John was watching the window. Or rather, he was watching the scene outside, which was precisely- the lady across the road arguing with Sherlock. John wasn't entirely sure what it was about, most likely Sherlock arguing for the sake of arguing, or being an, "annoying twit," again and being far too pernickety for his own good. The neighbour looked pretty angry too.

Sherlock raised his arms and gestured at the house behind him, towards John at the window (possibly, probably just at the house.) John felt the urge to duck backwards in-case Sherlock saw him watching, but he'd probably noticed by now. It was an understatement to call him observant. Maybe that's what the lady across the road did?

John stood up and moved away from the window. While sitting watching Sherlock argue was strangely enjoyable, it was also frustrating. He couldn't tell what they were saying; and he should have been getting on with some work he'd brought back from the surgery, and… well. The lady across the road was young and fair and pretty. Very "London," fashionable. Strange clothes but wore them well. Sort of like Sherlock. Elegant.

Wait. Sherlock, elegant? Yes well, he was, and rather interesting too, with his face like- no! What on earth was John playing at?

John had wandered into the kitchen, and sat down at the kitchen table mauling his face with his hands. He, John, was in a relationship, with a woman. Sherlock, as he admitted to himself, was married to his work -and while John had his suspicions- was of an unspecified sexuality. This was not a productive way to spend a Sunday afternoon, thinking pointless, unproductive thoughts. And besides, Sherlock was such a mind-reader (science, John, science) that he might notice. And that would be unimaginably awful. He'd positively die of embarrassment.

The door clicked shut and John jumped in his seat, letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and laid his hands down on he table. Sherlock appeared round the corner, pulling off his coat.

"What's wrong?"

How did he know? Ridiculous.

"I'm, er, got too much to do. Work." John plucked at the file of papers on the desk.

"Ah okay."

Sherlock threw his coat down on the side, then walked into the kitchen and paused on the other side of the table to John. John raised his eyebrows slightly. Effortless, see? He'd been making a fuss over nothing. This wasn't anything serious, just some… Crush. Okay, that sounded utterly bizarre. Still-

Sherlock picked up John's papers with his long pale fingers and set them to one side to get at the ill used fruit bowl beneath. He picked up a small pear (who bought that? John mused) then took a bite.

"Mhm?"

John looked away, blinking. He had no idea he's been staring at Sherlock. Sherlock swallowed his mouthful of pear and smirked at John, then walked away into the living room.

John looked down at his hands. For God's sake. "So what was that about outside? The argument?" Might as well admit he'd been watching him too- eh John?

"Oh, nothing." As always.

"No really, you looked pretty angry. Neighbourly disagreement?"

Sherlock gave John a long look. "I was bored."

"So shooting walls and upsetting neighbours now?" Ouch, why did he say that?

Sherlock paused and looked at him again, expression completely unreadable.

"Come and sit over here."

John frowned even though he felt a little ill inside. He got up slowly and wandered over to where Sherlock had just perched himself on one end of the sofa.

"Sit." Sherlock made a little grimacy polite smile. John felt he could only be able to say something bad, something like, "John I've noticed the way you look at me and you have to move out." Or-

"John. I-" Sherlock paused, held up a hand. "John I've noticed you don't seen very happy. Is it Sarah?"

John nearly broke out with a huge smile. Sherlock discussing relationships? He looked very out of his depth. "No, no, it's not her, that's all fine." It actually wasn't incredibly fine, but Sherlock didn't need to know. Not that it wasn't fine either, but it just wasn't. They generally just chatted now. Nothing more.

"So what isn't all fine? You like the cases? You like the danger still; I know you do, so I'm just a little perplexed if I'm perfectly honest."

John had no idea what to say. Yes, I've secretly got a man-crush on you my dear Sherlock, and it's bothering me. No, that wouldn't quite do, would it?

Sherlock looked a tiny bit happier as he carried on, interrupting John's thoughts. "Distracted fair enough, but unhappy is distracting to me."

"Really?" That slipped out. But he meant it.

Sherlock looked down at his hands. He never did that. It was a very un-Sherlock like action. It showed hesitation, doubt, even. It was... scary.

"Look, John-" Sherlock looked up, looked sideways, and stood up and walked off. John was left staring after him as he disappeared round the corner into his room. Okay, fine. Now that was really going to settle his mind. His over-active imagination was only going to turn everything that Sherlock could have said into-

No! This is what's called, "Getting out of hand." John stood up and went to the door, grabbing his coat off the back of the sofa, and shrugging it on.

"Sherlock? I'm going out." He waited a second for a reply, but none came. "Fine, see you later." He closed the door behind him with a click and trotted down the stairs. Looking up from the bottom of the narrow flight, he glanced backwards to see if Sherlock was going to pop out and make some sarcastic comment or remind to do something, but nothing, Silence.

So he opened the front door and left the building.

Sherlock had stormed into his bedroom and thrown himself down on the bed, like back when he was a child and Mycroft had got his way over something. He wrapped his hands round the back of his head and breathed out slowly into the covers, his breath warming up his face, the sheet tickling his nose.

He held his breath for a few second longer, then rolled over and inhaled the cold air of the room. The passing cars lights from the back of the flat made strange moving shadows on the ceiling of the room, that slunk along slowly, then slid into nothingness. He heard John call out, once, twice, and then the door shut, a minute later the door down stairs closing too.

John had paused at the bottom of the stairs, maybe because he thought he's forgotten something. No. Sherlock knew better. Because he was waiting to see if Sherlock would appear and make everything better with some sarcastic comment or request. But the awkwardness Sherlock had left in the air remained, and permeated through both of them.

John could sit and doubt in the warmth of Sarah's kitchen over a steaming mug of tea, and he, Sherlock, could lie and watch shadows slide across he ceiling. Alone in the fading light.

Fuck this, decided Sherlock. He sat up. He'd get over John, and anyway, relationships with someone you work with/live with/ or are close to, never work. Better the one night stand with someone as equally uncaring as you. Just sex, nothing more.

He slid to the edge of the bed and resting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Normally he could lie down and think for hours. But not about a man. Never about someone. Ideas and concepts were far more fulfilling to chase, they had causes and motives and ends and results.

Sherlock got up and walked to the bath room. He needed to get high, to do something. This was like being bored, but with a far bigger distraction than a lack of distraction. Automatically he ran the water from the taps, and out of habit washed his hands. He didn't need to, but it gave him a tiny focus. To make his finger nails completely clean. Pristine hands- clean hands. Clean hands, clean mind? No, of course not.

Mycroft would know what he was thinking. He always did. He couldn't doubt the observational skills of his brother, but he was not about to admit to having a crush on John. It was bad enough that he was the, "Gay one," in the family for his old fashioned parents to get sniffy over, or worse, pity. No. He would swallow what-ever this was and ignore it, and get on. He was married to his work, remember?

The water was almost scaldingly hot when he turned it off, drying his hands on the towel on the rail. He looked at himself in the mirror, exhaled through his nose.

A minute later Sherlock was striding through the flat, and grabbed his coat off the back of the sofa, shrugged it on. Then, closing the door with a snap behind him trotted down the stairs, pausing at the bottom, for a mere fraction of a second to wait- out of habit- to see if John would run down behind him. But Sherlock didn't actually pause, not really. That would be silly.

So he opened the front door and left the building.

John was not at Sarah's, actually. This only reflected on how Sherlock wasn't really concentrating on what he was doing. John was in a taxi (which he was only just getting really used to) on the way to his sister's house. He needed to see Harry. Well, hell, she was messed up enough, so she could give him some advice. If she was sober.

John sighed to himself; he was full of exaggerations. Harry wasn't that bad, and she'd been so much better recently. As far as he knew (admittedly not very far at all) she'd been okay for the last few months since he'd come to London.

The taxi stopped at the terraced house and he paid the taxi driver- no tip he was out of change- and climbed out of the car. He walked up to the gate and he heard the taxi driver pull away. The gate was rusty and in need of a good coat of paint, and it creaked loudly as John mastered the latch and swung it open.

As John walked up the old white steps he felt intensely awkward, and began to regret the decision to call on his sister. He hardly ever spoke to her, so to go and see her when he was… Confused? Wasn't that just selfish?

Stopping by the front door, he made the resolution just to make this a call to see how Harry was, and not to talk about his own problems. Heck, wasn't hearing someone else's woes supposed to make you feel better yourself? He knocked twice, loudly, and stood back. The light was on in the downstairs window.

Sherlock rapped at the flat door. It was lower floor, a London townhouse split in two. The word flat didn't do it justice, really. It was four floors high with a basement underneath, immaculate in white paint with an elegant creeper draped carefully up its forward facing wall.

A man answered, tall, long faced, with pale hair and a suggestion of a beard and light eyes. A morose expression. "Sherlock!"

"Henry." Sherlock grimaced his perfunctory smile. "It's been a while." Henry stood back to let him in, Sherlock sweeping past. Henry shut the door behind him, then walked past him in the corridor.

"The work not going, eh, so well?" Henry pushed his hands in his pockets and slouched on the wall, not inviting Sherlock further in. The light wasn't on, so his face was in shadow. There was music playing from another room further back. Jazz.

Sherlock ran a tongue round his teeth and looked serious. "Ah, so not up for it this time then?" he breathed, and pushed past Henry into his front room. Sherlock sat himself down on the arm of a posh settee. Henry snorted derisively and waiting in the door frame, eyes not meeting Sherlock's. "We're a bit old for that Sherlock, and last I heard you were still being a nuisance but also- living with someone."

"Pfff, it's a flat share. He has a girlfriend." Sherlock grimaced inside. A girlfriend. Bloody Sarah. Good alibi though. "You don't seem to have anybody either."

"You don't know. They could walk in right now." Henry moved and leaned on the wall.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow with a mock sadness. "Oh?"

Henry closed his eyes. "Okay, don't do your whole bloody psychoanalysis thing with me. Fine. I don't. But that doesn't mean I'm here when-ever you feel lonely, either." He stared straight at Sherlock who looked back at him, unblinking.

"Henry…" Sherlock's voice was a low growl. He'd come here for sex, not questions, and Henry wouldn't play ball. Ha, unfortunate pun he thought inwardly. Oh childish Sherlock, childish. This was proving a reasonable distraction from John though.

Henry turned away from him completely, so one shoulder was against the wall, the other facing Sherlock and folded his arms. "No."

"Negative body language," thought Sherlock, but intentional negative body language. Otherwise it would have been continual. Henry had clearly only just remembered to act it.

Sherlock stood up and sidled closer to him. Invading his personal space somewhat, possibly. Oh yes. Definitely.

"Henry."

"Sherlock, fuck off." Henry's voice was weaker though, half hearted. Sherlock stepped so he was directly behind Henry was held his mouth right by his ear. "Still no?"

Henry, with difficulty turned around, but turned his head to give himself room to speak. Sherlock hadn't moved back and their bodies were almost touching, Henry now flat against the wall. "I hate you."

"I hate you too." Sherlock kissed him slowly, teasingly, pressing himself against Henry, who was now pinned to the wall. Henry reluctantly kissed him back, a little, but then more and more, pulling Sherlock's head back to him when he moved away.

"Sherlock, you bastard."

John was sitting over a cup of green tea. Harry didn't drink, "real," tea. Wasn't healthy. Hm, seemed a bit rich when-

"So if you hear me moan about her one more time you'll either throttle me or fall asleep." Harry plonked her cup down on the table, next to the cup mat. She was curled up on the sofa next to John, her mousy bob tied behind her head in a ponytail so just a little tuft pointed out, and most of it fell around her face. She wore a huge jumper and old bobbly leggings, and turned to scrutinise him as he drunk his tea.

"Why did you come to see me then? Something up?"

John swallowed his mouthful and put the cup down, on the mat. "No, what gives you that impression?" He wished she would just carry on moaning about Clara, about anyone. It was easier to listen to someone else's problems.

Harry laughed, "Well it wasn't for my benefit you're here drinking my tea, which I know you don't like, but honestly it's all I've got left. Something up with your work? Girlfriend? Flat share bloke? You know I don't think you've ever told me anything about all that." Harry uncrossed her legs and readjusted herself. "I know you didn't want to stay with me, but, honestly, I have no idea what you're doing these days!"

John sighed. Harry, as always, did not exactly beat around the bush. "Honestly, I'm okay."

"Maybe, but you're been staring into space like some, person, for ages. You're not really listening. So, either have a good moan or let me carry on." She grinned.

"You carry on, go ahead." She didn't, of course.

"Work? No, you never get down about that. Too grounded. Hm, well, relationships then. You've always been rubbish at that kind of thing, not that I'm much to judge by. Girly-friend?"

"No, no, she's fine. We're fine."

"Bloody hell John, tell, or I'll die of boredom."

"Argument with flat-mate, that's all." Well, not exactly true, but it got nearer the point.

"With that bloke? Okay, well, finally! What did he do, drink your orange juice?"

"No, no, I don't know. We just had a bit of a disagreement. I suppose. Yes. Just a bit of a," He picked up his tea again and cradled it in his hands, "difference?"

Harry looked at him thoughtfully, an odd expression for her. "Over what?"

"I, I, er, don't know."

"Well I know as well as anyone that even if it's stupid, or tiny, arguments start over something. So what was it?" Harry picked up her tea and took a gulp, then clonked it back down.

"Just, something."

"What the hell John, out with it!"

John looked down at his hands, the half empty cup. He tried to find words, they didn't really want to come.

Harry suddenly unfolded her legs and put her feet on the floor, and leant towards him. "You didn't, you know, do something with him did you?"

John laughed out loud, slightly panicky laughter admittedly, "God, no, Harry no- Sarah."

Harry sat back. "I knew it John, I knew it! You're gay! Or bi, or what-ever, but you are not the perfect little straight doctor son are you? HA!"

"Harry, no, no- I never-"

"Yes, but when I suggested that, you didn't say you wouldn't ever- only that you didn't because of this Sandra! Ha- John. Hahaha!" She was grinning widely with mirth, and leant back, laughing. "You have a crush on your flatmate!"

John closed his eyes. He kind of hated Harry, but at the same time it was nice to have her there.

Sherlock lay with his eyes closed; he knew Henry was watching him, but he didn't care. He was imagining that that was John next to him, his hand tangled in his hair, his breath on Sherlock's bare shoulder.

He opened one eye as Henry rolled away from him. Henry still had his shirt around his shoulders, just unbuttoned. Sherlock sat up and reached for his own shirt as Henry turned his head to watch him. He pulled on and tried to straighten out the creases as best as possible, buttoning it up quickly with his long fingers. He swung his feet off the edge of the bed and began to dress himself quickly as Henry watched.

"You still paint those flipping things?" A few canvases were scattered around the perimeters of the room.

"Yes, and they actually sell would you believe it. Want one?"

"No." Sherlock laced up his other shoe and stood up, "I still think they're bloody awful."

"I'll give you one for Christmas."

"No you won't." He walked to the door.

"Bye Sherlock?"

"Bye."