AN: Hello all! I've recently found, watched, and fell in love with Sherlock (BBC version of course). So, naturally, I had an idea for a story. Hooray! If only it was always this easy...*shrugs* Oh well. Hope you like this, there's a ton of dialogue so any critique on that would be great. I really want to keep these two in character(: Sherlock, I think, will be a bit of a challange. Next chapter should be up soon. Hopefully. Read, Review, Critique, eat pie, yaddy-yadda, enjoy!

John clicked the keys on his laptop as he narrated the latest of Sherlock's successes. He sat alone in the living room, reveling in the early morning silence and the sweet smell of his coffee. Baker Street below had yet to come alive and his roommate hadn't come out of his room yet. Leaning back into his chair, he sipped the coffee and let out a pleasured sigh. He was pleased with the life he had here, on Baker Street. No, it wasn't exactly what he imagined he would be doing when he came back from Afghanistan, but then, he didn't really have an idea of what he was planning on doing anyway. The excitement the cases brought was enough to keep him from a mundane existence which was perfectly fine by him. He never did "mundane" well.

Door hinges squeaked and the floor boards moaned under pressure. John twisted in his chair to look at his flat-mate. He watched as he walked from his room to the couch and collapsed into it face first. His bathrobe created a makeshift blanket and Sherlock curled up as much as the couch would allow. Promptly, muffled snoring sounded from under the mess of curly, black hair.

"Well, good morning to you, too," John said, his amusement evident in his voice. Setting his mug on the desk, he rose from his chair and crossed the room. He looked around for the blanket that usually made its home in the vicinity of the couch. With a defeated sigh, he realized that Sherlock, in his half-consciousness, had lain down on top of it. "I try to help you…you just don't make it easy," he mumbled under his breath.

"WhaddifIdondneeedyouhelp?" Garbled words attempted escape from the confines of the couch, but ended up strung together in incoherency.

"What?"

Sherlock lifted his head from the cushion just enough so that he could be understood, "What if I don't need your help?"

John rolled his eyes and walked to the kitchen to make his friend's tea. Sherlock twisted his head to watch him, smiling a bit when he realized what he was doing. He sat up slowly, wincing at the pain that reignited in his shoulder.

"You okay?" John called from the kitchen. Glancing in his direction, Sherlock nodded slightly and tried to rub the soreness away.

"Don't touch it," he scolded as he returned with the tea. "You'll probably end up making it worse; then you'll really have to be cooped up in here, and not just on my orders. Now, let me see…" John tried to pull the bathrobe off, but Sherlock shrugged his hand away.

"No," he protested.

"Sherlock…" John warned.

"John…"

"Just a look, I won't even touch it, if that's what you're scared of."

"I'm not scared. But even so, how can I trust you?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"That's what you told me last night, 'Oh, I won't touch your shoulder.'" Sherlock said mocking John's voice. "And then you go and shove back into its socket without warning me."

"It had to be done. It would've started to heal the wrong way, then you'd really have a problem. Plus, it's better when you don't tell them when you're going to do it."

"That makes no sense."

"Yes, it does."

"No. It doesn't."

"Stop this now, Sherlock. You're being childish."

"Childish?"

"Yes. Now let me see your shoulder."

"No. Like I said, I do not need your help." Defiant.

"You need to let me look at it. It was dislocated. It could be broken, or worse." Concerned.

"I'm fine."

"I'm a doctor."

That ended the conversation. Sherlock pulled his bathrobe tight with his left hand, his good hand, and John scowled at him. He was about to the point where he was starting to consider shoving him into a taxi and taking him to the hospital, but that probably wouldn't end well. The staff was never quite 'friendly' with Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson saved them both from another confrontation.

"Good morning boys," she walked into the room and immediately stopped. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting…something?" John exhaled, and Sherlock glanced at him, unsure.

"No. Nope, nothing," he said, getting up from the spot next to Sherlock and grabbed his coffee. He still couldn't figure out why people thought they were gay.

"Well, alright then, I was just coming to say good morning. Oh! And, I forgot to tell you, my granddaughter is coming to stay for a while, I hope you won't mind," she said. Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh and leaned his head back on the couch. John glared at him and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, that's perfectly fine. We will be happy to have her here."

"Well, alright…" Mrs. Hudson looked at John. Her tone suggested that she didn't believe the 'we' in his sentence, but would accept the answer anyway. "You might like her Sherlock; she's kind of like you." With that she bustled back down the stairs and John turned to Sherlock.

"What is wrong with you?"

"What? What did I do?" he cast back.

"You don't just…do things like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what. That face. The sigh?"

"What about it?"

"You just don't do that Sherlock. Have some respect. She's our landlady."

"I still don't see the problem here."

John sighed, "You never do, do you?" Sherlock glowered.

"I don't like children."

"So that's your problem?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"They're loud, touch everything and generally ruin everything."

"I see…"

"Come to think of it, you sometimes remind me of a child…" Sherlock said under his breath.

"Hey! I heard that." Sherlock glanced up and smirked.

"She isn't coming up here," he held his gaze with John, hoping that he would agree.

"Fine, as long as you're nice to her. Don't scare her off, please?"

"I don't intentionally scare people, they are just afraid of intelligence."

John sighed, realizing he wasn't going to win this battle. "I'm going to get ready. Clean up this place a bit, will you? It looks like a pair of pigs live here." As he left the room, the distinct sound of squeaking leather caught up to him.

Sherlock had lain back down.