221B Baker Street was strangely quiet.

Mrs. Hudson was gone away, and John was visiting his sister for Christmas.

And Sherlock was bored.

He could shoot the wall again, but knowing that he would try something, John had taken his gun with him, along with anything else he could cause trouble with.

He sighed loudly to no one in paticular.

At least if John were here he wouldn't be as bored.

John. He though. Wonderful, ordinary John. His John.

Wait a second.

Why was he thinking about John as if he...fancied him?

He didn't, did he?

No, he didn't. But something was tugging at the back of his mind, his inner voice, that he did, he does fancy John. Not just fancy him, he loves him. He loves John Watson.

He got a feeling he never had in the pit of his stomach. He didn't like it, couldn't identify it, but it was something of anxiety, of thinking about greeting John when he comes home by kissing him and-

No. This is John. Why would John ever fancy him, anyway?

Taking a sip of his tea, he sighed frustratingly, trying to get the silly idea out of his mind.

What to do. He though.

What to do.