Please note – you may have to be familiar with The Scandal in Belgravia episode for this story to make any sense – even then it still probably doesn't! Not to mention there are spoilers for the end of the Episode. I do not own any of the magnificent characters or storylines. This is purely for free fun for us fan-fiction addicts. Enjoy.

Behind Belgravia

"Sherlock?" John panicked as he walked into the whitewashed, cold bedroom "Jesus. Sherlock? What have you given him?" John demanded as he walked over to the limp form of his colleague and glanced harshly at the woman wearing his friends' coat.

"Don't worry, I've given it to loads of my friends" She said seductively "He'll wake up in a few hours, make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit, it makes for a very unattractive corpse."

John stared at her as though she was mad; he then looked back at the detective writhing on the floor, obviously trying to fight the drug she had given him.

"I was wrong about him; he did know where to look." She drawled from her seat on the window sill.

"What are you talking about?" John asked bitterly.

"The key code to my safe" She said.

"What was it?" John asked quickly, his curiosity overtaking him.

"Shall I tell him?" She asked Sherlock, watching as the man tried and failed yet again to move.

"My measurements" She said, leaving the impact of her words as she suddenly disappeared.

John ran to the window, too late, she was gone, he would never catch up. He ran back to Sherlock, skidding slightly across the floor on his knees, he picked up Sherlock's head and placed it on his own thighs;

"Its ok, Sherlock, I've got you." John whispered frantically, listening desperately to the police siren growing closer as he took his pulse and examined his eyes.

John smoothed down the detective's unruly curls as Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and closed several times, trying to see through the haze to his friend.

"J-John?" Sherlock muttered questioningly.

"I'm here" John murmured, nursing Sherlock's head, and then he was gone; unconscious on John's lap.

A Police constable attacked the front door; John didn't want to leave Sherlock's side so he patiently waited for them to make their progress through the front door before shouting out to them.

Two policemen ran up the stairs and into the bedroom to see John and Sherlock on the floor.

"Get Inspector Lestrade, please." John said calmly.

Within an hour the police had blocked off the house, cleared the doctor and unconscious genius of any charges and taken away the Americans.

"Do you need me to call an ambulance?" Lestrade asked pointing to the limp detective.

"No, it should be ok; can we have a ride though?" John asked tentatively, he didn't relish the thought of a taxi ride.

"Thompson, give these two a lift back to Baker Street." Lestrade said to a nearby policeman, who nodded curtly in understanding of his orders.

"Thanks Greg." John said gratefully as the man named Thompson helped John to raise Sherlock from the couch they were sitting on to make a statement and help him out the door.

"John, John, we should go after her" Sherlock muttered, his speech slurred as he tried to wake himself up.

"No, no, Sherlock, its ok, she's been dealt with, don't worry about her" John lied to give Sherlock piece of mind.

"You're a terrible liar, John" Sherlock muttered surprising John – even when the man was heavily drugged he was still a genius.

In the back of the police car, the two remained quiet, Sherlock attempted to lift his head from the head rest but successfully managed to slide himself down instead, his ear coming to rest on John's good shoulder. John smiled, he had never seen Sherlock like this; it could prove quite entertaining, however, this thought flew far from John's mind as he watched Sherlock's hand fly out and grab hold of his own, the long fingers entwining with his shorter ones. John remained frozen, looking down at their hands.

"That's us here, do you need a hand?" Thompson asked, turning in his seat to see John, he smiled a little at the doctors' predicament.

"Thank you, no, he is so goddamn light I'll be able to carry him if needs be, thanks for the lift" John said hurriedly as he pushed Sherlock up right and got out of the car. He walked round to the pavement and carefully opened Sherlock's door; unplugging his seatbelt and pulling him out onto his feet.

Balancing Sherlock on his side, he managed to close the car door and somehow get them to the door of 221B as the police car drove off.

"Ok, Sherlock you lean there, I'll just open the door and then we can get you upstairs to bed" John said encouragingly as he wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist.

"Will you be there?" Sherlock slurred as he wrapped his arm around John's shoulders to cling to him.

"I live here, so I will be here, yes" John said absentmindedly as he slid the appropriate key into the large lock.

"I hate bed" Sherlock muttered, his head falling on to John's shoulder once more. "Sleep with me?" he asked innocently, raising his head once more to attempt an inquisitive stare into John's eyes; but it ended up as a bit of a shifty wide eyed gaze.

John let the door swing open and hit the wall behind it with a bang as he swiftly looked up at Sherlock in shock.

"Yoo hoo, I've told you boys before about letting that door – is everything ok?" Mrs Hudson stopped mid rant in the corridor as she caught sight of a very drunk looking Sherlock.

This snapped John out of his stupor and he glanced at Mrs Hudson; "Yes, everything's fine, Sherlock just managed to get himself a little drugged" he said lightly as to not alarm her.

Sherlock chose this moment to slump against John, his eyes closed, his body not responding. John smiled; he then bent down to gather Sherlock in his arms; lifting the surprisingly compact form of the lanky detective efficiently and carrying him over the threshold.

"Goodness" Mrs Hudson said, her hand over her mouth as she watched John swiftly carry his flatmate up the staircase. She then smiled despite the situation and moved toward the front door, closing it lightly.

John lay Sherlock down on the detective's bed; he pulled off his large black shoes and teased his suit jacket from his shoulders. The duvet and sheets came next; tucking Sherlock in was a strange activity; John had never seen the man so vulnerable. The soldier sat down on the edge of the mattress to recover for a minute; the detective was lighter than he should be, but John hadn't carried a man for a long time and his shoulder ached painfully.

John felt a hand on his back; and he turned to see Sherlock, his eye lids heavy and his eyebrows furrowed.

"Stay" he whispered.

John nodded and removed his own shoes; he stretched out beside the lanky detective on the surprisingly comfortable double bed. Lying on his side, John watched as Sherlock smiled lazily at him, he was caught off-guard as Sherlock brought a hand up to John's face; resting it against his cheek and almost poking him in the eye;

"My John" he said sleepily. "Must look after him" he said faintly.

John smiled despite himself, watching as the drugged man slowly let his eye lids fall closed. Once the doctor was sure Sherlock was asleep he snuck out from under the detective's slim hand and allowed one last glance to the unconscious figure before closing the door lightly; walking through to the living room.

John made himself a cup of tea and heated a little bit of risotto that Mrs Hudson had left in their fridge, thankfully with a lid over the container, sealing it off from the experiments lining the appliance.

As John sat in his armchair, quietly eating and pondering on the day's events; he didn't get very far with solving the case and so allowed his mind to replay the journey home. He smiled widely as he visualised Sherlock at his most vulnerable; asking him to stay with him as he slept.

This had become John's new guilty pleasure.

As much as John hated to admit it; he would never find someone who mattered more than Sherlock Holmes. The man managed to anger him, possess him, make him laugh uncontrollably and sob just as equally.

John admired Sherlock. He revelled in being at his side; being needed, being special enough to be this close to the genius.

He briefly bristled at the thought of Irene Adler; maybe Sherlock admired her. She obviously had one of the same brains as Sherlock; different breed yes, but still just as intelligent.

And the audacity to wear his coat, even though he gave it to her, was just over whelming. John had worn the coat once before. Sherlock had given it to him one winter's evening as they were returning from a case; the long taxi ride meant that John had fallen asleep, woken up with Sherlock's coat draped around him protectively. He loved that coat. And now it was gone, tainted by a beautiful savage.

John heard an odd noise from the bathroom, he turned his head and stopped mid-chew to listen. He heard nothing further however, and decided it was just his hearing.

Once John had finished his meal and hot drink, he decided to check on Sherlock.

Still asleep in the same position, the lanky detective had pulled the duvet closer to him in John's absence. The doctor approached the bed and looked closely at him; Sherlock had in fact, been sick in his sleep.

John immediately checked his pulse, and sat him awkwardly against the headboard. He efficiently whipped out the soiled pillow and replaced it with one from the other side. John wiped at Sherlock's face and chin with a warm and wet flannel, cleaning all traces away - briefly wondering what on earth Sherlock could have vomited as he had not eaten for over 24 hours.

"There we go, Sherlock, that's it, and back down." John lifted Sherlock and shifted him down once more against the pillows.

John rested on his hands for a minute, looking down at the sleeping detective. He was worried, how could he be sure Sherlock wasn't going to be sick once more? He would have to stay with him after all.

John looked toward the window, it was getting dark now, he could just pop in beside the brunette and just keep an eye on him till morning, or he could just sit outside his door and listen out for any unusual noises. Eventually, he decided he was being irrational, so he headed for the bedroom door with the intention of sitting in the kitchen with a book, within shouting distance if anything were to happen.

It was then that he spotted the coat.

How on Earth.

John stared dumbly at it, unsure of what to do. She had been wearing it when she made her escape. John had not removed it from Sherlock's limp frame.

Someone must have been in here.

The thought clenched at John's insides and he felt instantly sick. Someone had managed to get into Sherlock's room within the last 2 hours, and John hadn't noticed – John hadn't been there to protect the vulnerable detective. John moved back a few steps and fumbled as he fell onto the chair in the corner of the room, not removing his stare from the coat hanging from the hook in the middle of the door.

He sat there for a long time, pondering on the entrance and exit of the coat bearer before Sherlock made a scoffing noise and snapped John out of his trance.

John stood and fixed his shirt, shrugging off the mystery as he approached the bed once more;

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I won't leave you now" John murmured as he combed some of Sherlock's curls back with his fingers. John thought of his abandoned book on the armrest of the living room chair, so he went to fetch it, the intention to return immediately and watch over his flatmate.

"John, John!" Sherlock's voice called, it sounded slightly alien and John rushed to get back to the room he had just left before he heard an almighty thump and his heart skipped a beat. Opening the door, John saw Sherlock getting up from the floorboard at the end of his bed.

"Everything ok?" He asked off-handedly.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked dumbly, the left side of his hair was pillow flattened to an extreme and John found it hard not to laugh.

"Who? No ones been up here, Sherlock" John said quickly, he was going to keep his indiscretion a secret for as long as possible.

"That woman. The woman, woman." Sherlock mumbled; louder this time as he blinked furiously in order to focus on John.

"Irene Adler? She got away, Sherlock, no ones seen her" John answered quietly.

Sherlock stumbled about his room and finally fell with a soft thump to the floor, attempting to pull himself along the floor boards towards his bed.

"Nope, nope, come here" John swiftly walked forward and hoisted Sherlock up by his arm pits, throwing him unceremoniously onto the mattress, he winced at the harshness of his actions but he didn't want Sherlock thinking there was more to them than colleagues, friends and flatmates.

Sherlock lay face down on his bed.

"Get some rest, I'll be out here if you need me" John said wearily.

"Why would I need you? I'm fine" Sherlock muttered sleepily.

"Of course you are" the doctor said dejectedly before closing the door and only just hearing the;

"Fine, Fine" from the resting detective.

John checked in on Sherlock six times that night, each time he sat for 5 to 10 minutes and just watched him, the last time he visited, the sun was just rising and he allowed himself to lie beside his flatmate; watching his nose twitch as he slept. John was so relaxed, however, that he drifted off to sleep too.

Sherlock was in agony. His muscles were heavy and screamed at him in pins and needles. He refused to open his eyes just yet, his mouth felt dry and his stomach unhappy. He raised his arms in a stretch and winced as his felt his face – that cut on his cheek still smarted from John's punch the previous day.

He paused.

John.

What had happened last night?

This was strange; for the first time in his life, he would have to deduce himself. Sherlock smelt the duvet that lay just under his chin. They had made it home. He knew he was still fully clothed, his shoes missing, his jacket too. He felt a warm breath ghost across his face and could smell the hint of risotto to it; John must be with him, then. He cracked opened one eye slowly to confirm this and snapped it shut once he had seen the exhausted man lying beside him. Why was John there? Had he asked him to be? Probably. It was then that he heard a soft gasp. A female gasp. He snapped both eyes open once more and allowed them to dart around the room in confusion. The detective relaxed when he spotted no enemy in the room with them. Turning over Sherlock spotted his coat on the back of the door, the noise had come from it he was sure.

More than a little wobbly; Sherlock made his way out of the bed and towards the coat. He found his phone in the pocket and attempted to read the 'one new message'.

He stared, confused, at his phone as he walked back to the bed and threw it onto the bedside table. Looking down at his crumpled attire; Sherlock decided to de-frock. Throwing the clothes everywhere as he clambered into the bed once more, relishing the warmth of his sheets. He then turned towards John, a small smile played on his lips as he saw the man was still fully clothed, his face scrunched into a look of concern and worry. Sherlock felt a surge of unexplained fondness towards the short doctor. He had obviously been worrying over his bedside, judging on the new smudges on his wrist watch he had obviously been checking Sherlock's heartbeat against it; most probably every 2 hours; equalling six visits of 7 to 10 minutes each; going by those new wrinkles in his jeans and his medical profession.

Sherlock watched his flatmate from this cosy distance before he saw a visible shudder from him; John must be cold and quite uncomfortable.

Sherlock manoeuvred the sheets out from underneath the sleeping man in order to cover him snugly in them; he decided he had no urgent desire to move, so let his eyes close once more and let sleep wash over him.

The next time Sherlock awoke; he saw that John had closed in on him. He too, it appeared, had de-frocked and clambered back in beside the detective when he was asleep. Sherlock smiled as he identified the warmth against his leg to be John's own shorter leg, he instantly frowned. Why should he find this satisfying? He should be brushing John off his mattress, telling the man to get dressed and phone Lestrade, but he didn't want to. He wanted to pull John closer and hurt anyone that approached him.

How truly odd. Sherlock tried to shake himself. He glanced at John's watch once more, wrapped around the wrist that was lying under the owners chin. It was just after 1pm. The drug had worn off; so what on Earth was wrong with Sherlock.

After a truly agonising 15 minutes; Sherlock decided to give in to his desires; calling it an experiment for now, see what could be achieved by actions alone.

Sherlock snuck across the tiny gap that was left between the two on the mattress and carefully, nervously, reached an arm out to drape over John's waist.

Once achieved, Sherlock lay awkwardly, not sure of how to proceed, it wasn't comfortable in the slightest.

John shifted slightly in his sleep, straightening his knees and letting a contented sigh escape from his dreams. Sherlock smiled once more; as he closed the final gap between them and felt his bare chest and thighs come into contact with John's skin.

Sherlock halted, a small unidentified shiver travelled down his back bone and he unintentionally squeezed his grip on John's waist.

Sherlock acted quick and shut his eyes instantly as he felt John's breathing change.

Expecting John to rip away the moment he was awake; Sherlock controlled his breathing and opened his mouth slightly to appear asleep.

John, however, didn't move. He stared at the sleeping face of the detective mere centimetres from his own. What was going on here? Was Sherlock actually aware he was snuggled up to John?

John smiled, before quietly snuggling further into Sherlock, daring to bury his face in the warm crook of the taller man's neck.

They stayed like this for a long time before Sherlock decided he was a little too comfortable and pretended to wake up, stretching his body out around John.

"John?" Sherlock asked in a whisper.

John nuzzled into Sherlock in denial. The taller man chuckled at this.

"I know you're awake" Sherlock said his specialised 'obvious' tone.

John sighed; it was nice while it lasted.

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't say anything about their situation; he simply stood from the bed and headed for the bathroom, not seeming to mind that he was only clad in his black boxer shorts.

John lay still in the cooling sheets. He didn't want to get up, not just yet, he wanted to lie in Sherlock's bed for the rest of his days, even if all he got was that arm around his waist, it would be enough.

When Sherlock returned he was wearing his usual cloth pyjamas and thin silk blue dressing gown. He breezed over to his nightstand and fetched his phone before leaving the bedroom without a word.

John sadly climbed out from the bed sheets and began to dress himself in last night's clothes; he then spotted a t shirt on the back of the chair in the corner. It was black and blue with thin horizontal stripes and it was long sleeved which he liked. He picked it up and smelled it; it smelled like sandal wood and peppermint; it smelled like the sheets on the bed, it smelled like the room he was in, it smelt like Sherlock. John didn't think twice before pulled himself into the material and headed for the bathroom.

Sherlock watched John with quiet amusement as the shorter man walked into the living room, fetching the paper on the way past the side table. Mrs Hudson had been cooking for them again; she had laid out a hot lunch each for them and was currently tidying around the kitchen. Mycroft sat on an armchair, camouflaged into the material in his dark suit.

"Ah, John, I didn't hear you coming down the stairs, quick, sit and eat before it gets cold." Mrs Hudson fussed.

John sat down beside Sherlock and without looking at him; tucked into his plate of food.

"Shame on you, Mycroft, sending your little brother into danger like that, family is all we have in the end" Mrs Hudson said shrilly as she placed a kindly hand on Sherlock's shoulder blade.

"Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson" Mycroft drawled.

Three sets of eyes stared at Mycroft as Sherlock shouted his name viciously.

Mycroft had the decency to look embarrassed as he apologised quietly.

John smiled down at his eggs as he thought about Sherlock defending their landlady. The cold demeanour had softened after all, since he had first met him. The room stilled as there was a soft female gasp emanating from the centre of the room. John's insides clenched unpleasantly.

"What was that?" he asked quickly. He knew fine well what it was – who it was, and he inwardly cursed himself once more for not staying in that room with Sherlock all night.

"Text" Sherlock said sharply, looking slightly uncomfortable as he swooped off his seat and approached the mantelpiece, bringing his phone back to the table. John watched as the taller man read his text and laid the phone to one side as he continued to read the paper.

000

Christmas evening was grim. Irene was dead. Jeanette had left, not to return. Mrs Hudson had gone to bed and Sherlock was still absent.

John drank a little whisky and read his book, struggling to keep his eyes open. He finally heard the front door close and heavy footsteps march up the steps.

"I hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time" Sherlock muttered as he eyed the room suspiciously.

"Nope, I left your ruddy sock drawer well alone, after last time" John muttered darkly.

Sherlock paused in the doorway; "I keep it in the freezer. Can you please remove it?" Sherlock whispered. His words making John look up at him softly.

"Are you ok, Sherlock?" John asked quietly.

"I am. Caring is a…disadvantage. I have been letting myself slip." He said quietly, looking closely at the flaking paint of the doorframe.

John stood, dropping his book to the empty seat and walking slowly towards Sherlock, his hands in his pockets; "At least you didn't know her that well" he said almost hopefully.

Sherlock smiled briefly, a smile that did not match his eyes.

"It was not her that I was referring to" Sherlock said sadly, and he retreated to his own bedroom, leaving John feeling cold and alone in the living room.

John approached the freezer and opened it to find the dark materials he had been tooth-combing the flat for a few hours previously.

He removed the small case and took it up the stairs to his own room, placing it in the back of his wardrobe.

John didn't feel tired now. He only felt sad; like something reassuring had been cruelly snatched away. Sitting down on his bed, fully clothed, he leant back against the headboard and sat thinking for a long while, eventually falling asleep in a sitting position.

"John" Sherlock whispered, he approached the ex-army soldier in the dark room. Sherlock had been trying to sleep for the last three hours. Unsuccessful, he sought out the reason for his disturbed night; John.

The last look he had seen on his friends' face before he had turned toward his room; was one of hurt, sadness and isolation. It haunted the consulting detective.

Sherlock thought about it for a brief second before he decided it was a good idea; he hooked a deceptively strong arm under John's back and another under the doctor's knees; lifting him clear off the mattress. John adjusted slightly in his sleep, moulding himself to Sherlock's shoulder and chest but not wakening.

Sherlock carried the man down the stairs carefully and into his own room, placing him down on the sheets to remove his slippers, socks and shirt.

Sherlock wrapped his flatmate up in the duvet of his unmade bed, ensuring his warmth and comfort. He then revisited his own position in the bed and turned on his side to survey his flatmate closely. Sherlock stared at the features of the sleeping man beside him; willing his memory to rid the image of the hurt he had seen just a few hours before and replace it with this more peaceful theme.

Eventually, the crazy plan from the detectives' mind seemed to kick into action and he drifted off to into an undisturbed sleep.