I just started watching this show three weeks ago and immediately got hooked. This is my very first fic for this fandom, so I hope I'm not too out of character. Oh, and this is based on the BBC show only. I've never read ACD.

Enjoy!

John followed Sherlock up the stairs of 221B Baker Street all the while wanting to shake some sense in to the detective or to yell at him; preferably both. He did neither, however. Instead he quietly waited for Sherlock to let them into their flat and closed the door behind him. "Would you like some tea?" he asked removing his jacket while watching Sherlock head towards his bedroom.

Sherlock only nodded in reply as he continued walking, not missing a step.

John went to the kitchen, set the water to boil and then went upstairs to his own room to change, debating whether or not he wanted to burn the clothes he was currently wearing. He really didn't want any reminders of the last few hours. The water started to boil just as he returned to the kitchen. He made the cups of tea, almost spilling the water all over the counter as he poured the second cup. Cursing his shaking hands, he brought the cups of tea to the living room and set them on the coffee table.

He took a seat in his chair and shivered, still not able to get the events from the pool out of his mind. Even now he could still feel the bomb vest Moriarty forced him to wear. Knowing that it helped to write everything down, the only good thing he got out of seeing that therapist, John decided to write up the next entry for his blog. He stood up and went in search of his laptop. Luckily he found it on his desk, right where he left it hours earlier. He hadn't been in the mood for a scavenger hunt, and normally that's what he had to do to find it since Sherlock seemed to use it more than he did, claiming it was always closer than his own.

With laptop in hand, he sat down on the sofa instead of his usual chair. Putting his sock-clad feet on the coffee table, he sat back and turned on his laptop. Within moments he had opened his word processing software and was writing out what had happened to him and Sherlock.

Sherlock walked into the living room a few later minutes wrapped in a blanket and wearing his pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, and blue dressing gown. He gave a start when he noticed John on the sofa, not expecting him to be sitting there.

"There's a cup of tea for you on the coffee table," John told him, eyes never leaving the laptop. He finished the sentence he was on and took his hands away from the keyboard, clenching his fists tightly a few times and taking a deep breath to try and calm down. "I wish I would stop shaking," he muttered, then started typing again.

Sherlock stopped in front of John on the other side of the coffee table, on his way to his chair. "You're probably still in shock after what happened, John. Need a blanket?" he asked as he shook one side of the blanket he had around him.

"Very funny," John replied, then continued with his typing.

Picking up the cup that was set at the far side of the table, Sherlock frowned, glanced quickly at John and sat down next to him.

John paused in his typing for just a few seconds. Sherlock sitting next to him was unusual, or so he thought. In the two months since they decided to become flatmates, whenever John sat on the sofa, Sherlock would take one of the chairs. They never sat next to each other. Not wanting to take the time to question Sherlock's actions, John went back to his typing.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea and leaned over to see what John was typing. Not believing his eyes, he got closer to the screen to reread what John had typed and then turned to look at him. "The look in Sherlock's eyes….not anger but hurt?" He continued reading and huffed. "I did not look like a little lost child, John. Refreshingly human? He did care?" Sherlock set his tea on the table then looked back at John. "You know none of that is true."

John stopped his typing. "It is true. If you saw what I saw, you'd be in agreement." He looked to Sherlock. "You're not the only one who can make deductions just by looking at something."

Sherlock flopped back against the sofa. "All of that is preposterous. And it's not like any of your five readers would even believe it."

Though he knew Sherlock didn't mean what he said, it still stung a little. "Sherlock, this is my blog. If you don't like what I'm writing, write your own."

Sherlock didn't say anything to that right away. He just continued to watch John typing, one of his legs bouncing up and down. "I'm bored," he huffed a few minutes later.

"Why don't you go to your room and sleep? If I'm correct, it's been about 36 hours since you last slept."

"Sleeping is boring."

"Watch the telly," John suggested.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Too pedestrian."

John was now reaching the end of his rope. "Work on an experiment, then."

"No," Sherlock said stubbornly, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry I can't find any entertainment for you. I really need to get some of this written now."

"But I'm bored," Sherlock said, his voice taking on a bit of a whine. "I need something to do. Something to take my…"

"I don't care, Sherlock!" John shouted. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a few deep breathes. "Since you've made it perfectly clear on the way back here that you won't talk about what we just went through, this is the only way I can deal with it. You do realize we could have died, don't you?"

Sherlock jumped from the sofa, wrapped the blanket tighter around himself while suppressing a shiver, and began pacing the length of the room.

John tried to ignore Sherlock's pacing while he typed, but after a few minutes he couldn't take it anymore. He removed his fingers from the keyboard and was about to yell at him to stop when Sherlock walked back over to the sofa and flopped back down next to him. When it looked like his flatmate was going to stay put, John began typing once again.

Not two minutes went by before Sherlock hopped up and started pacing again. John stopped typing and just watched Sherlock. Moving from place to place and not being able to sit still when he wasn't thinking was normal for Sherlock, but something seemed off. He looked really distracted, just like his pacing at the pool after Moriarty left the first time. A minute later Sherlock sat back down next to him.

John finished another paragraph before Sherlock's head appeared in his line of sight, and for the second time that night, began reading what John had written. Clearly irritated, John saved the document and snapped his laptop closed in Sherlock's face. "I can't do this here." Sherlock sat back at those words. "I'm going to bed to finish this in peace. Goodnight Sherlock."

As John stood up to leave, Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "John…"

At the almost pleading tone in Sherlock's voice, John froze and looked at his friend. For the second time in only hours, Sherlock looked like a lost little child. Seeing slight desperation and distress in his eyes, John sat back down. "Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Fine," he answered distractedly. "I'm fine."

Wanting to say something, but knowing it was better to keep quiet, John sighed. He opened his laptop and began working on his blog again.

For Sherlock's part, he kept quiet and stayed on the sofa. He grabbed one of the journals on the coffee table and began paging though it, trying to distract himself. He then visited his mind palace for a few minutes, and then just sat there contemplating what he found.

When John didn't hear the rustle of pages turning five minutes later, he paused in his typing and looked to his left. Sherlock had the journal clasped in hands on his lap and his eyes were closed. It looked like the detective was in his mind palace, but he couldn't be sure. For all he knew, he fell asleep. "Sherlock, are you sleeping?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, eyebrows raised.

"I said are you…" John stopped before he repeated his now obviously dumb question. If the man was asleep he wouldn't have said anything. "Never mind." Shaking his head, he went back to his blog.

After having written down every that had happened at the pool, John felt a lot calmer. He had just decided to re-read everything he wrote when he heard very rapid breathing next to him. He looked at Sherlock in concern. "Sherlock?" When he received no response, he put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to get his attention and felt him shaking. "Sherlock, are you sure you're okay? You're shaking." John sat in silence waiting for the sarcastic retort that he would usually get at a question like that, but none came. Now he was worried and in full doctor mode. "It's warm in here, but are you cold?"

"No," Sherlock answered shortly.

John grabbed Sherlock's wrist and felt for his pulse. It was fast, but not overly so. "Then what is going on?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock's breathing got shallower.

John was definitely frustrated now. "Will you, for once in your life, tell me what is wrong, Sherlock? You know I can't help you if you don't tell me."

Sherlock stated the obvious. "I…have…a blanket." He put his feet on the sofa and wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. He wished John would just understand as he could not, and would not, voice what he was truly feeling. Surely his reply should have been enough of a clue for John's average mind. After all, they had been talking about their first case together not too long ago. John had to remember what happened outside by the ambulance after the taxi driver was shot.

John was now exasperated. "That doesn't answer my question and you know it."

"You never see what's right in front of you," Sherlock countered.

"I swear, I sometimes wonder why I ever agreed to be your flatmate. I should have listened to Donovan and Mycroft that first night." John truly didn't mean it, but he couldn't help but blurt it out with the way he was feeling.

Sherlock's breathing increased again and he tried to suppress another shiver as he jumped from the sofa and began pacing back and forth again. After a few seconds he started mumbling into the blanket. "Snipers….bomb….your life….for mine….no one's risked….ever….blanket."

John leaned back against the sofa shaking his head with his eyes closed and his brow crinkled in thought. Those cryptic words were probably all he was going to get out of the detective. A few minutes later he finally figured it out. "Sherlock, believe me when I say you'll feel better if you talk about it, especially with someone else who was there."

"Talking's boring."

"Fine. Fine! Have it your way. Avoid the subject. Pretend you don't have feelings." Upset, John stood up and took both his and Sherlock's now cold cups of tea into the kitchen and made fresh cups. When he returned to the living room he was surprised to find Sherlock seated on the sofa a little closer to where he had been sitting moments ago. He handed Sherlock his cup, took a few sips of his own, and sat back down. Wanting to finish his blog entry, John set his cup on the table and picked up his laptop. As he reread what he had written over the last hour, Sherlock sat quietly sipping his tea.

Ten minutes later, John had added another few paragraphs and reworded others when Sherlock's head lolled to the right and landed on John's shoulder. Completely taken aback, John slowly turned his head. Sherlock was fast asleep, legs stretched out with his feet on the coffee table and he no longer had that death grip on his blanket that he'd had before. Instead his hands were at his side.

Since it had been almost a day and a half since Sherlock had last slept, John didn't have the heart to wake him up and tell him to go to his bedroom. Instead he left Sherlock alone. Besides, he thought there had to be valid reason, for Sherlock anyway, as to why he fell asleep the way he did. John would bet his life that it had to do with the detective's ramblings from a while ago along with the fact that when he sat down with the new cups of tea, Sherlock was sitting so close that their arms and legs had been touching. It was then that John realized that even though he knew how close they were sitting together, he never moved away from Sherlock. They both obviously needed the reassurance that the other was still there, safe and alive.

Not truly wanting to think about what any of that meant, John went back to his blog and read over the entire entry. Deciding it was the best it was going to be, John saved the document and published it to his blog, yawning in the process. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was after 2 am. There was no way he'd be functional at work in a few hours, so he opened an email saying he wouldn't be making it in. While it was being sent to his supervisor, he closed his eyes, yawning again. Within moments, he was asleep, laptop still on and sitting on his lap.

John awoke hours later and blinked a few times as he took in his surroundings. Sherlock was still asleep with his head on his shoulder and the right side his body was pressed closer against his own. Then John realized his own head was resting on top of Sherlock's. It was an embarrassing situation to say the least. He just hoped Mrs. Hudson hadn't, and wouldn't, burst in to their flat. The moment she saw them sitting on the sofa sleeping in this position, he'd never be able to convince her that he wasn't gay.

Sherlock took a deep breath at that moment, and feeling the movement, John found he didn't care if she did walk in. He didn't want to move. Having almost lost his friend and his own life to sniper fire and a bomb, he reasoned he could sleep like this if he wanted to. Yawning, John set his laptop on the table. He then closed his eyes, rested his head against Sherlock's again, and tried to get back to sleep, all the while wondering what Sherlock would say when he awoke and found them like this. His only hope was that his flatmate, his friend, felt the same way.