The morning light filtered into the bedroom, a soft hazy glow that stung his eyes. Anderson sighed and sat up, rubbing his face. His hair was surely a mess, he thought to himself, and...why is he naked? The sheets were covering him from the waist down, but the feeling of his smooth white bedsheets against his bare skin felt alien. His wife was out, again, but he hadn't invited Sally over last night. So why...?

And then he looked ninety degrees to his right and saw Sherlock Holmes, peacefully sleeping.

It was another late night. Anderson had reheated some leftovers his wife had prepared before her business trip. He had his couch perfectly positioned in front of the television and had just propped his legs up when there was a ring at the door. Anderson scoffed, thinking it was some sort of joke, until the bell rang again. He sighed and got out of his comfortable position. "This better be urgent!" He yelled as he approached the door to his flat.

"Your wife is away again, I presume?" A familiar voice asked smugly.

"No..." Anderson thought to himself. "Surely this is a mistake..." He opened the door, and there stood the consulting detective himself, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. "What the hell are you doing here?" Anderson exclaimed, almost slamming the door in the detective's face.

"Good evening, Anderson," Sherlock replied, letting himself in. "Sorry to interrupt your dinner."

Anderson was speechless and could only watch as Sherlock examined every inch of his flat. After a while, Anderson regained his voice and tried again, "Why are you here?"

"Just a friendly visit," Sherlock explained casually.

"You're a psych-...a sociopath. You don't do friendly visits." Anderson scoffed.

"And who says that I can't, your wife who's away on her fifth business trip this month?"

"And how could you possibly...actually, I don't care. Get out."

Sherlock looked thoughtfully at the ceiling before answering, "No."

"Then what do you want?" Anderson asked, exasperated.

Silence. Is the detective...embarrassed? "I need..." Sherlock paused, "I need some advice."

Did Anderson hear him right? Advice? Advice? From him? Surely this was a joke...

"Don't make me repeat it, Anderson," Sherlock said as if he heard his thoughts.

Anderson wiped the surprise off of his face and, calmly, asked, "Advice for what?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, probably trying to word his request right, but ultimately failing, "Advice for how to...never mind, this was a bad idea."

"Advice for what?" Anderson reiterated, fully interested in the detective's hesitation.

"A case," Sherlock said.

"Is this about your boyfriend?" Anderson teased.

"Boyfriend?"

"John Watson. The guy who follows you around."

"He's not..."

"Why else would he be following a psychopath all over London?" Anderson interrupted. When the detective refused to answer, Anderson chuckled, "You're not the only person who can 'deduce' things about people. It's so obvious, practically half of the Yard knows."

Sherlock scoffed, "If you figured out, then all of London knows."

"Your point?"

Silence again. Anderson laughed to himself, feeling a slight hint of victory. He had leverage on Sherlock, a means for blackmail. Finally, Sherlock said, "But I don't feel the same way."

"What do you mean?" Anderson asked.

"I consider myself married to my work," Sherlock explained coolly. "I don't do relationships."

"So, is this what you're asking advice on?" Anderson asked in disbelief, "Relationship advice? From me? Why, out of everyone, would you come to me?"

Sherlock looked at him as if his eyes were saying, "Really? C'mon now, you could figure it out without me telling you." It was the same look he gave to Lestrade sometimes at crime scenes, when the inspector failed to notice something "obvious" or didn't understand a "simple" explanation.

Anderson took this as an opportunity to seem intelligent and answered, "Ah, Lestrade was probably busy with paperwork. Or...you don't want to ruin the professionalism between you two. Yeah, makes a lot of sense. Why not just tell John?"

"That's obvious, even you should understand," Sherlock said as he sat down on the nearby sofa. It was the same seat Anderson had planned to sit in while eating his dinner, which was getting cold as they spoke. Great. Before Anderson could react, Sherlock continued, "John seems more...affectionate lately. Last night he hugged me when I came home. I asked him about it, and he replied that he was 'happy that I was back.'"

"There's nothing wrong with that." Anderson argued.

"The other day, I caught him watching me as I was eating. Then, when I came home earlier than expected, I overheard him talking to Ms. Hudson about me. About what I might like as a present."

"Who's Ms. Hudson?" Anderson interrupted.

"My landlady," Sherlock explained briefly, then sighed.

"What are you going to do?"

The detective didn't answer. Anderson smirked, then joined Sherlock on the couch. "Just tell him," Anderson nagged. God, he was starting to sound like Sherlock's mother.

"I can't do that to him," Sherlock replied anxiously. "It's too..."

"Emotional? Something you can't ever have because you're a psycho-...sociopath?"

Sherlock shot a glare in Anderson's direction, then looked down at his hands. Anderson never noticed the man's hands, how they seemed smooth and flawless. Most of the time, they were covered with black leather gloves that protected the fragile skin from the London cold. Wait, what was Anderson thinking? Was he starting to get...interested?

No, Anderson thought to himself. He was a happily married man. Or rather, his wife loves him out of legal obligation just as he loves her out of legal obligation. Her business trips had increased, like Sherlock deduced. Of course, they weren't just business trips. Anderson wasn't that stupid to figure out the possibility of an affair. Maybe that was why he began one with Donovan, out of spite.

Sherlock was watching him now, his pale alien eyes scanning over his face. Anderson felt annoyed and scowled, "What?"

"You're thinking about your wife," Sherlock replied, "and the affairs."

"How could you-..."

"She doesn't really love you," Sherlock continued, ignoring Anderson's interjection. "She might have when you first met, but certainly not anymore. Something changed two, no, three years ago."

"Shut up," Anderson whispered, his silent rage starting to boil inside him.

"This really wasn't a good idea," Sherlock said casually. "Compromised data."

"Then why are you still here?" Anderson asked, his voice with a slight edge that was past the point of annoyance.

Sherlock tilted his head to the left, then smirked. "This has been interesting."

"What?"

"This. All of this. Talking to you while trying not to...well, insult you I suppose."

"Yeah, why do you hate me so much?"

"You say impossibly obvious and stupid things that doesn't need to be said." Sherlock simply answered.

Anderson wasn't sure how to react from that, but decided to answer with his own question, "What about John?"

"What about him?"

"He says obvious things too and you never want to slam a door in his face."

"That's...different." Sherlock paused, deep in thought.

"Right," Anderson rolled his eyes. "Boyfriend."

Sherlock scoffed and looked up at the ceiling again, holding his hands together like he was saying a prayer against his lips. It looked very peaceful, almost angelic. Anderson had to shake his head away from certain thoughts. He could have sworn he saw Sherlock smirk.

And then, things happened very quickly.

Anderson, feeling like he needed some tea judging by how comfortable Sherlock looked on the sofa which suggested that he wasn't going to leave anytime soon, got up to leave the couch. Sherlock reached over and pulled, pulled, his shirt down, indicating that he did not want Anderson to leave. Anderson sighed, sat back down, but was pulled again very close to the detective. He found himself laying across Sherlock's chest, the slight warmth radiating through the thin layer of purple fabric. He didn't respond, rather, Anderson found himself enjoying this comfort. It felt different, but nice.

No, he thought to himself. Stop thinking that.

And then they ended up in his bedroom. Something about how late it was and staying the night. Which Anderson, oddly, didn't object to. And then Sherlock continued to ramble about something to do with certain plant toxins while Anderson was still hungry from the lack of dinner until he felt a weight on top of him. It wasn't a heavy weight; it was a nice weight, like being reminded that he wasn't alone.

Stop it, Anderson cursed at himself, this time half-heartedly.

Then the weight moved and Anderson found himself staring right into those pale alien eyes. They were mesmerizing, swirling with many shades of grey, blue, and so many other colours. Emotion washed over him, the close contact making his head dizzy, and Anderson did as anyone else would have done in this situation.

There was no objection, only smooth movements that continued throughout the night until both were tired and decided that it was best to sleep early so Anderson could go to work on time tomorrow. Anderson never knew the detective was capable of normal, human tendencies.

But either way, it was a night like no other.

"How long do you plan on replaying last night's events?" Sherlock murmured against the pillow.

Of course he was already awake, Anderson thought to himself. He replied, "Just finished actually."

"And?"

"I should be asking you that." Anderson replied. "What about John?"

"I think that I'll tell him."

"What? About your marriage to your work or about...last night?"

"Both." He smirked, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

A/N: Yes, I did it. I frickin' shipped Anderson/Sherlock. Sue me.

This was written to a response to a challenge I gave to myself based on someone saying, "Everyone ships everyone in it (the Sherlock Fandom). Except Anderson. No one ships Anderson. Frickin' Anderson."

CHALLENGE COMPLETED. ('mongivemeabreakI'mfrickin'shippingSherlock/Andersonthere'sverylittletoworkwithhere!)

And never again will I do this to ya'll. Ever.

Consider that your Christmas present.

~LG607