he never known this about Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock liked his hair touched. The fingers massaged into his scalp as John grinned.

Sherlock practically moaned when John's fingers slid through his hair. He rolled his head a little, his eyelashes fluttering as he let out one tiny mewl of pleasure. Fuck, it felt good to have his hair played with. Sherlock nodded his head against the hand, rubbing up and curling even closer, his knees now resting on John's legs as he huddled up close to the short doctor. Maybe John wouldn't go into work today. Could they stay like this all morning? Sherlock would like that. Maybe they would move to the bed. Sherlock would like that even more. The fire spat and crackled peacefully, the flames twisting about, red and orange to behold. Sherlock couldn't think of a better memory. Not even his cases could compare to this sweet moment. One hand drifted up to John's chest, clutching at the shirt nonchalantly.

The hand in his hair stalled a moment, then resumed its petting. John stared into the fire, feeling the grip of spindly fingers in his checkered shirt, the weight of bony knees on top of his denim thigh, the huff of gusty breath on his neck. Sherlock was cudding with him, and this time, they were both awake. Well, that was better than before. Before, he'd practically humped John's leg in his sleep, and hell, any bloke would get a hard on from THAT. This, this was far more comfortable, and far less dangerous. This was just a simple pleasure, a comforting familiarity with one's best friend, and it wasn't as if John was going to get stiff from...

Oh. Oh, hell.

John shifted his seat just a little, his cheeks burning as he felt the evidence of his body's interest stirring in his groin, and he shook himself. This was Sherlock. This was not a romantic outing with his latest bird. This was his best mate, who was tired and cold. Like John. He coughed, tightening his grasp on the man's shoulder and purposefully continuing the stroking of that soft head. He was not going to allow his rebellious body to rule him. It would settle down. He just needed a wank, and he'd get it later.

Sherlock's lips ghosted over John's neck and he sighed happily. This was what he wanted. This and more. More and more and more and more and, Christ, he had an erection. Sherlock was desperately glad that his knees were bunched up together, otherwise his tight trousers would have made it very difficult for him to bluff off the swelling in his erogenous zone. Ignore it. Yes. It was what he did every other time. Ignore it and it would go away, of course. It always did. His hand fell from John's chest, resting on his crotch. Sherlock's eyes popped open. Oh. OH. OHHH.

John pulled back quite suddenly, coughing and stammering somewhat incoherently, with hands raised and a panicked look on his face. "Ahh. S..Sorry, not your fault. Um.. just... tired, and you know, ah, I should.. and I've loads of work today." He was making an attempt to stand, but his damned limbs weren't working properly, because first of all, unless he was very much mistaken, Sherlock Holmes had kissed his bloody neck, just bloody put his fucking pretty lips on his bloody neck, and then he'd touched his crotch, damn it! You didn't just... go about touching your friends' crotches, it just was not DONE. And he was bloody hard already! What the HELL must Sherlock think of him now? John's knees buckled underneath him again as he pressed his palm to the couch cushion, trying frantically to thrust himself up, so he could flee to his room as he continued to try and stutter out apologies.

Sherlock saw John's distress and backed off. He stood up and stared down at his friend quietly, watching the antics with an interested stare. He pulled John up by the hand and continued to look at him. John's legs were asleep, that much was obvious. He couldn't escape yet. Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips over John's, a barely there touch. "Thank you." He said softly, wishing very much that he still had his coat on as his erection had not diminished. Sherlock turned around and put his hands in his pockets, trudging back to his room. Perhaps this once he would succumb to the nature of his body, perhaps this once he would just try it. Maybe it would be worth it.

John watched him go, his stormy, troubled eyes round and bugging. He did not move until he heard Sherlock's door shut, and even then, for long minutes, he sat crouched on the floor, gaping. What the hell had just happened? The fire popped again, and the first light was peeking in around the curtains... and the world outside had changed. Everything was sharp. Everything was real. It was as if he'd been living in a fog, a never ending, rolling, thick fog that had clouded his mind, and had now suddenly, violently been swept away. From down the hall in Sherlock's room, John heard the faintest whisper of a low, guttural moan, and he was on his feet, striding quickly, his hands moving to grab at the coffee table before his mind could catch up with his body. His legs were strong and purposeful as he marched down the long hall and pushed open Sherlock's door without knocking. He knew what he would find. And suddenly... he knew he wanted it.