My first fic in "Sherlock" universe. Forgive me my mistakes - english is not my native language. Also, I'll be thankfull for all your reviews.

Sherlock and John belong to BBC.

'Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but... for the record, if anyone out there still cares — I'm not actually gay.' He heard John Watson's voice

'Well, I am. Look at us both.' The Woman replied.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He wasn't sure why useless memories sometimes got stuck in his head. This dialogue was like the case he was working on – closed, with no further meaning or usage. Never mind. His brain was like a hyper-efficient super computer – not intended to play solitaire. He pushed the thought away and let himself slip into reality for a minute. Just to check if anything worth caring happened. First thing Sherlock heard was quiet clattering noise John's fingers were making every time he was posting something on his blog. Few clicks then long break. And again: fast clicking and a moment of silence. Finally, repeated sound of John's finger furiously hitting backspace key.

'Thinking of skipping the experiment part? Don't. It was particular entertaining moment.' Sherlock advised without getting up from couch, or even turning his head towards John.

Clicking noise stopped and only after a while he heard his flatmate.

'Excuse me…what? 'He asked with confusion.

'John, don't make me do that again, really. It's getting boring, even for me.' But John did not answer and Sherlock continued with concealed pleasure - on the contrary to what he just said. 'I hear you typing. Judging from the time it takes you, it's no email or ordinary blog note. You're writing about the case, making some pauses to think about next sentence, so definitely no email. It has to be our case, the last case, since you haven't mentioned it on-line yet. And listening a bit more I can tell your pauses are becoming longer, you delete most of the sentences written so it's obvious you're working on some hard part. What could have been difficult for you? The lab experience. And just now you've been hitting backspace key with such pertinacity that I presume, at the moment you're considering skipping the experiment. And I'm telling you – don't. It was fun.' Sherlock finally turned his head over smiling innocently.

'I-I wasn't writing about it.' John contradicted. 'It's just an email to my girlfriend' He stated somehow hesitantly.

'Nonsense.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Since…the boring teacher you haven't got one. And even if you'd have, there was no time for your relationship to develop so much you would write love emails to her, thinking over every single word. Besides, you're not the romantic type.' He passed off John's statement.

'I can be romantic if I want to!' John denied eagerly. 'And Alice was not a teacher. She worked as a journalist.'

'Still boring. But I was right.'

'Okay, I admit it. I am writing about Baskerville.'

'If Mrs Hudson was making bets over our conversations, she wouldn't need any lodgers here.' Sherlock straightened up on the couch and closed his eyes again.

'Sounds nice but don't share the idea yet. I'm going out tonight.' Sherlock opened eyes intrigued. 'With a woman. Well, as a matter of fact, I should probably be going right now.' John closed his laptop, stood up and walked out of the room smiling. Sherlock followed him with his eyes, his face wried with discontent.

It's always something, always, he thought hearing John Watson whistling as he was walking down the stairs.

John Watson was sitting in a café, wondering if it was bad to interpret facts about his meeting for Sherlock the way he did. He convinced himself, that none of what he told his flatmate was a lie. It was just a matter of interpretation and, well, context, which could be a bit…misleading. But he couldn't keep himself from doing that. That look on Sherlock's face, reminding him of a little boy, who didn't get the sweet he wanted, was totally worth it.

The meeting, on the other hand, was just a courtesy. Some time ago one of his fans, Margaret Day, apparently an amateur writer, sent him a message, asking if he could find some time for a coffee and a brief chat about his life, as she found him a really inspiring prototype for her next novel's main character. John made a quick Facebook investigation, only to find 56 years old, average looking, happily married mother of two. She probably has just started her "career" and never published before, as he couldn't find any works of her, but he decided to help – because of a bloggers pride, sheer curiosity and boredom. Sherlock was frequently locking himself up in his mind palace last week and John was tired of the constant silence at 221B Baker Street.

'Mister Watson?' He heard his name. He rose from the chair he was sitting on. 'John, just John…' And he froze.

'I'm really happy to meet you. Margaret Day. But call me Yanmei.' A pretty Asian woman in her mid-thirties stood in front of him. Suddenly her future novel became very interesting.

New case. Meet me at 221b.

S

11 minutes and 34 second. 35. 36. 37. John still wasn't replying. Case didn't exist. Or it ceased to exist an hour ago when Sherlock solved it. But that wasn't a point. The goal was to bring John back home. He got used to opening eyes and hearing him type or turn pages of a morning newspaper or just ask if he wants some dinner. Recently there was only wind, raising the curtains, persistent ticking noise of an old clock and almost suffocating silence filling their flat at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock didn't like it at all. But being alone wasn't the most annoying part of the situation. First of all, he could not understand John's behaviour. Why would he resign from the case or abandon half-solved ones as he did lately? 'Sorry, Sherlock, I've got to go. Think you'll manage this one alone, won't you?' And he was taking a cab, going away with no remorse, smiling, already thinking about something else. In fact, Sherlock knew the most possible answer. It was called "very boring journalist/writer/teacher or something" but he supressed this truth in his conscious.

Women. He never got that one solved. Truth be told, he never wanted to. They were all dull, mundane little beings. The Woman was only one he met, that surprised him and nearly seduced him with her boldness and intelligence. But that was an exception proving the rule. He didn't care about emotions or romance. There were no puzzles, no mysteries to reveal there. Sherlock presumed it was the reason he never fell in love (whatever it feels like - he only imagined) or considered himself a person without a heart at all. The only 'love' he had was for working on various problems, excitement when trying to defeat a criminal mind similar to his own, feeling cold thrill down his spine in life-and-death situations.

But then he met John Watson. Something definitely changed, though if asked, he probably wouldn't be able to specify what that was. Until the Baskerville case Sherlock couldn't even define who that man was to him. 'I don't have friends. I've just got one.' It slipped from his mouth unconsciously. Because, what does exactly friendship mean? Lending you laptop, sending text messages for you? Chasing a murderer down the street together? Laughing at the stolen ashtray? Or the word of appreciation he had never received before? 'Brilliant! Stunning!' He avoided admitting that it made him feel warm inside.

Suddenly, he heard front door being opened and closed with a loud noise. Footsteps on stairs. Laughing. Two voices. John and her.

'Is he here?' Sherlock heard her voice.

'No, he's probably solving the…' John stopped talking. Their footsteps became slower. And then he saw them as they entered the room kissing. She noticed Sherlock's presence first but still after a while.

'Oh! John, stop!' She pulled him away from herself.

'Sherlock! Weren't you supposed to be solving the case?' John asked, blushing with embarrassment.

'I was. It's closed. It's good to see you to.' He rose from the couch and put out his hand towards the woman. 'I'm Sherlock Holmes.'

'Oh, it's a pleasure to meet you. John was telling me a lot about you.' She smiled politely. 'I'm Margaret Day. But call me Yanmei.'

'But your tattoo says 'jia', doesn't it?' Sherlock replied with a grin.

'Excuse me?' Yanmei looked puzzled.

'Sherlock! Did you really have to? And how do you even know Chinese?' John asked, his voice filled with disappointment.

'No, it's fine. Tell me – how?' Yanmei asked.

'Oh, it's quite simple. You're Asian, born here – you have no accent. But it was not a Chinese family, which raised you and I deduce that from your name. Margaret – strongly British. Your foster parents wanted you to fill in our culture so much they even used prime minister to help. And you didn't agree. Hence your own, second name – Yanmei. In Chinese meaning someone seductive. You rebelled against them. Because your foster family was rich and reputable. You clothes are no second hand, aren't they? It also tells me, you inherited their whole fortune as the only daughter.' At those words his flatmate gave Yanmei a shocked look. 'And John, don't be angry, she would have told you…eventually. So… where was I? Ah, yes. Your name, again. Margaret, you didn't change it after they died although you could. This means you accepted their will eventually. Took the piercing out of your ears and nose and started acting like a proper family representative, running business yourself, because there was no one else, who could. Though you did yourself a tattoo, (yes, it pokes out of your shirt) which could be odd unless it's somehow contributed to your parents. What could remind you of your true identity and British family at once? Chinese ideogram for family, 'jia'.' He finished, almost suffocating after a reasoning that long.

'You're even better than Sherlock Holmes from John's stories, I admit.' She smiled and rolled up her sleeve. There was in fact a tiny ideogram on her wrist. 'I'm sorry John, I don't usually share this story on first couple of dates.' She apologised.

'Nothing happened. With Sherlock things tend to be different than usual.' He gave her a warm smile. 'It's really late. Do you wan't to go home? Because you can stay here…if you want'

She'll never agree to that. She's still a good, rich girl, Sherlock thought. But to his surprise she nodded.

'If it's not a problem? I'd be really glad. I am so tired…'

'Okay then!' John smiled happily. 'I'll stay here with Sherlock and my bedroom is yours. There's the bathroom. And ask me if there's anything you need.'

'Good night then, doctor.' Yanmei kissed him on a forehead making him blush. 'And you too, Sherlock.' She smiled and headed toward the stairs.

When they heard bedroom's door closing, John sighed loudly and smiled. Sherlock didn't understand that. She was Asian, of course, but as boring as every other one his flatmate brought home. He read her in a seconds, just like an opened book. She was nothing compared to the life he and John had before. But that excitement was lost now and his doctor seemed so…unfamiliar. What does that even mean? Again, he did not know the answer. Still it felt really bad somehow.

'Who sleeps where?' John asked.

'My bed is big enough for both of us.' Sherlock replied with a blank look.

'Oh… Okay. I guess it's better than a couch. And I hope you won't be kicking me and stealing my part of the quilt.' Sherlock did not reply. 'Alright then. Good night, Sherlock.'

When he realised that he's completely alone in the living room it was already hour later. He took a quick shower, thinking of a problem he could not solve. Hot water was evaporating from his naked body, as he was desperately trying to get rid of this cursed, unnamed feeling. He couldn't.

He opened the bedroom door quietly and saw John sleeping peacefully. It calmed him down. For a moment he, Sherlock Holmes, stopped thinking and lied down next to his doctor. Together. As it was back then. As it was supposed to be.