Hey there! Sooo I've been pretty busy lately... Sorry about that ^^" S and I will both try to get working on our stories! But you know, what's always been one of my addictions is Sherlock Holmes, and when I stumbled across Sherlock BBC, I jumped on it! :D I absolutely love it! So this story will most likely be short, since I'm still pretty busy and not to great with plot compared to Sherlock Holmes, for crying out loud, but I hope you like it! So read and enjoy!

It had been a long and difficult week. Sherlock being Sherlock, he'd taken two cases at once, saying either was 'too boring' but would perhaps be entertaining if worked on simultaneously. Only he would come up with that sort of logic. Despite that, and he dragging John around London chasing several murderers, sometimes more than one and more than twice in a single day, nothing seemed to cure this taste of restlessness that surrounded the detective.

John sat in his chair, fingers clicking along at the blog. The flat was quiet for once and the smell of firewood and burnt cookies mixed about as the air outside had gotten nippy with pre-winter breeze, and Mrs. Hudson was continuously baking downstairs. Sherlock had suddenly jumped up and ran out a few hours earlier, throwing a, "I'll be back later!" over his shoulder at John.

Typically the older soldier was used to this, but he couldn't help the nagging feeling that he usually received when Sherlock disappeared on his own that had strengthened every passing of the hour. John sighed, the soft sound permeating the air, and he glanced around. The kitchen table which he could see just over the couch was still littered with beakers and bottles filled with some substance or another that John was always extremely cautious to never come in contact with. He'd bought milk earlier, and though the head had been removed from the fridge a while ago, he shivered every time he saw that spot it had been, and imagined it sitting there, gazing lifelessly…

John stopped that train of thought and rubbed his eyes, seeing spots from hours and hours of staring at the computer screen. He hadn't been on a date in a while, either; most relationships he attempted fell apart before they even started. Most would say that he was "already in a relationship" and "he didn't have time for them". Others would advise them to seek a therapist so he could find his "true self".

What the bloody hell did that mean, anyway? It was ridiculous. John would admit that running and solving crimes with Sherlock took up a lot of time, but that was what he did. Although Sherlock would state otherwise, John was worried that Sherlock would be lost without him, and the other way around as well. The army doctor didn't think he'd ever find anyone that would put up with Sherlock as he does, or someone that would ever make him want to actually leave Sherlock. Sherlock was just… too important to him.

Without awaiting permission, his mind flashed back to his meeting with Irene Adler, after everyone, including Sherlock, believed her dead.

"We're not a couple—"

"Yes you are."

John ran a rough hand over his face, not seeing the computer screen anymore. Why the hell did everyone insist that they were a couple?

"I'm not gay!

"Well I am. Look at us both."

John had to say, he was more than a little bit surprised at the Woman's admission. But what did she mean by "look at us both"? People thought she was in love with Sherlock, or at least had a strong interest in him. When they first met, Irene talked about slapping his cheek bones. While John had noticed the rather attractive cut of Sherlock's cheek bones himself, that had been just a little bit strange. So did she mean..? No. John visibly frowned. She couldn't possibly mean what he thought she did… right?

A sudden slam of the door jolted him out of his thoughts, and John looked up in surprise to have his jaw drop. Sherlock stood in his long coat, completely soaked, with his dark curls falling about his face, a bruised cheek, and a lighter in hand. The detective scoffed.

"That was a waste of time." John pulled himself out of his daze and stood moving swiftly over to Sherlock to examine him as the man began to shed his long coat.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sherlock waved a hand airily.

"Just a fight with a fisherman. Really, it was quite boring. Has my guinea pig saturated yet?" John halted and stuttered.

"Y-You've been saturating a guinea pig? For God's sake, Sherlock—" The detective was already shaking his head, droplets of water flickering from the ends of his dark locks as he tossed the lighter on the table.

"It was already dead. Really, John, you overreact to the smallest things."

"Oh, I overreact," John started, following Sherlock as he made his way towards the bathroom, "When do I overreact, Sherlock? Not when you suddenly take off running in the middle of the night, not returning for hours. Definitely not when you keep severed heads in the kitchen—" This was responded with a small, "Where else was I supposed to keep it?", but John continued on as if he hadn't heard—"And certainly not when you decide you're bored and start cooking up animals!" They'd reached the bathroom and Sherlock turned to him in the doorway, his dark, slightly warm eyes meeting John's lighter ones.

"I need my experiments to be untouched, John, so if you don't mind, keep the animals where they are. And I think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate this a touch more than blowing holes in her wall." John scoffed.

"Not if the smell starts going downstairs." Sherlock chuckled a bit, and John smiled.

"Yes, well, if you don't mind, I'd like to get this wretched filth off me now, so…" With that, Sherlock shut the door in his face. John shook his head in slightly disbelief, his smile still tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Don't get blood on the floor like you did last time! Mrs. Hudson had a fit when she came in the other day!" All that resulted in was a low chuckle, and John laughed a bit before walking back down the hall and into the living room. Instead of going back to his desk and his blog, he stepped into the kitchen and readied the kettle, double checking that they had clean cups, and making extra careful not to look down into any of the bottles and vials sitting along the table.

Unknown to him or Sherlock Holmes, a pair of eyes watched him carefully, and a slick smile grew on the face that had witnessed the whole exchange. Perhaps… this would be the best way to get to Sherlock Holmes… and the best, cruelest way to burn his heart.

Wahla :) I know it was short, but it will pick up next chapter and so forth :) There will be some, ahh, predicaments our favorite duo will get into, if you know what I mean ;) sooo, stay tuned! Feel free to review and favorite and all that jazz :) See yas next time!