John sipped his coffee thoughtfully and looked out of the window. It was remarkable, he reflected, how much his life had changed, and in how short a time, and he wasn't all together certain he actually minded all that much. 221B Baker Street was beginning to feel like a home, albeit a dysfunctional one.

The two of them – Sherlock and he – had rescued each other's lives more times than he could now count. It had only been a few short months since they had ended up here together, and yet it felt like a lifetime.

His eyes turned back to the telly, where some mindless talk show was yapping at him. There was just nothing on these days. Sitting at home was so boring.

He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to midnight. Where had Sherlock got to? If something interesting happened, John would usually get a text ordering him to whatever crime scene Sherlock had managed to get into, but tonight there hadn't been so much as a buzz. It wasn't like the man ever told him where he was going or what he was up to unless he needed him. Sherlock had vanished from the flat earlier that evening. When asked where he was going, he had simply said, "Thinking. Shut up."

John threw his head back and sighed. Was it odd for him to miss him like this? When there was no work to do, they sometimes went days without speaking two words to one another, both sitting at their computers, working on their websites, but John didn't much mind that. He just didn't like being alone.

Sometimes he thought Sherlock didn't understand people. Other times, he thought he must understand them perfectly and just not care much.

"John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any kind of…"

That had been the only time the topic of sexuality had ever come up. John smiled at the memory. He was of course, he assured himself, entirely straight, but he often wondered about Sherlock, whether the other was truly completely asexual, whether he ever felt any sort of attraction for another human being, male or female.

Yes, John was straight. He was often amused by people who made the assumption that two blokes living together must be gay, as though having a flat mate was something people didn't do anymore. John had never been especially attracted to any man.

That said, he admitted to himself that he had some sort of feeling for the madman he had ended up sharing a home with. At first he had put it down to admiration for his intellect, and later as friendly affection for the man who had, after all, rescued him on several occasions, and in more ways than one. Without Sherlock, his life would still be dreadfully dull, and he'd still be walking around with a psychosomatic limp and no future. There was nothing strange about feeling gratitude and fondness towards such a person. It was perfectly natural.

Still, when it got to be late at night, and Sherlock was off somewhere and hadn't told him where he'd gone, John became far lonelier than he had any right to be.

He must have dozed off in his chair, because when he next looked at his watch it was nearly two in the morning, and the programming had changed on the TV. There was a noise in the stairwell, and moments later the door to the flat was unlocked and Sherlock stepped inside. It was apparently raining outside, as his hair was wet and his coat covered in droplets.

"Where the bugger have you been?" asked John, as casually as he could, yawning and stretching.

"Oh, you're still up," said Sherlock, matter-of-factly. "Good. You can make me some coffee."

He took off the damp coat and hung it on a hook inside the door. Then he disappeared into his bedroom. He returned a moment later with a pack of nicotine patches and threw himself down on the sofa. John stared at him bemusedly from his chair. Sherlock looked up at him.

"No coffee?"

John shook his head and stood up. "You haven't slept in thirty-six hours," he pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. "I haven't been sleepy." He pulled a nicotine patch out of the pack and began removing the wrapping.

"Give me that!" said John irritably. He went over to the sofa and took both the patch and the pack out of Sherlock's hands. "Go to bed!"

Sherlock looked up at him, utterly bemused. "I can't very well think in my sleep," he said.

"You're not supposed to, you're supposed to sleep." John sat down next to him. "Don't you realise what you're doing to your body? How harmful this is? You go days without eating or sleeping, and you make up for it by overstimulating with nicotine and coffee!"

"I did eat today," Sherlock pointed out.

"Go get some sleep and I'll call it a good day," said John. "Stop being so stubborn! I'm a doctor, don't you trust me to know what's good for you?"

Sherlock looked at him a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stood and went into his bedroom.

John took the box of nicotine patches into the bathroom and put them in the medicine cabinet. Then he brought his coffee mug to the kitchen to clean it up.

He heard a noise behind him, and turned to find Sherlock standing in the doorway to his bedroom, dressed in pajama bottoms.

"I can't sleep," said Sherlock.

"You've only been in there a few minutes, have you tried?"

"I can't, I'm thinking too much," Sherlock insisted.

John sighed. Then he went over to Sherlock and, placing a hand on his bare chest, pushed him back into the bedroom towards the bed.

As the back of Sherlock1s legs made contact with it he was forced to sit down. He looked up at John then, frowning, and John realised that he could feel Sherlock's heartbeat. His heart was racing.

He removed his hand quickly and looked away, embarrassed. "Sherlock, don't you ever…" He caught himself and trailed off.

"Don't I what?" asked Sherlock, his gaze steady.

John hesitated, then looked at Sherlock again. "Don't you ever want to… be close to someone?"

"I'm close to you, we live together," said Sherlock without blinking.

"That's not what I mean," said John, looking away again.

"I know it isn't."

John met his eyes again at this, surprised at the man's sudden understanding.

Sherlock sighed. "I don't generally have those kinds of feelings for people," he explained.

"Have you never had them?" asked John.

"I have," Sherlock conceded. "But not in a long while. I block them out. Everything important is in my head, I can't be dealing with anything else." He studied John's face. "It's why it was so important for me to point out from the start that I'm not looking for any attachments, at all. Because it was all over your face, just like it is now."

John frowned. "What is?"

"That you're attracted to me."

"What? I'm not! You're a bloke!" John spluttered.

"Oh please, don't lie to yourself!" said Sherlock. "Look, this is me, all right? This is what I'm like. No matter how attracted I may be to a person, I won't be good for them, so I don't do relationships, I don't do sex, I don't do anything."

"You may not do sex, but you do relationships," said John instinctively, surprising himself. "We live together, we go out for meals, we squabble over money, we get in each other's way… In what way is this not a relationship?" As he said it, he knew he meant it. "Maybe I am attracted to you. Maybe that's why I did this in the first place, moved in here with you. Maybe that's why I follow you around and do whatever you ask without a second thought. I don't know. Are you not the least bit attracted to me?"

"I am, very much so," said Sherlock. John faltered. He hadn't expected such a straight answer. "If you did feel the need to put a label on me, it would most likely read homosexual, so yes, I am attracted to you, John."

John stood for a moment, looking at the other. Then, without thinking, he leaned forwards and kissed him. Hesitantly, at first, then fiercer. To begin with, the kiss garnered no response, but then Sherlock began to return it. John pushed him down into the bed and lay on top of him, not stopping to think what he was doing. He traced Sherlock's lips hungrily with his tongue, and they opened to admit him. He unbuttoned the other man's shirt, caressing his chest with his fingers, exploring new territory. He traced Sherlock's jawline with his tongue, up to his ear, down to his neck, occasionally sucking and biting as he went. Sherlock's hips bucked against him as a soft moan escaped his lips, and he felt his own body respond. John's hands found their way to the lining of Sherlock's trousers, as their lips met again.

A small voice at the back of John's mind told him that he must be going mad, but he ignored it. When his hand sought its way down Sherlock's pants, the other man gasped and John smiled in spite of himself.

After a few moments, he pulled away and looked into Sherlock's face. His face was flushed, his lips red and parted. Their eyes met.

"I don't think this is such a good idea, John," Sherlock protested weakly.

"Oh, shut up!" said John.

John lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He turned his head to the right to look at the man lying next to him. He found Sherlock staring at him.

"So," said John, awkwardly, turning his face away again, covering his forehead with the back of his hand. "That was… fun. Definitely an interesting experience. You've, uh… done this before, I suppose? No, don't answer that."

He could feel Sherlock's gaze on him even as he spoke, and after a moment he turned over on his side, propping his head up on his elbow, and peered at the other through the semi-darkness.

"I told you this was a bad idea," said Sherlock. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.