'I'm home' John came up the stairs and proceeded to bustle around in the kitchen, carefully moving various science equipment and putting away the shopping. At first the cupboards had been organised , but when living with Sherlock it was pointless to try and keep it up. He sighed, there were five live rats in a jar under the sink, he picked it up and snuck towards the stairs 'It's an experiment, John' Damn. Every time. 'Fine, I just don't want them under the sink, okay? Also, I think it's probably a bit cruel to have them in this jar.' He came into the living room and looked at Sherlock, taking him in, he was sat staring at the wall, his eyes had a glazed look about them. He was facing the fire and the flicker of orange light danced over his sharp features. For the third time that week John thought how beautiful Sherlock was, he was an idiot, but a beautiful one. 'Sherlock, I'm serious' He frowned as Sherlock completely ignored him, 'Sherlock! Listen to me! Get a proper hutch, or whatever it is you keep rats in, or I'll set them free.'

'You've ruined the experiment by moving them now anyway' Sherlock continued to look straight at the wall, as if analysing the wallpaper.
John decided releasing them was maybe a bad idea, so he took them to a pet store - luckily the owner was quite happy to give them a home. When he returned Sherlock was in the exact same position. 'You haven't even moved since I left.'
'You left?' And so life in 221B continued.

John and Sherlock continued to gallivant around London, and they were solving crimes by the bucket load. The thrill of the chase and the excitement of the mystery were enthralling to John, and he followed Sherlock around in awe, as usual. They spent less and less time at 221B and started taking more and more cases, Sherlock's website was constantly being contacted for help, as was John's. His blog now had a very wide readership, and their recent cases had attracted quite a lot of media attention lately.
John was worried, although he was always worried about Sherlock, he decided that they needed to keep out of the news for a while, and take some smaller cases. Sherlock was puzzled when John broached the subject with him.

'Why do you care what people think of me?' He asked, looking slightly agitated, but there was a hint of confusion in his features. John just looked at Sherlock and sighed. 'because you're my friend' and I care about you more than you could possibly know, he added in his head.
Someone wanted to get Sherlock's attention, they had been leaving 'clues' for him around London and texting him from various unknown numbers. Sherlock had been bored that week, no 'interesting' cases. He had been complaining vehemently about the dullness of everything, and then suddenly there was a trail for him to follow.

Obviously Sherlock jumped at the chance of something 'fun' and was soon knee deep in the mystery. The clues seemed to point to an empty house, hidden in the backstreets of London. John accompanied him to visit and when they arrived the door was hanging off its hinges and the garden was a jungle; brambles, nettles and all manner of prickly plants were fast engulfing the house. Immediately Sherlock had noticed that there was a path, not leading from the front gate, but round the side of the house, someone had cut down the plants in order to gain access to the house. Inside there was mould growing up the walls and a dank smell filled the air, it was damp and deathly cold. They searched the ground floor and found nothing, not any furniture, not even an obvious kitchen. Sherlock progressed upstairs and John followed him, putting his hand on the banister but removing it instantaneously as his palm came into contact with something wet and disgusting.

There was nothing on the 1st floor and John was willing to give up, but then Sherlock spotted something, a hatch to the attic. It was clean, well cleaner than the rest of the house, and a pair of footprints showed in the grime on the floor, just underneath it.
Sherlock pulled the trapdoor open and paused. John glanced up into the darkness, he couldn't see a thing, but at least that meant that there was no one home…

A ladder was slightly protruding from the hole in the ceiling and Sherlock gently slid it down and proceeded to climb up into the dark. John apprehensively followed. Suddenly the room was lit up and John was momentarily stunned, his eyes adjusted and he saw Sherlock standing next to a light switch, and then he took in the rest of the room, it was Green. Bright lime green. There was a large bed in the corner of the room and a chest of drawers beside it that looked like it also functioned as a bedside table. On the other side of the room there was a sofa and a large chest that Sherlock was now looking into, it contained food; crisps and chocolate and other snacks. There was a large rug covering almost the entire floor and a small writing desk was positioned just to the left of the trap door.

'Does someone live up here?' John asked, still taking in the room.

'You tell me John, use your powers of deduction' Sherlock replied.
'um.. Okay? Well there's food which would suggest so, but it's only snack food, you couldn't live on it, umm.. the room is relatively neat' by this time Sherlock was rifling through the drawers. 'Um.. a young person, a girl? I.. I don't know Sherlock'

'Not bad John' Sherlock said with a hint of amusement in his voice 'You actually noted something of use, although everything else you said was… average. You're quite right, a teenager, I'd guess about 16 years old from the magazines under the bed, a girl, judging from the knick knacks and the clothes, she's just finished her GCSE exams, hard time at home, history of depression, self harm…' As Sherlock continued talking John watched him in awe, the way he deduced, how he talked so fast when he was working something out, the way his eyes were alight when he was on a case.. 'John are you even listening to me' John came back to reality.

That night John dreamt of Sherlock, his perfect cupid's bow mouth, his soft curls, his milky skin, how alive he was on a case, god that man… he woke up suddenly, hard and desperate and came as soon as he got his hand wrapped round his dick.
'Shit' he breathed, he got out of bed to clean himself up. He slid back under the covers and decided to he would pretend this had never happened. Sherlock will know though, he always knows.