"John."

"Hmm?"

John glanced up from the morning's paper. Sherlock was residing on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin. John had come to realize that this particular pose was common for Sherlock, usually indicating he was deep in thought. Apparently he was always deep in thought.

"How do you suppose the best way to kill a man would be?"

"WHAT? Sherlock, you can't possibly be thinking of-"

"John," he calmly interrupted, "I'm not going to kill anyone." He detected a trace of annoyance in Sherlock's tone. "I was simply asking your opinion."

"Uh, Sherlock..." John was honestly surprised that Sherlock would want an opinion, let alone ask of it himself. But then again, John thought, there were those few instances where he seemed to actually value what he had to say. So he thought carefully before he answered. "Well, I always find the most interesting crimes to be ones where it's seemingly impossible for the murder to be committed."

"Yes, those are interesting, as you say, but that's hardly a strategy."

"A strategy," John scoffed. "I suppose you have one all thought out already?"

"Several," he added, in an off-hand sort of way.

Of course, John thought bemusedly to himself. Why wouldn't the world's most clever detective and sociopath not have several murder scenarios already planned out? It would be almost blasphemous not to.

"So... just to be clarify... you're not planning on killing anyone?"

By now there was a small smile forming on Sherlock's lips, bemusement twinkling in his eyes. "Not at the very moment, no."

"Glad to hear it." John then went back to his paper smiling, and Sherlock to his deep thoughts.

He wasn't ever really reading when Sherlock was in the same room as him. How could he concentrate, with such a brilliant, attractive man was sitting hardly 5 feet away from him? Instead, John shoot looks of longing over his paper, raking up and down Sherlock's lithe form, wether he was bent over his latest science experiment or stretched out on the couch as he was now, eyes closed and fingers interlocked. He had to say, this pose was by far his favorite, when he could openly stare at Sherlock without him noticing. As he was doing now.

It was rather a sudden thing, this attraction he felt. Indeed, when John first set eyes on Sherlock, in the science lab, a rush of lust had caught him completely off guard. Not once had he felt that particular emotion at first sight.

It was peculiar, the most attractive thing about him wasn't his ivory skin, or the artfully shaped face. It wasn't his lithe body, or even how distinguished he looked in his dramatic trench coat, although those things did help it along. It was more the mannerisms he had. The way Sherlock held himself, the way he tilted his head just so, and the way an interesting murder would ignite a sort of spark in his eyes. It was his boy-like excitement when he figured out a particularly tricky bit of the case, and the the smile that would start out small, but gradually spread into a full fledged grin. And oh, how John loved when that smile was directed at him.

It was silly, really, how getting a chuckle out of Sherlock easily made John's day. How even the most insignificant touch on the shoulder or brush against his leg could send a shiver through his body. He had an almost schoolboy obsession with his flatmate, and he tried as hard as he possibly could to hide this fact.

As one might imagine, it's a little bit difficult hiding anything from "the world's only consulting detective". But their relationship depended on it. John was sure Sherlock didn't feel the same way - how could he? As a sociopath, John wasn't sure Sherlock could even identify love if it sat right down on his lap.

Although... John thought a bit. A sociopath might not be able to feel emotions, or not very deeply. Kindness, compassion, love? None of those depended on concrete science, and although Sherlock could imitate of few of them quite well, there was always something slightly lacking in his performances for his clients, something not quite right.

But lust? It was far more physical than anything else. And, after all, Sherlock was a man. John was pretty sure at least. He couldn't be immune to it. And surely, he had to have cravings. Right?

By now John had put down the paper, completely lost in thought. So he was startled when Sherlock suddenly leaped off the couch, the bright glimmer in his eyes again.

"Sherlock?" John eyed him warily.

"I'm just off to the grocer's, John, I won't be long. I noticed we're out of milk."

John stared at him curiously, then incredulously, "You, the great Sherlock Holmes, are voluntarily wasting precious intellectual power on groceries? What, have all the criminals up and left the city?"

"Hardly. But no criminal at the moment is interesting enough to captivate my attention. As I said, I'll be back soon."

Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and bounded out the door. John heard the light tread of his footsteps down the stairs, and then quiet. Quite odd.

Then John heard, "On second thought... I may be a while. It depends on any number of possible circumstances. Don't wait up!" And the door slammed closed.

What can Sherlock possibly be up to now?