Sherlock Holmes was sprawled out on the sofa. His lanky legs were hanging over the arm, and his head was propped up on the back of it. He was staring at the television, clearly paying attention to every little detail, which was odd. The television was off. Has been for a while, actually. Yet Sherlock kept staring as though it was showing the best thing in the world. Which would mean that Sherlock himself was on the TV. Or a murder. Or perhaps John.
How the hell had John managed to sneak onto his list of best things? The thought had slipped into his mind and settled there comfortably. It didn't feel odd or out of place to think of John like that. In fact, it felt more natural then most of his analytical thoughts. The ones that kept 99% of his mind busy. But there was that last 1% and it seemed John was now firmly occupying it. The way he had called Sherlock amazing with such a look of awe in his eyes. Usually when Sherlock first revealed his talent people told him to bugger off and leave them alone. Perhaps they even called him odd, but with John it had been amazing. Whenever Sherlock announced his findings, the crinkle of confusion on John's forehead always appeared. It made him loom sort of like a lost puppy.
Suddenly Sherlock blinked. He was comparing his flatmate to a lost puppy. He didn't even like bloody puppies! They annoyed him, and he found them useless. What the hell was going on inside of his usually quite logical head? This was not a logical thought, comparing John to a puppy. Logically John was very little like a puppy. He had some sense in him, for one, and though he was an idiot, he was a clever idiot. And funny. Not that that was relevant at all. Sherlock sat up straight, a rare occurrence for him, and stared at the opposite wall. Where was his mind wandering these days? He had limited cranial capacity, and filling it with how John was and was not like a puppy was a waste of space. At least, that was what he was attempting to convince himself.
Where was John, anyway? He usually started complaining about Sherlock's lack of cleaning by now. Perhaps he was over at that girl's house. Sherlock couldn't remember her name, and he didn't bother trying. He didn't like that woman, she was always taking up John's time. It was only, of course, that he was John's friend. At least, he thought he was. Was he? That didn't matter now. He was only thinking about John because the man himself was tending to be away from the house more often then usual. The puppy analogy grew out of that, too. He didn't miss John, he never missed anyone. He had simply gotten used to the other man constantly being around.
His mind put at ease, Sherlock lay back in his original position upon the sofa. Fifteen minutes later, when John returned from the store, he found his flatmate asleep in a very uncomfortable looking angle. John shook his head and proceeded to put away the milk he had told Sherlock he was going to go buy. He got out a blanket and spread it over the other man, noticing a smile on Sherlock's face. Probably dreaming about murder. Or himself. The thought amused John as he headed for his room. Meanwhile, Sherlock was enjoying a dream about John and a pot of jam that would've brought a blush to Mrs. Hudson's face