Chapter One: A deadly game of chicken.

Disclaimer: I don't own Elementary, I don't own the works of Arthur Conan Doyle, I don't own anything.

"Morning, Watson!" it was a voice I had come to hate in the mornings. I had no need of an alarm clock when he woke me up everyday.

"Goh wagh." I mumbled, turning over and pulling my pillow over my head.

"Sorry, what was that?" Ungodly cheerful, good for nothing... my room-mate, best-friend, partner in crime solving: Sherlock Holmes, every body. You might have heard of him. He's the biggest ass state-side since he left London. Lucky London. They get peace and quiet. They get lie-ins, and don't have to put up with him.

He threw clothes onto my bed, as he had done six of the last seven times he had woken me this week. And it was only Wednesday.

"What is it?"

"A murder! Rise and shine." I turned to glare at him, but my attention was caught by red. My alarm clock, which was sadly rarely used. 5am.

"You're waking me up at 5am because of a murder?"

"Well, of course. Now, get up and pick out your underwear—or I will for you."

"There'll be another murder in a minute," I muttered angrily. I wasn't going to get out of bed. "Who died, the Queen?"

"No, more of a princess really."

"You're kidding."

"I assure you I am being perfectly serious, Watson." I saw him reach to open my underwear draw, and rolled out of bed, hitting him. He fell down; I landed on top of him with my hands either side of his head.

"You're not allowed in there," I told him. He made a show of looking at my chest, raised an eyebrow, and then smirked. Of course he had a view. But if he wanted to play it that way—well, we could play it that way.

I smiled, leaned in and licked his ear. His body stiffened beneath me, and I held in a giggle.

"Don't. Fuck. With. My. Stuff. Sherlock," I whispered. Like a little cartoon character, he visibly gulped. I pulled back and smiled sweetly. "Understood?"

His smirk was back. "What are you going to do if I go in there anyway? Kiss me?" His hands came up to hold my waist. We were now locked in a deadly game of chicken.

"Oh, I will if I have to."

"I don't think you've got the guts to." he goaded, with a smile.

"I have. I'll kiss you right now, to prove it." I stared defiantly in his eyes, and moved forward. I didn't really want to—I wanted to go back to sleep, that was all—but I was making a point.

"Are you sure you want to? You don't have to kiss me to prove a point."

"No, I'm going to kiss you. I have plenty of guts." We inched closer.

"Because you can always back out now."

"So can you."

"Well I'm not going to."

"Well neither am I. For someone who doesn't want to back out, you're trying awfully hard to convince me not to kiss you." Our lips were almost touching.

He pulled away, and coughed. "Murder case, Watson. I've made you a smoothie, and some toast. In the kitchen." I nodded and got up, grinning. I won.

"Now, turn around, or go outside while I get dressed!" He smiled sadly, opened his mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it and left abruptly. At the door he paused and looked over his shoulder.

"I won't kiss you like that, Watson." I carried on pulling my top down. What other way would he want to kiss me?