Afternoon :) I wrote this little oneshot while I was pulling an all-nighter a few days ago :)

Sherlock is a little OOC, but I'm going to blame that on the alcohol :P (That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it) ;)

Enjoy!

In retrospect, the fire may have been a bad idea.

This is written in Sherlock's looping handwriting on a post-it stuck to my headboard. I stand there in my T-shirt and boxers for a second, gawping at the note, then run into the kitchen.

"Sherlock!" I bellow.

"Oh, good morning, John," he replies pleasantly, beaming at me. He is perched on the arm of the sofa, wrapped in his dressing gown. "I assume by your tone of voice that you found my note?"

"What. Fire," I demand.

"Irrelevant," he says, waving his hand, "the results of the experiment have already been sent to Lestrade, therefore an explanation is unnecessary."

"What. Fire," I repeat in my best 'Captain Watson' voice, determined to get some answers out of him. Sherlock sighs, then starts to explain, talking so quickly that I can barely keep up.

"Alibi of Mr Rogers depended on a woolen jumper taking longer than 30 seconds to fully ignite when wrapped in a duvet with a lighter. Therefore I conducted an experiment on my bed to determine how long it took, and yes I did use one of your jumpers, but don't worry it was that nasty, itchy one, and you're going to forgive me because I made you a cup of tea and the fire was put out before the bed got very badly burned."

My jaw drops. "How badly burned is 'not very'?"

"Mycroft is paying for it to be replaced," he mumbles.

"Of course he is," I mutter, rolling my eyes, but I accept the cup of tea he offers me with a affectionate smile.

"Oh, and John?" Sherlock says.

"Yeah?" He leans towards me.

"Do you and put some clothes on," he murmurs in my ear, his undeniably sexy voice sending shivers up and down my spine, "it is rather... distracting." He chuckles, then saunters smugly over to his chair and closes his eyes. I can only gape.

Ever since the pool, he's been so much more open with me, more flirtatious, more relationshipy. I think he's been acting more human with me in the last few days than he had in the rest his life put together. We still haven't discussed what happened, and I don't think we ever will, but that's ok. I'm finding myself rather flattered by his attention, and despite my insistent claims that we are not a couple, I rather wish we were.

I scratch the back of my head, wondering if I should ask him what he meant by distracting, but I eventually decide against it. I wander back to my room and pull on jeans and a jumper anyway. When I come out again, Sherlock is standing in the kitchen with his mobile. He looks up at me, and seems almost disappointed.

"What now?" I ask, incredulously.

"Oh, nothing," he smirks, and gives me his we both know what's going on look. I am about to call him on it, and demand that he tells me, but then the doorbell rings.

"Client!" Sherlock exclaims excitedly, and dashes downstairs to let them in.

While Sherlock talks to our client, I stand in the corner, staring out of the window. Sherlock is getting more excited by the minute, but at least there aren't any murders on this case. So far, anyway. Once we had a what seemed like a simple robbery that Sherlock managed to turn into a triple homicide. My mind wanders, and I find myself staring at Sherlock. His high gorgeous cheekbones, soft boyish hair, cupid's bow lips... My mind flashes back to that night at the pool.

After Moriarty leaves the second time, and we are sure he isn't coming back, I shakily get to my feet.

"That is not something I ever want to do again."

"Me neither."

We look at each other, then burst into hysterical laughter in an attempt to relieve the tension of the situation. When we're finished, he takes a hesitant step towards me. Part of me wants to move away, but there is a wall directly behind me.

"I thought you were Moriarty," he admits, softly. "I thought I'd lost you too."

I almost want to cry at the look of hurt in his eyes.

"You're never going to lose me," I say, firmly. "Never."

He takes another step closer, and now I can feel his breath ghosting against my skin, can see every single speck in those beautiful eyes. He moves his head down until his lips are almost touching mine. Can he tell just how much I want him? Can he see just how much I need him? And then he closes the gap between us and fireworks explode in my head. Part of me knows that we should take this slow, but all I can think of is the way his lips feel against mine, the way his fingertips on my skin make me lose control like no one else. And when he pulls away, I can still hear the fireworks because he kissed me, oh my god he kissed me, and nothing will ever be better that this right now right here he kissed me, oh god how can we go back from this, but I don't want to go back I want to go on and on and on and never ever ever have to stop...

"John?"

I am brought crashing back into the present by Sherlock calling my name.

"Oh, er, yes?"

"Shall we go?"

"Of course," I reply, grabbing my jacket from behind the door, "after you?"

He eyes me curiously, deep eyes piercing into my very soul. Surely he can't know what I was thinking about? I think, but then he gently reaches forward and touches my cheek with his fingertips.

We spend the rest of the day chasing a annoyingly fast criminal al over London, only catching him because of a rather lucky incident involving a cat and a roadblock set up by Lestrade for a totally unrelated case. To my surprise, Sherlock actually thanks them for their help. Well, technically he says "Looks like the Yard isn't a total waste of space after all" which gains him a couple of raised eyebrows and a wolf-whistle from the officers present, but both Lestrade and I know what he means. In fact Lestrade is so touched by this announcement that he invites both of us to head down to the pub with him. Of course Sherlock initially turns him down point blank, but after a little persuasion from me, he agrees to tag along, and I even manage to convince him to have a drink. And then he has another, and another, and another. It is once he started giggling and planting sloppy kisses down my neck that I decide I'd best get him home. Lestrade is looking as though he's just won the jackpot (which, if the bets going round the yard about whether or not we were dating were anything to judge by, he probably had) and I wanted to get Sherlock out of there before Lestrade remembers that his new phone has a camera.

We arrive home at around half midnight, both exhausted, and Sherlock a little more sober, only to remember that his bed is a charred, broken mess. Sherlock glances at me mischievously, then darts off in the direction of my own room. I chase after him, and enter the room to find him sitting on the edge of my bed.

"Out." I snap, firmly, and his face falls.

"Why?" he pouts.

"Because I'm not giving up my bed just because you destroyed mine. You cannot kick me out onto the sofa. No. Way."

"We could always share."

He says this so casually that it takes me a moment to realise what he's said.

"What?!" I splutter.

"Share," he repeats calmly. "More comfortable than the sofa."

I glare at him for a minute, attempting to cover up just how perfect that idea sounds. Then I grab a T-shirt from the chair in the corner, and stomp off to the bathroom to get changed. As soon as I get out of the room I allow a huge grin to spread across my face. Sharing a bed. With Sherlock. I feel suddenly shy. This is pretty intimate, even considering what happened at the pool.

When I get back, Sherlock has already closed, his lips slightly parted as he breathes deeply in and out.

"I know you're faking," I smirk, and he opens one eye in surprise.

"How could you possibly have known?!"

"Lucky guess." I grin as he narrows his eyes, snorting in disgust. "Well, we can't all be as clever as you are, Sher," I tease, clambering in beside him.

The bed is too small for two grown men to lie comfortably apart in. I start to wonder if this is the actual experiment. We figure out pretty quickly that if we both lie on our sides there's just about enough room.

"I think we need to talk," he whispers suddenly.

"About what?" I ask, but I already know.

"About what happened. At the pool."

"Ummm ok," I reply. "You first?"

"I think that your feelings for me are entirely more than platonic, and that we should deal with this... issue."

My heart stops. "Issue?"

"Yes."

He looks at me fiercely. "I am married to my work, John, and you know that."

"I... I know, yes, but I thought..." I trail off.

"You thought?" he prompts.

I whisper quietly, my eyes tight shut, "I thought I was different. I thought you felt the same. I... I love you Sherlock."

There is a long uncomfortable silence. This is it, I think. This is the end. "I'll go sleep on the sofa," I say. "I'm sorry."

But then his arms are around me, and his face is nuzzling against my neck, and I can't even begin to comprehend why he would be doing this, but it feels... right.

"Don't be so stupid," he chuckles, "I don't want you to go anywhere. I love you too, you idiot."

We lie there for a long while, his head on my shoulder, my arm around him. I absentmindedly trace nonsense patterns on the patch of skin between his shirt and his boxers. There's one spot just above his hip bone that makes him shudder when I touch it, so I make sure to do that as much as I can. I place a kiss amongst his soft curls, and he sighs contentedly.

"People will talk," he teases.

"People do little else."

I push myself up with one arm and gaze down at him, still tracing patterns on his hip. He stares back at me, and I hear his breath catch in his throat as my hand drifts lazily up under his shirt.

"Ok?" I murmur. He nods, then reaches up with one hand to brush a finger over the corner of my mouth. My eyes widen. God he's so beautiful and sexy and... His lips are suddenly on mine, hot and wet, and I can't breathe because it's. So. Damn. Perfect. He pulls back a little and starts to kiss along my jaw. Briefly I wonder where in hell he learned to do that, but then I realise that I don't care. He moves his head back up so his eyes are directly in front of mine, and they are full of fire, full of danger, full of love. He has never looked more beautiful, never looked more human.

Eventually I remember just how much he's had to drink, and so I force myself to pull away and just curl up against his side. We can do this whenever he wants, I think, but we're damn well going to do it sober.

My last thought before sleep takes me is that maybe the fire wasn't so bad after all.

So, there you have it :)

Please review, it would really make my day :)

Love, iamthedaisyqueen xxxxx