It started with a kiss. John sort of wished it hadn't, but he couldn't exactly change it, not now. It was so early on that Friday morning that most were inclined to call it Thursday night. It was nearly two in the morning, a new day, and John couldn't sleep because Sherlock couldn't sleep. Usually, when it got to be midnight and Sherlock felt like picking up his beloved violin, he did the decent thing and played very soothing music that would lull John to sleep if he was still conscious. Friday was different, though. Sherlock was feeling far from decent, so instead of his typical lullaby, he scraped away at the wretched instrument, coaxing out angry dissonance that was loud with emotion. John listened for half an hour before sitting up in bed, rubbing his tired eyes, and stalking down the stairs.

"Morning, then," he said roughly. The words scraped their way out of his throat, and a phlegm filled cough followed them. The beginnings of a cold were festering in his lungs, John could feel it, but he chose to ignore it for another night. He could pick up medicine in the morning.

Sherlock flicked his eyes over to John, but didn't cease his playing. He didn't have to ask if the music was keeping John up. He knew. His eyes looked overly tired, and his arms were starting to look a little too thin, but neither of these could be helped, and John was fully aware of that. He didn't like it, but he was aware. He took a seat at the couch and crossed his arms, waiting for the song to finish up. He wasn't sure what he was going to say; getting Sherlock to sleep was usually an act reserved for gods, and usually, Sherlock wasn't on the verge of being consumed with rage. If Sherlock didn't get to sleep, though, he would keep scratching out that horrid, angry music, and then John wouldn't be able to sleep either. As the song began to ebb away, John stiffened his posture and readied a fatherly speech about biological necessities such as sleep and the digestion of food. When the noise finally came to an end, Sherlock lowered the violin from his shoulder, swallowed down some saliva, and offered John a quiet and silky, "Morning." It wasn't a greeting, though. It was an apology. John sighed, his speech melting away, and patted the section of couch next to him. Sherlock silently placed the violin in his armchair and then joined John on the couch, his posture deflated.

At this point in their relationship- their friendship- John had started to develop...feelings. Uncomfortable feelings. He started to pick up on how fluid Sherlock's movements were, and how striking his eyes were. He started to listen to Sherlock's voice, not his words. He would watch Sherlock's mouth when he spoke. Warm, garbled and mushy storms of affection raged in his stomach at the sight of his flatmate. His friend. He didn't act on his feelings, though, because his feelings were a bit Not Good. If he did act on them, any of his gestures were friendly, or at least could easily be interpreted that way. Sherlock probably knew better, but John liked to pretend he could fool the detective.

"It's just so aggravating," Sherlock spat. His voice was hardly over a whisper. Tantalizing.

"I know," John said. He did. He lifted an arm and then hesitated, digits half-raised and sitting in the air. After a moment he went through with the movement and placed the hand on Sherlock's back. He had never tried to comfort him before. He wondered what sort of response he would get.

Sherlock stiffened. He tensed. John contemplated removing his hand, but instead brought it up to Sherlock's shoulder blade and rubbed it a bit. He relaxed, but was still on edge.

"Mummy used too, ah...," he trailed. John waited. Sherlock cleared his throat and then said, "She would pull her fingers through my hair. When I first started school, I'd often get overwhelmed by automatic deductions and when Mycroft couldn't calm me she'd sit me down in her lap and twist it around in her fingers. It was much longer back then."

Silence.

John's fingers jerked a bit, and he tried resisting, but decided against it and pushed his hand up Sherlock's neck and into the black curls that assaulted his scull. "Like this?" He whispered, swirling a finger around a lock. Sherlock's tension melted and he offered a quick nod. John kept at it and softly smiled because Sherlock could never relax, not normally.

It had been a hard day for both of them, but Sherlock took it all a bit more personally. They got a case, their first case in nearly two months, but there was a problem. The body was mangled. In pieces. Bloated with water. There was no telling who it was, or even the sex. Anderson was quick to taunt Sherlock upon their arrival, and Donovan was downright mean, as always. It only got worse when Sherlock had to admit he had absolutely no lead, no idea, no clue. Lestrade looked disappointed. Anderson and Donovan teamed up and relentlessly cut at Sherlock with unprecedented insults, mocking his unsatisfactory performance. Sherlock wasn't about to give up, of course not, but his spirits were certainly diminished. He was embarrassed enough about his shortcomings, and to have them shoved back in his face by co workers must have been infuriating.

Sherlock turned towards John, his shoulders hunched, and John instinctively met his gaze. There was a moment of electricity and then John leaned in a very small bit, and Sherlock was motionless. Tense again. John hadn't really noticed. He was drowning in arousal as he took in Sherlock's relaxed eyes and that mouth- oh, that mouth. The man was intoxicating and John was completely drunk.

"John, I-" Sherlock's voice was low and thick and John couldn't take it. He closed the last few inches that sat between them, pushing his lips against Sherlock's. They were rough and a bit scabbed, but John didn't care in the slightest. His hand was still caught in those black curls and one of Sherlock's hands was sitting on John's bad shoulder now, and it had started to tremble, but John couldn't really process that. After a long, blissful second, John slowly, so slowly, leaned back and looked at Sherlock, searching for a response. He didn't look happy. His shaking hands were visible now, and John started to worry about what that might mean. Before anything could be said, Sherlock stood up, walked stiffly to his bedroom, and slammed the door.

That he went to his room at all was, in itself, incredibly odd. John half expected Sherlock to order him away, or walk out of the flat completely. He never would have expected Sherlock to retreat to his room. Sherlock rarely went into his room at all, for whatever reason, at whatever time of day or night. He was very nearly always in the living room; whatever short spurts of sleep he could find were spent curled up on the couch, and he practiced violin in front of the fire almost ritualistically. There were clothes strewn across various pieces of furniture and it was likely he dressed while snacking or sipping tea, before John was awake. John had never seen Sherlock's room, and thinking back, he had never seen Sherlock enter it before now. He had almost come to think of it as a spare room, empty save a neat bed and barren closet. He doubted that was the case, however- Sherlock was so messy, it was more likely his room had been taken over and filled with experiments and clothes and even the few dishes he bothered to dirty. He probably spent his time in the living room because it was neater. There were more places to sit.

Suddenly alone, John sat on the couch, his elbows digging into his thighs, for about two minutes. They ticked on endlessly. They took years to pass. Finally, very slowly, John stood and walked to his room. His bones ached and everything felt incredibly dull and melancholy. He limped up the stairs, forgetting the pain in his leg wasn't real. He laid blandly in bed and took shifts rubbing his aching shoulder and pinching the bridge of his nose. All was silent by now, but something else kept him from sleep. What exactly had he done wrong? Did Sherlock just not like him that way? Was any friendship they had completely ruined now? John laid in bed for hours, over analyzing everything that he'd done.

Going downstairs. Waiting for Sherlock to finish his angry song. Rubbing his shoulder blade. His hair.

And then, of course, the kiss. That was the most obviously wrong thing he had done. There was no questioning that it had been the wrong decision. Absolutely, completely, under any circumstances, Not Good. It couldn't be undone, though- as much as that angered John- so instead of dwelling on how Not Good the night had been, he wrestled with sleep. It didn't come easily, especially because the decision to sleep had been a conscious one, but it did come eventually.

He was half deaf from the sound of bullets whizzing by and guns shooting them fervently, and he was very aware of the stabbing pain in his shoulder. His shirt was soaking with blood, and he struggled with ragged breaths, and it was so hot, so hot, he couldn't handle the humidity, the pain. Suddenly it wasn't his blood that stained his shirt, but the blood of God as it rained down from the sky. It felt warm and slick against his skin, and he almost wished for the desert sun, anything other than this hot, slippery blood that poured from the sky and made him filthy. Then, without warning, there was another pain, ripping through his leg, tearing a hole through it, and he realized that the battlefield was empty. Empty except for one man, the man who had shot him. He was tall, magnificently tall, with dark hair and sharp features. The sharpest of all were his indescribable eyes, the color something like a clear pond during a raging storm. He brought a hand down to his wound and then touched his fingers to his lips. Coffee.

John's eyes popped open and he was very perplexed very quickly. Why had that all made sense a minute ago? He wondered. Because it was a dream, he realized. He hated dreams. Nightmares- night terrors. Whatever they were called. He laid in bed for a moment longer, sucking in deliberate breaths, ignoring the layer of sweat that coated his skin. The cold sweat, the breathlessness, they were worse than the night terror itself. Restraining. He pushed the base of a palm into his eye, rubbing the fatigue away, and sat up. The clock read 5:44, and a bit of math told John he'd only slept about an hour. Groaning at his own insufferability, John decided that it was close enough to morning to get up for the day, and so he kicked away his sheets and stood. Immediately, he was overcome by the swirling nausea of a disturbingly intense dizzy spell, and he gripped his bed in order to stay steady. When it passed, he pulled his feet down the stairs and noticed his throat was burning with pain. That cold had finally hit him.

He started a pot of coffee, and laughed when he read the container. Dark Silk, it was called. It boasted a flavor that was guaranteed to be "Bold, but smooth." It sounded like Sherlock. He was then reminded of his dream, and was a bit disturbed. The coffee was about done when Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen, moving slowly and very ungracefully. He looked more tired than ever, but his face brightened marginally when he saw what John was doing.

"How fortunate," he said. "I was just about to make a bit myself."

John put on a confused smile and asked, "Since when do you make anything for yourself?"

Any brightness that had shown on Sherlock's face dissipated in a matter of seconds and was replaced by a scowl. "Be grateful I didn't wake you an hour earlier when the idea struck."

"Right," John sighed. He took a mug of coffee and retreated to the living room.

Sherlock joined him after a moment and as he moved the violin off of his armchair, John was reminded of the night they'd spent together. He took a small sip of coffee and was suddenly drowning in memories of that dream, the wound Sherlock had inflicted, and that bitter black taste of blood that was completely inaccurate and now sat on his tongue. He felt numb and unable to move for a moment, and then cleared his throat. "Sherlock," he started in a scratchy and sick voice. Sherlock looked up, but offered no response. "I'm um...sorry. About yesterday. I didn't...I just...I don't know. I don't know."

His face was burning with embarrassment, and it only got hotter when Sherlock regarded him with those cold, bland eyes. "Mm," he hummed, going back to the newspaper cradled in his lap.

John frowned. "Right," he sighed again. "Will we be working on the case tonight?" He asked, his voice a bit more enthusiastic.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the paper. "After careful assessment last night, I found I wont be needing your services in this particular puzzle," he deadpanned.

"Oh."

There was a bit of silence.

"Well," John said, "I should stop off at the store anyway, pick up some medicine. I could make an appearance down at the pub, too. Yeah. That'll be nice."

Sherlock hummed a wordless response and John soon excused himself to go buy the much needed medicine.

He took as long as he could at the store, reading over various ingredients in various medicines, looking over side effects, and maximum dosages. In all, it took him about an hour to walk down there and pick out the right flavor of NyQuil. He walked around a while more, did a few errands, and then returned to 221b for a bit of telly. Sherlock was gone, the flat was deserted. It was nearing 9:00pm when he stepped into the pub, deliberately not worrying about Sherlock's whereabouts. It was Friday night and for whatever other reason, the place was absolutely packed, so he sat out on the smoker-friendly patio, sipping a pint and coughing out the fumes as well as a good amount of phlegm. A few hours passed. It was 11:33pm when he decided he'd had enough and walked back to 221.

Sherlock was perched on the end of his armchair when John got back, seemingly waiting for him.

In an instant he was only feet away from John, heavily sucking in the scent that clung to his clothes. "You sat on the patio," he breathed, voice airy and desperate. John gulped, and then questioned the action. He was used to this, this scrutiny. This was the essence of living with Sherlock; just another deduction, no different than normal.

John looked at his shoes. "You're right, of course." The words tumbled out of his mouth, only half spoken, shrouded in quietness. Sherlock slowly inched his left hand into the air and placed it on John's right shoulder. They were so close that between their bodies, there was hardly four inches of air. John's breathing was a bit heavier by now and he wasn't really sure what was happening. Sherlock's hands were shaking again, though not as violently as before, and he took a ragged breath before laying his cheek on the top of John's head. "Sherlock?" John whispered. Sherlock stood very still, pulling in long, even breaths, refusing to answer for a good thirty seconds.

"I should have apologized," he murmured. John loved the sound of it. "I have understated difficulty when it comes to correct and incorrect emotional reactions. Last night was decidedly...incorrect." Sherlock hadn't moved, and John could feel the vibrations of his words on his head.

"What was so wrong with it?" He asked. He knew what about his reactions- his actions- had been incorrect, but what Sherlock had done seemed relatively reasonable.

"Well, I've obviously upset you by failing to reciprocate, and my actions were so abrupt it left the both of us unable to react appropriately. My work is measurably less efficient without you present, as well. The list goes on." The words rumbled in John's head.

"Why did you do it?"

That one seemed to take Sherlock by surprise. He made a disgruntled noise deep in his throat, and then said, "It wasn't exactly by volition. If I hadn't been so...cognitively impaired, I've no doubt my actions would have been distinctly different."

John stepped back, disengaging himself from Sherlock's light grip, and looked up at his flatmate. "Different how?" He asked quietly. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, his eyes burning holes in John's face. He took a large breath in through his nose, let it out in a steady stream through his mouth, and then put his lips on John's.