The boys were still laughing by the time they reached the flat.

Sherlock flopped down on the sofa and wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes, while John sat down in front of his computer.

"Did you see the look on Anderson's face?" John asked. "One of these days that man is going to put your head on a plate."

"If Molly doesn't get to me first," Sherlock added dryly.

They both chuckled at this, even though John hated even the vague notion of Sherlock's death. He turned to the computer screen and opened the page for his blog, forcing the thought from his mind.

Sherlock sensed the discomfort in his friend. He didn't want to see that smile leave John's lips, so he lightly asked what he was going to title this blog entry as.

It was a success, and John's faced warmed up once again. "I haven't the foggiest. Know anything clever that rhymes with money laundering scheme?"

"Give me a minute."

This made John smile harder as he turned back to his computer screen to jot down some notes, he would save the true story-writing for later. The flat was quiet, save for the gentle sound of John's typing. It was a comfortable silence, very calm.

Finally Sherlock broke the peace by getting up and crossing to the kitchen. John could hear him fiddling with the kettle. He stopped typing and listened to Sherlock's movements in the kitchen. For all his elegance at crime scenes, Sherlock was rather on the clumsy side, and John heard him bump his head against the cabinet door at one point. He listened as Sherlock pulled two mugs from the cupboard and the kettle began to steam. John smiled as he pictured Sherlock in the kitchen, making tea for him exactly how John liked it: a dash of sugar and three drops of honey. Sherlock always rolled his eyes at this, he thought there was no point to sweetened tea, but he always made sure to make it exactly right. John began to type again when Sherlock entered the room. He watched as Sherlock's pale hand and wrist entered his periphery to set the mug down next to his computer.

"John, you do realize you still have some blood in your hair, don't you?"

"What?" John turned his head just as Sherlock reached out to wipe the red from the nape of his neck. His hand brushed against John's cheek by accident.

They both froze as their eyes met. Sherlock did not move his hand from John's cheek. John felt his heart catch in his throat. Slowly, he raised his own hand to cover the one on his face. They were both very still as they looked at each other, they were really looking at each other for the first time. Not analyzing each other, not searching for anything. Just looking and seeing.

"Why didn't you boys tell me you were home?" Mrs. Hudson cried, her voice cutting through the tension like an axe.

John and Sherlock jumped apart.

"The Detective Inspector rang for you Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson continued, unaware of what she had interrupted.

"Yes, I'm not surprised. I'll ring him straightaway," he said briskly, striding over to the phone.

John tried not to look as dumbstruck as he felt.