A/N: This will be a series of little shorts either in 221B (or 442) format or just flash-fiction style… I enjoy both so here is my outlet! It will be updated daily, I like writing these things a lot and I want to see how many I can do before school starts. SO, there is a goal for myself…

Feel free to leave suggestions, I love tackling new subjects and I always enjoy a good challenge. This will have loads of lovely Johnlock, maybe some Mystrade if I'm feeling up to it. The order of events is spotty; one day there is established Johnlock next there isn't, but then again I'm just writing and updating as they come to me so… oh well!

I swear this chapter was meant to be 221B… but it kind of grew out of control… I watered it too much with love and fangirling… sorry? Let me know what you think. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

Disclaimer: This will serve as a disclaimer for the rest of the posts; I find these to be redundant… I do not own Sherlock, I do not make any money off of this; I write for my own enjoyment, to share my love of this fandom and to maybe even improve myself. Cheers!

Unpacking is Equivalent to Staying Still

There was no easy way to settle into permanency. For people like John Watson, people who had never really had a home, there was never even a template to look back on. Army life could do that to a person, give the soldier the mind of a nomad; always packed and ready to leave before the shit had even been thrown at the fan. For people like John Watson, bags were never unpacked because that would mean you were comfortable; he had been trained to think that being too comfortable was a death sentence. Drawers were always empty because he knew that in a split second those rectangular boxes which someone had decided to fill with his or her belongings could become someone else's property, firewood, or even target practice. Memories and memorabilia one had spent years collecting like vintage rugby cards could be tossed off to hell, as if a kid sister had decided to use them as tinder in the flames which she cooked her marshmallows on.

That being said, it is easy to see why John Watson had yet to unpack his belongings at his new flat.

It was his fourth day living at 221B Baker Street but, in his defense, he had been trying to write up that bloody crazed first adventure he and Sherlock had shared-A Study in Pink- for his blog. It was half in the hopes that Ella would be satisfied and leave him alone, half to just get out all the excess nerves and leftover thrills. Sherlock, on the other hand, was doing the opposite of John. Instead of still being consumed by the exciting high of the chase, the young consulting detective seemed deflated; like a slinky that had reached the bottom of a very steep hill. The doctor in Watson was genuinely concerned for the lanky man who hadn't left his settee in the past two days. Of course, John would go out at times to brave the grocery stores and escape the spoiled food in the pantry or to simply go out to escape the peculiar smell of ash and mould. But whenever he came back, Sherlock was there. On that couch. Laying straight and long, dressed in the same pajama pants, plain t-shirt and dressing gown he was the night before, and the day before, as well as the night before both of those, etc.

That being said, it was easy enough for Sherlock to deduce why the good doctor had yet to unpack his belongings in their new flat.

Sherlock had actually gotten off the settee when John got out, no matter how doubtful and idiotically worried the doctor seemed to be [obvious from the distractingly long stares he had been receiving from behind the older man's computer screen] about his health. He had told John before they had even moved in together he went days without talking. Had John forgotten already? Must be nice, that forgetting. Sherlock hadn't been able to delete a single memory of John since first seeing him in that lab. The detective wished he could have forgotten the way John's bloody giggle sounded the night he killed for Sherlock, the way he smirked almost lovingly as he told the taller man he was an idiot (the very idea was simply preposterous), the way he wore those monstrous jumpers… the anger and confusion Sherlock had felt only yesterday when he realized John had yet to properly move into his room. He hadn't even emptied his suit case yet! As if he was going to pop out one night and never come back. The very idea left a disgusting taste in Sherlock's mouth, left him… worried. For an unknown reason he didn't quite understand yet, it also left him afraid... That in its own way was disarming.

Sherlock had simply been curious to see what John's things actually were, what kind of small bauble he may own, what books or pictures he might stack or hang… what color pants he might wear (later Sherlock would have the pleasure of finding out they were a beautiful shade of red, like the wrapping paper of a Christmas present…). Obviously, he had looked into the other mans room for the simple reason of learning. Of studying. That was the only possible reason.

As Sherlock looked over at the Doctor across the room, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. The ashen haired man looked so innocent in his puffy red chair, so at ease, so calm. As if he knew that Sherlock knew but he didn't want to admit he knew Sherlock knew so he just sat there like a know-it-all typing away at his little red laptop… it was infuriating. But as the cutting gaze of Sherlock's icy tinted eyes met the wide, innocent blue deepness of John's, the former lost all their anger. The feeling ran away with the fork like that spoon had in some old nursery rhythm, one long deleted from Sherlock's mind. It melted in the sun like a Popsicle, the violent anger turning sticky; it felt light and heavy all at the same time.

It stung with a bit of hurt but mostly, the anger had turned to longing. The worst kind of longing at that: the kind that made you want to whisper questions on the air so only one person alone could hear them.

And the man in the puffy red chair almost missed it as Sherlock did just that.

"Are you planning on leaving already, John?"

It was spoken so low and faint. The man in question blinked a few times at the screen of his laptop before looking up at his flat-mate. Sherlock's face was blank, causing John to wonder if he had actually heard anything at all.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Sherlock only stared at John for a few seconds more before saying, louder this time, "you haven't unpacked anything yet."

Even though it was certainly meant to sound huffy, there was a fleeting something in the seasoning of his voice. Almost like when you can taste a small bit of cinnamon in some grandmothers recipe for cookies. But to John, Sherlock's cinnamon sounded sour. It sounded… hurt. This, after not hearing that low baritone for almost three whole days, was a genuine shock to the man whose belongings were under scrutiny. Besides, John swore he had heard something different...

"I, uhm… when were you in my room, Sherlock? And why?"

The curly-haired man rolled his eyes and sat up to face John. "Do you really think I lay here all day and night? I got curious and went into your room, so what? The point is, you haven't unpacked any belongings, not even your clothes," his eyes were gaining their familiar fire but now it seemed it was hiding itself.

Knowing Sherlock was holding back made John want to feel the heat rather than just the warmth. Frustration was beginning to boil as he lectured, "You can't just pop into peoples rooms as you please, Sherlock, that's not how it works. And whether or not I've unpacked my things is none of your bloody business."

Sherlock' brows dug deep on his forehead, his frown set deeper on his mouth and John's face did the same. In a battle of wills, they had more exchanges of "why were you in my room?!" Or "bored, John!" Then Sherlock let it slip, the thing he had immediately deduced when he first saw Johns full suitcase resting on the hardwood floor:

"You're afraid of unpacking, John!"

With his mouth hung open still, ready to comeback with a retort or argument, John displayed a lovely array of emotions. Sherlock could see them all clearly, first the anger then a bit of confusion, followed by even more obvious confusion.

"Sherlock… I'm not… afraid of unpacking, I just haven't… why would you…" Johns face took on the pink shade of embarrassment now, as he shuffled on his feet, then he looked at some kind of interesting discoloration on the floor or… something; he looked at anything other than Sherlock. With a sigh the blogger sat back in his chair asked his detective, a bit more clearly this time, how he had come to that conclusion.

"John, you're a soldier. You haven't had an actual home in years and it's safe to assume since humans are creatures of habit, you wouldn't want to unpack because it'd make you… uneasy," Sherlock looked away uncomfortably, wondering why he had stumbled on the last particular word. He threw in an, "Obviously," for good measure, trying to gain back ground. He cleared his throat and continued, "Such uneasiness is cause for concern on my end as I need your mind completely devoted to the case. Once we have one."

John gave a searching stare and Sherlock thought maybe he had done something wrong, something to turn the wickedly dull tables of concern onto himself. No, he couldn't have; he had given no reason for such emotion. It was all John's imagination, thinking Sherlock was somehow in need of coddling. The man was constantly oozing with sentiment and for some strange reason he had started, every so often, to direct that sentiment onto his genius flat mate. Whether it was the frequent stares throughout the past few days or the domestic way John insisted on cooking dinner for two, even if Sherlock rarely ate it… he was like some obligated mother hen.

Nodding his head a bit and slapping his hands on the arms of his chair, John got up and made his way to the kitchen, "fancy a cuppa?" Sherlock looked back at him confused, eyebrows drawn together. He gave a noncommittal grunt before sitting down, this time in his armchair facing John. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he searched the man at the kettle for any possible explanations. All he could see was… John.

"You aren't angry anymore?"

The older man looked over at the detective-who looked refreshingly confused and unsure- and after a few seconds he went back to making the tea. "No Sherlock, I'm not angry…" He came back over and put the other man's tea onto the table between them. Taking a sip of his own, John gave Sherlock a hard look, "but you won't do it again." With that he picked up the paper and began to read the same dreadful tabloids which gave the genius headaches.

With his eyes narrowed suspiciously, Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt. He knew he would be going back into the bloggers room, but he decided arguing further was a lost cause. He simply kept studying John, intently searching for that explanation. Why wasn't he asking how he knew the reason John hadn't unpacked? Why wasn't he still angry? Sherlock had intruded, 'crossed the line' so to speak. He knew that much about normal social niceties. But no matter how hard he looked, the younger man saw only the surface. Seeing all, he couldn't observe anything. There was only John… As Sherlock looked at the tea in front of him, he decided that only seeing John was enough- for now.

Meanwhile, the good doctor was thinking about which of his drawers he might put his cardigans and jumpers.