A/N: Inspired by a prompt I saw on tumblr- "Sherlock and John get trapped in an elevator". Of course, this is perfect for a fluffy pre-slash to slash one shot but I figured yeaaaaa what the hell let's make some sort of multi-shot fic out of it. Also the implied Mystrade kind of happened on accident because I realized Mycroft wouldn't be the one calling Sherlock about this case...anyway. Yeah. Enjoy implied Mystrade.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything-not even the prompt-all I'll do is sell everything under my name. Seriously though all characters belong to BBC, Mofftiss and ACD himself.

Chapter 1 - Contemplating Conversation

Brother, dear, I'm afraid today is not the day to be bored. -MH

Sherlock glanced at his phone's screen briefly, pausing his unwrapping of his third nicotine patch to read the text from his brother. Rolling his eyes, he quickly typed out a response and tossed his phone onto John's chair in front of him.

Prove yourself or I shall add a fourth. -SH

Before he could divert his attention back to Patch No. 3, however, Sherlock heard the door to 221B open and close, and then the warm tenor of John's voice rose through the floor. The words were impossible to distinguish, but Sherlock breathed in the sound all the same, closing his eyes and reveling in it. It was one of the few chances he ever received to marvel at John Watson, and he'd be damned if he ever missed one.

Because what were his alternatives?

"Hello, John, stand still for a moment. The sunlight from the window has caught your hair in such a way I want to remember forever."

And then John would stand there, and blink at him, and open his mouth to say something, and then change his mind.

"Sherlock," he would eventually say, "that's not something friends say to each other."

And Sherlock would hate that.

So as soon as he heard John's key in the lock, he turned his focus back onto the nicotine patch. He heard John pause at the doorway behind him, and Sherlock decided a sidelong glance was an appropriate reaction.

"Got a case, then?" John asked, inclining his head towards Sherlock's exposed forearm.

"Of sorts," Sherlock muttered darkly in response, glaring towards the kitchen.

"Of sorts..." repeated John slowly, following his gaze- "Oh, Christ, Sherlock, what the hell did you do to the kitchen?!"

"I was looking for something."

"You've practically dismantled it!"

"I was looking for something."

John's resigned exhalation traveled impossibly far to rush over Sherlock, like some sort of wave of...well, resigned exhalations.

"What were you looking for?"

"Eggs."

"Eggs?"

"I'm assuming you're familiar with them."

Another exhalation, frustrated this time, was not half lost on Sherlock.

"Eggs are in the fridge, Sherlock."

Silence. Then:

"Must have deleted that."

"Deleted...fine. Save the knowledge again, then." John shuffled around to the front of his chair and plopped himself down in it, kneading his forehead with his hands.

Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye, and contemplated a conversation.

"Rough day at the surgery, I presume?" he would ask, already knowing the answer (chock full of prostate exams), but wanting John to tell Sherlock himself.

Would that be acceptable? Is that what friends do?

He didn't have a chance to think on it very long, however, for John quite suddenly jumped about a foot in the air, emitting a very uncharacteristically high yelp and dropping the newspaper he had picked up from the end table.

"John?!" Sherlock asked sharply, rushing over to see what caused the disturbance.

John dug around in the cushions roughly for a moment before gruffly producing a cell phone, which had invariably buzzed somewhere underneath John. The screen remained lit for a split second, but still long enough for Sherlock to see Mycroft H. had replied to his text.

I am sending you and John somewhere. -MH

I have to take the case first. -SH

-Incoming Call-

"What is it?"

"Every employee that has taken the stairs of Gibbon's Hotel in the past week have gone missing. They take the elevator; they are spared. A guest takes the stairs; they come out the end, right as rain. However, four members of hotel staff have gone completely missing, each one with an eyewitness account of them entering the stairwell."

"Alone?"

"Obviously."

Silence.

"Mycroft, why are you the one telling me this?"

"You are ignoring Lestrade."

"Why are you contacting Lestrade?"

Silence.

"Goldfish."

-Disconnected-

Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear, smirking slightly before turning to John.

"Pack. We're going somewhere."

John looked up, unsurprised.

"Where?"

"Gibbon's Hotel." Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet as he enunciated the word, popping the b's with extra emphasis.

"For a case?"

"Obviously."

"Would it change anything if I said I had a date tonight?"

"Entirely up to you, John."

Silence.

"Give me half an hour."

Sherlock smiled, satisfied, and strode into his bedroom, sending a final text to Mycroft on the way in.

I'll take the case. -SH

Sherlock extended his arm rather joyfully, delighting in the sight of the adhesive being forced from his skin as he tore the patches off, contemplating conversation for the cab ride as he did so.

"What's the name?"

"Holmes."

Sherlock and John were standing in front of reception, where a pudgy girl named Lindsay with badly-dyed blonde hair was lazily checking them into their room. Sherlock looked slightly nervous; his blue eyes were darting around the lobby, as if he expected the Stairwell Kidnapper to drop from the ceiling and steal him away. And, thought John, even if he were, Sherlock would be just as poised as ever, knowing exactly how to deal with whatever he can see-and then John straightened up, because oh. He can't trust what he sees with this one. Just like the Hound of Baskerville. John was struck suddenly with an urge to take his friend's arm and hold tightly-

"Holmes...aha, here we are...Sherlock and John Holmes."

John's head snapped up.

"No," he said automatically, "we're not...like that, we're not married."

Sherlock sighed and bowed his head; whether at the mistake or John's reaction, John didn't know.

If John had been in a better mood, he would have laughed wearily and nudged Sherlock, joking about their public relationship, much to the embarrassment of the check-in lady.

"Are we full-out married now? That's a new one."

And Sherlock would smile at him back, one of the smiles that only John was allowed to see. One of the smiles only John could create.

"They're going to have to start forging documents-of course, your signature is entirely too easy to replicate. Mine, on the other hand, is not so readily copied...or avaliable..."

And it would strike John that he'd never actually seen Sherlock's signature. He'd seen his handwriting in notes in the kitchen -"be careful of open beakers" , "DO NOT MIX WITH WATER" , "Clean up mess? NOT WITH WATER"- and he'd seen the way his mind works in words through texts and blog entries. But he'd never seen Sherlock express himself in the most arbitrary way possible-a signature.

The hypothetical conversation coupled with the afterthought carried John all the way to their room, the door to which Sherlock graciously opened for them.

Double beds.

Relief flooded John at the sight; the kind of relief that comes when you dodge a major bullet; when you lose your phone at a bar and as a result don't end up drunkenly calling your ex at ungodly hours of the morning.

"Good of them to give us another room, eh?" John prompted lightly, tossing his light trunk onto the far right bed and unzipping it. It was quite drafty in the room and John needed a jumper. He selected a newer one, one that Sherlock didn't have as many clever comments to say against it. It was a burgundy, and the thickly-knit fibers warmed John immediately.

"Expected." Sherlock said absently, stretched out on the left bed and closing his eyes.

"Too tired for dinner?" John asked, tilting his head.

Sherlock exhaled, and his eyes open.

"Nope," he said placidly, lips popping the "p".

He followed John out of the room, mildly anxious.

What do friends say to each other at dinner?"