*Just so you know, this is probably going to end up terrible in my opinion, but I totally recommend you read it. Seriously I'm not kidding, like the first three chapters are so funny and weird I just don't even know. BUT don't eat me for any disappointments.

Prologue

"I don't know! I swear! Please believe me!"

The man with the sandy hair cried as the tall man stood over him with a crowbar in his hand, blood of the smaller man's dripping from it. The tall man kicked the small one, turning him onto his stomach, and stepped on his back.

"Now tell me, John Watson. Where-is-Sherlock-Holmes?"

The small man, John Watson, gave a small cry and covered his head before the other man bent down low and shouted, "WHERE THE HELL IS SHERLOCK HOLMES?!"

"I swear I don't know!" sobbed John Watson, "He left a couple hours before you captured me-"

The man brought his crowbar down on him hard, breaking one of his ribs by the sound of it. He screamed and kicked the floor, for his hands where tied behind his back and in the line of fire. The man laughed maniacally and kicked him back over onto his back.

"You will tell me where he is or you will die right here, right now," the man hissed.

"P-please," Mr. Watson sobbed once more, "he didn't tell me where he was going. I don't mean to sound out of line, but I don't understand why you can't find him-"

"BECAUSE MY BEST SPY IS DEAD AND I'VE GOT AN APPOINTMENT AT FIVE!"

The man kicked him again and turned around to where the little girl was eavesdropping through the crack in the wall, though he could not see her. He sighed long and deeply, ending with a loud groan and another beating to Mr. Watson. Poor Mr. Watson. Suddenly, a hand came down upon her shoulder just as Mr. Watson was about to be beaten again and she turned to see a familiar face. A face she'd seen on her sister's computer often.

Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter One

John woke up in the middle of the night with a jolt, his heart pounding and his body damp with sweat. A nightmare was all it was, but one of the war. He'd assumed that once he was occupied with solving cases by Sherlock Holmes' side that the dreams would vanish, but they didn't. Occur less often, they did. But didn't disappear. Sherlock had tried to keep his mind off it with insane mind games, but they only worked for about a week or so, if that. But one of the soldiers who tried to kill had strapped a bomb to John's body...his face looking so familiar...Moriarty.

He rubbed his eyes and laid down once more, pulling the covers up to his chin. The nightmares still buzzed around in his mind as the snow fell outside his window which cast an eerie shadow on the wall parallel to the foot of his bed; not a single sound could be heard until his breathing became louder for the lack of sleep and irritation. Flustered, he threw the covers off his body, grabbed his robe and stepped into his shoes, and walked downstairs to the main room of the flat. As he came around the corner into the kitchen, he gasped and nearly fell to the floor, for Sherlock was standing in his sheet over his head and body, making him look like a ghost.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded John as he steadied himself.

"It's five in the morning," said Sherlock, "I couldn't get back to sleep since you woke me up with your dreams."

"I...I'm sorry, I didn't know I shouted in my sleep."

"No matter, I almost had the mind to come in and wake you up. But you were already awake."

John nodded and sat on the bar stool, folding his hands over his mouth.

"Please tell me you're wearing pants," asked John, choosing not to look at him.

Sherlock didn't turn his sea green eyes from the window, but answered haughtily, "No."

Of course he wouldn't be. What did this man have against pants?

"Why don't you go put some on-"

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"No!"

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock!"

"John, if I wanted to wear pants by God I would wear pants! Can't a man be naked in his own home?!"

"Not when I'm his flat-mate!"

Sherlock turned on John then, his eyes blazing, red-rimmed, and his nose red as well. Had he been crying?

"Are you all right?" he asked kindly.

"What?"

"You look like you've been crying."

"I've been yawning. It's five in the morning and I haven't slept yet."

"You told me I woke you-"

"Yes you did. I dozed off at the sink and before I fell over, you woke me up. You should be proud you saved me from an injury."

Sherlock sat in the stool next to John, picked up a spoon, and stirred a cup of coffee sitting cold in front of him and taking a sip, followed by a very disgusted expression on his face. He knocked the cup onto the floor and laid his head on the counter, heaving a heavy sigh.

"There, there, Sherlock," John inquired sarcastically, "Maybe it's time you went back to bed."

"I'm not tired!" he whined.

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Do I have to carry you back to bed?"

"Please do."

Sherlock sat up and laid his head on his shoulder, wrapped his arms around his neck, and scooted closer, expecting to be carried.

"I wasn't being serious," claimed John, but Sherlock did not reply, he only scooted even closer.

"I'm wearing underwear, John, I promise."

"I still can't carry you-"

"Then why did you offer?"

John didn't answer.

"Get up and turn around," commanded Sherlock.

"What?!"

"Just do it!"

John did so with a little hesitation. He was about to turn and ask why he needed to do this when Sherlock jumped on his back and demanded he carry him to his room.

"Get the hell off me Sherlock!" shouted John as he stumbled into the counter.

"Easy, John," Sherlock said calmly as he placed his hands on his shoulders, sitting up as if he was riding a horse, "It's just a short walk to my room."

"Y-Yes, I...know. I just need you to get o-off me. Ow! Damn table. Sherlock...please. I can hardly breathe."

"Come on, John. I'll give you a ride tomorrow."

"No, I just-"

"Onward!"

He sighed heavily. What on Earth had Sherlock had to drink or smoke? This was not usual behavior for him. Then again, John had never seen him without an ounce of sleep, so maybe this was normal. He was afraid to ask Mycroft, but then again he did not see a reason to ask either. John moved forward to the archway, caught his breath, and decided to stand straight up. Well wasn't that a bummer? He couldn't move. Sherlock was too heavy for a beanpole. So he pressed on without an argument until he entered his bedroom where his bed was completely bare due to its sheets being around Sherlock's body. Sherlock forced John to sit on his bed so he may "detach" himself from his back and make his way to comfort in bed.

"Do you want me to tuck you in?" John asked sarcastically.

"No. Good night, John," said Sherlock and within a matter of seconds, he was asleep and John was free to trudge back to his room to dream endlessly, if at all.