CHAPTER ONE: "I Swear I was Born Right in that Doorway".

mostly fluff for now~


It really hadn't been that long since his last case. Maybe a week? Maybe two? Probably two. For the first few days after their last one came to a close, Sherlock had lapsed into one of his fits where all he did was lay on the couch or on the floor and stare up at the ceiling; vacantly contemplating his existence. Mrs. Hudson would often come in and try to get him to eat something, but he would have nothing of the sort. Sherlock would ignore her and continue on with… whatever it was that he was doing.

After those depressing seventy-five-and-half hours his attitude changed entirely and he began to study things and make a mess of test tubes and scientific artifacts of all shapes and sizes in the kitchen and eventually across the entire flat. His life for those few days was a whirlwind of scientific endeavor. Sherlock would speak to himself or to Watson, even if he wasn't listening. Sometimes he would leave for hours and Sherlock wouldn't notice until he came back, or until told him to keep quiet. He always worked better when talking aloud, but lately it had become a habit of his tospecifically speak to John. He found some comfort in it, and his interjection and/or comments (when there were any) were much welcomed. He made Sherlock feel like he was doing something important, which was quite helpful because his "quiet fits" consolidated mostly of him contemplating why the hell he existed at all.

Plus, they had basically nothing at all in common except for their understanding of human anatomy and things of the like. Sherlock came to realize that he liked that about John, and that was new.. because the only thing he ever liked about anyone before was their willingness to do what he told them to do (which was also something John was good at.) It was miraculous, really. Sherlock could have conversations with him without feeling like he was speaking to a wall or to someone who didn't care about what he was jabbering on and on about. Even when the Army doctor didn't respond or Sherlock knew he wasn't listening; he didn't care. John had become his only friend, and Sherlock was beginning to accept that as a rare fact in his life.

There was something about him though. Something that intruiged Sherlock. He'd never experienced andthing like it before, and he both loved and hated it. When John speak -especially when it was about knowledge-based things or something having to do with a case- his breath would catch in his throat, and all he could do was watch those lips move. John Watson wasn't the most clever human being he'd come across, but theway he was clever did strange things to the way Sherlock thought and felt.

It was about a month and a half since they had argued about whether or not to turn the heat on. Sherlock didn't see the point in it, John thought it was "bloody cold, and you're crazy." Fall had gradually been convulsing its way into Winter. It was quiet and endless and the snow made no noise. All of the other seasons were filled with bustling people and animals and the screams and yells of children. Sherlock had taken to smoking indoors during those months because he didn't like all the commotion. For the last three days, after discarding his vials and strange mixes and getting yelled at by John for not cleaning them up, Sherlock had been going back and forth between angrily playing his Violin and having a smoke outside alone. John had stopped trying to get Sherlock to stop smoking, having come to realize that it was probably the one thing that would keep Sherlock sane when there was no case to run in circles around.

He began after a time to complain about how positively bored he was. The only thing that had peaked his interest even a little was going out for dinner a some Cafe with John because he had refused for days on end to leave the flat and get groceries. The interesting part was not the dinner, but what had happened afterwards.. They had just entered the hallway of 221 and were about to go up the stairs to their flat, but were halted in the heat of an argument about death and bodies and how it pertained to some random scenario Sherlock had come up with involving a dead man. It wasn't a big row, really, although their raised voices called out Mrs. Hudson to see what the matter was. It was more of a disagreement on theories, and they were both yelling and speaking doctoral terms that poor couldn't wrap her mind around. As the hallway was small, the two were standing very close. Sherlock yelled down at Watson, and John yelled back (although in a calmer matter, I suppose) up at him. Their fists were clenched, but Sherlock wasn't angry.. it took him far to long to realize that he was restraining himself.

The way John was speaking and the words pouring out of his mind and through his mouth were doing horrible and wonderful things to Sherlock, and he was overcome with the desire to shove the Army doctor against the wall and shut him up by..well.. it involved that amazing mouth and a lot of tongue. Sherlock had never felt a desire such as this before, and it scared him so much that he dropped the argument and just walked up to their flat without a single word.

That was yesterday.

Today he sat on the couch at one in the afternoon with a cup of tea and messy hair. He'd only just woken up, having spent halt the night playing violin until called and asked him to quiet down for the fourth time.

"John, a pen please.." Sherlock mumbled, refusing to move from his position. A pen was thrown at him and hit him harshly, landing in his lap. He picked it up, shooting John a dirty look, and held it in his hands. It wasn't long before he started twisting it back and forth, muttering inaudible things. The consulting detective did not actually use the pen, an action that made John just stare at him with disgruntled anger.

After a few minutes he yelled at it to shut up and threw it at the wall. "DAMMIT, JOHN!" Sherlock continued. He jumped up and thrusted the window open, glaring outside and staring at all the people passing by who weren't coming to talk to him about their troubles. A cold gust of wind brought flecks of snow through the window and Sherlock turned around, staring at John with strangely wide eyes. "I need a case!" he said. "Am I not good enough? !" he yelled that last bit and Mrs. Hudson appeared shortly. John was watching him, amused, sitting in a his chair with a newspaper. "Good lord, Sherlock! You'd think the house was burning down with all the racket you're making." she tutted.

Apparently she had already been on her way up; she had a tray of tea with her and she set it gently on the coffee table that Sherlock was now standing on. Sherlock ignored her words. " I need a paper." he stated. John looked up at him and gave a 'what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you' look while holding up the paper he'd been sitting with for the past hour. "All of the papers." Sherlock yelled. He stepped gracelessly off the table and into his room, taking his robe off and tossing it valiantly into the corner of the room after he slammed the door and proceeded to get dressed.

Mrs. Hudson huffed and cleaned up the small mess Sherlock had made on the coffee table. She looked over to John deliberately. "The two of you have been arguing a tad more lately, haven't you?" It wasn't really a question, more like an answer to a statement she had in her head. She sighed a little, and so did John. He knew exactly where this was going, and so he attempted to ignore it by opening the newspaper once more and re-reading an article that was quite boring. "Domestic rows are the worst, dear. It'll be over soon." She smiled a little, then her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm sure your sex life isn't doing all to well either, is it." she looked at John with some form of pity and sat down across from the man who was trying so damn hard to misplace every single word that came out of her mouth. Mrs. Hudson looked over to Sherlock's room before leaning forward and putting a hand on John's knee gently.

"When I was young like you my lovers and I would, well.." she blushed a little and covered her lips with her hand like only an old lady could do. She raised her eyebrows and continued to speak in a whisper. "We would tie eachother up. You know.. 'bondage'".

John dropped the paper to the floor and stood abruptly. "Yep, leaving. I am leaving." he said aloud, staring into the distance like he'd just woken up from a horrid dream. Why did people always have to think these things about him and Sherlock? It was nothing like that. John couldn't even stand the man more than half the damn time. John walked quickly over to his coat and took it off the hanger, putting it on without really thinking. Mrs. Hudson just continued talking, like always. John hadn't really expected her to stop.

"It was really very lovely, dear. It helped out sex lives out quite a bit, and we didn't argue as much anymore either." she sounded almost as though she were pleading now. Like she honestly thought she was helping with something. John stared at her in disbelief. What the hell was wrong with her?

A sharp laugh came from the doorway that made John practically jump out of his shoes. Mycroft had apparently just walked in. "I highly doubt that would be an issue, dear Mrs. Hudson." he chuckled, then wandered past John to sit in Sherlock's favorite chair. It was perfect timing; Sherlock appeared in the doorway buttoning up that magnificent purple shirt that made John immediately look the other direction because he didn't want to give Mrs. Hudson any more reason to continue speaking.

"And what are we talking about, then?" he asked, coming up behind John's chair and sitting down in it, raising his hands to a point under his chin. It was a comfortable position, and it helped him to keep calm around his brother.

"Oh horrible things, Sherly. Things that would baffle you." he smiled slyly. Having heard one or two words from Mrs. Hudson, it wasn't hard for Sherlock to figure it out.

"Sex, Mycroft, does not 'baffle' me." he replied with a short glare.

Mycroft laughed. "Of course" he smiled again. Sherlock looked away from his brother and finished buttoning up his purple shirt the rest of the way. The fact that Sherlock didn't respond made Mycroft smile even wider.

"What are you here for, Mycroft. Another case?" Sherlock sighed and looked to his brother, bored.

Mycroft shook his head. "Nothing like that. I'm simply.. checking up on you, Sherly. Mother's been worrying." he smiled.

"Mother barely remembers my name. Same with you, apparently; I don't know who 'Sherly' is. Now get out of my house." Sherlock snatched away the cigarette that Mycroft had held out to him and lit it, walking over to the window to vacantly stare out.

Mycroft mentally shrugged and stood, giving the smallest of bows. "Later then, my dear brother." he said, then left. shook her head with a quick irritated sigh and Mrs. Hudson followed him out, giving John no more reason to leave the flat as fast as he damn well could.

Sherlock stood at the window and watched Mycroft drive off. He was only happy about one single part of the visit; his brother had a great taste in cigarettes.

The day passed uneventfully, other than for the fit Sherlock threw when he found no cases in the papers and ended up ripping them to pieces and yelling about how he might go break a thousand criminals out of jail just to give himself something to do. At some point he convinced John to go get groceries, but they had take-out anyway because Mrs. Hudson had left and neither of them wanted to cook. Sherlock mentioned lighting a fire, but it took him about two hours to actually get off the couch and do it. After a while he just began to play his violin again, and that was the extent of their adventures that night.