Summary: The five times people noticed and the one time John did. A collection of oneshots (some very short, some longer) raising the issue of Johns endless dilemma of being deemed for Sherlocks' boyfriend.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, sadly, and I don't make any money with it.

Note: Started as oneshot, turned out as 5+1 stories that are linked thematically. This is my first go at "Sherlock" so please don't be too cruel. If you intent to be cruel leave a review anyway. ;-) Also, I'm german. So be lenient with grammatical errors, my English might be a little rusty.

1. Common Humor

The blood was pumping through Johns veins, his pulse hammering violently in his head. His legs were starting to grow tired, his lungs were burning as he tried to snap for air and at the same time keep up the incredible speed the tall detective running in front of him had set. Once again he found himself wondering how on earth it was humanly possible for a person with Sherlocks eating, smoking and sleeping habits to be in such superb form and once again he dismissed the idea that, maybe, he wasn't human at all in favor of his own sanity. It's the legs. Those damn giraffes' legs. How was a person the estimated size of a Hobbit supposed to keep up with that?

"Sherlock!" John gasped, feeling his strength failing him. That slowed his friend down a notch even if only for a second.

"Keep running, John. They are right behind us and it must be just around the corner now!"

"You. Said. The same. Thing. Two. Minutes. ago!"

It was no good. Already Sherlock was picking up the pace again in front of him, speeding round corners, jumping fences and fudging cars. They had been going at this speed for about five minutes and other than his condition, the laceration (a hit in the face with the handle of a gun) was beginning to throb painfully. As always John had relied entirely on his friends plan as they had found themselves in a rather sticky situation with a more than displeased bunch of mobsters. Initiating one of their rehearsed diversionary tactics, Sherlock had managed to text Lestrade to bring backup and wait for them on the main street just around the corner.

You bring the backup, we bring the mobsters. – SH

John had felt like Bond for about half a minute. Then Sherlock had yelled "Run!" and now here they were.

The lean silhouette of Holmes had stopped in mid run and was gesturing lavishly for him to hurry up. Their meeting point with Lestrade was just around the bend. With that coat flapping in the cool night air and the collar turned up mysteriously in the dim, flickering neon lights of the back alley John couldn't help but think that the tall, dark detective would have been the perfect cast choice for a modern production of Dracula.

A bullet shooting past his ear and, hitting a trash bin right next to him nosily, brought him back to the precarious reality. He sucked in some more air, ground his teeth and mustered the last resorts of his powers to speed up and turn the corner together with Sherlock.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was grinning at them expectantly, ten police cars and at least twenty men with drawn guns in his back.

While John collapsed painfully on the pavement, Sherlock still had enough air in his lungs to name the exact location of the rest of the criminal bunch before he too bent over, hands on his thighs, gasping violently for air.

They remained in silence for a while, watching the spectacle in front of them, regaining their breaths. As he came back to his senses, John thought about the events of this evening that had started so peacefully. But being the friend and flat mate of Sherlock Holmes, you never knew what the evening would have in store for you. It was the rush of adrenaline maybe that made it all seem so funny, but suddenly he had to laugh. An amused chuckle at first, but looking over at Sherlock and seeing him grin from ear to ear too really cracked him up and they both laughed until their sides stung and their breath was gone all over again.

"I . can't. believe. You. Told. Them. Our. Names. Are. Starsky. And. Hutch!" John panted, cringing with the violent snorts at the memory of Sherlocks snappy reply as the mobster boss had asked them their names. It had earned John the laceration and Sherlock a bleeding nose.

"It was…" The normally so reserved detective was almost unable to answer. "It was the first thing that came to my head." And they roared with laughter again.

Across the Street Donovan nudged Anderson in the side.

"Look at them. You want to go over there and tell them to get a room." Donavan mumbled disapprovingly. Anderson replied with a meaningful raise of the eyebrows.

"It must be nice to have what they have. Someone that understands you so fully and with whom you can just laugh and laugh in the strangest of moments, I mean. It's a rare thing. I hope I find a person that just gets me like that one day too." A chubby female detective standing next to them commented, earning herself an irritated glare from both Anderson and Donovan. The two of them left, leaving her to stand alone. She watched the couple of men sitting closely together on the sidewalk across the street for a few more seconds. They had just survived a life-threatening chase through the streets, received a good beating (judging by the condition of their blood smeared faces) and were still sitting there, cracking with laughter. They seemed to miss out on the stress of the whole situation completely. It did not matter to them as long as they were both alive and next to each other. As long as they were laughing together.

"Yeah, someone to laugh with like that, that's the dream." She sighed and went back to work.