When John first met the enigmatic genius that was Sherlock Holmes, he knew that life was never going to be dull. Who needed the hum-drum routines of the 1950s nuclear family; every time John opened the door of 221B, it was a pot luck draw.

What would he find this time: the latest experiment gone awry; more bullet holes in the fireplace; another assassin getting blood on their darling ornate rug?

So why was it, with all these frankly alarming scenarios that John considered the norm, that this very moment in time, it felt like the most surreal experience he had ever been a part of.

"And this is when we went to the South of France. Sherlock had, most unfortunately, just fallen off a pier when this picture was taken," Mycroft said.

"No, I didn't. As I kept telling daddy, you pushed me."

John sat back on the sofa and sighed. How had he got himself in to this mess?

Oh, right. He made the fatal mistake of believing Sherlock.

It had started as any other morning in London. Awoken by the shrill demands of sirens wailing as they rushed down the street, John wandered in to the kitchen. There, he found a note on the fridge.

This, in retrospect should have been the first clue. Sherlock didn't hand-write messages. It wasted time.

Sherlock was going out— urgent business, naturally—and he should return by nightfall. Thinking nothing of it (stupid, stupid John!), he opted to spend a lazy morning catching up on his reading, and then head in to town for groceries.

At around 10, there was a knock on the door. John limped to the door (not because of the alleged injury, you understand. He had been sitting at a funny angle on the armchair) and was greeted by a reluctant-looking Mycroft.

"Ah, good morning Jonathon."

"… Morning. Sorry, Sherlock is out."

Mycroft nodded. "Oh yes, I knew he wouldn't be." He pushed past John, and entered the living room. It was then he realised the box Mycroft carried.

"Oh, then you wanted to see me?"

"Not particularly. Milk and two sugars if you would, John.

John rolled his eyes and went to make the man a cup of tea. He returned moments later with two cups.

"Am I missing something here, Mycroft?"

"Oh, I warned Sherlock I would be coming here today. Bonding, you know. Well, of course he's pulled a disappearing act, as I predicted."

John observed the older gentleman. It made sense—rather than wear his usual suit and tie, Mycroft was wearing what could be considered "casual". Interestingly, Mycroft's "casual" was Sherlock's "smart". He was wearing a lavender shirt and black dress trousers. No jacket, no tie… but something indefinitely refined about the outfit. He clearly was not here on business.

"Right, well, I don't think he'll come home until late."

Mycroft smiled knowingly. John imagined it was the same smile Sherlock had to endure when Mycroft was in 'big brother' mode. "That's why I decided to spend time with his… lover instead."

"I'm not Sherlock's lover!"

"You're the closest he's ever getting to one."

To cut an hour long argument short, Mycroft had won. Now John was to act as his Sherlock substitute. The Holmes family seemed to have a genetic trait that needed to use John as a replacement. Still, replacing a human was a lot more flattering that replacing that blasted skull.

They were about fifteen minutes in to the first album when the door burst open. There stood Sherlock, in all his raging glory. He threw his coat on to a nearby table and glared at Mycroft. "Why are you still here?" he snarled.

Sherlock wore fury well as it turned out. His stormy blue eyes looked darker, heavier. Is face was flushed, and a deep crimson blush sat comfortably on his delicate cheekbones. His usually tousled hair was in chaotic disarray. He looked… utterly shaggable, actually.

"Sherlock, I thought you'd be out all day," Mycroft said, his voice oozing with sarcastic smarm.

"Why are you here?" he repeated through gritted teeth.

"If the mountain won't come to Mohammad, the mountain will harass Mohammad's boyfriend until Mohammad submits."

"I'm not his-" John began.

Sherlock shot John a look of "shut it". John sighed and went in to the kitchen to make more tea. This was why he didn't like children. He was surprised to see that Sherlock could break the glaring contest long enough to follow him. John opened the fridge door.

"He was obviously going to use you, John. Why didn't you see that coming? He was wearing his casual clothes for pity's sake! Surely that must have—"

"Just talk to him. He'll leave when he has what he wants."

"When was the last time you talked to Harry?"

John slammed the fridge shut. "That was uncalled for. I have genuine reasons. You are being a petulant child. He wants to spend time with you."

"Correction- he wants to spend time with us."

And that was how they had ended up in their current situation.

Strangely, John was having fun.

Donavon often told John that Sherlock was nothing more than a mechanical man without a heart (which was fine with Sherlock, as he often told everyone that Sally was a whore without any standards), and it was easy to believe her sometimes. In the end, Sherlock very rarely showed much more emotion than a wavering indifference.

It was moments like this that made John remember that Sherlock was human— the moments where he jumped with glee because he had something new to focus on; the moments where he growled in animalistic frustration because no one could match his startling intellect. And now, he could add to the list the adorable blush that formed whenever another little nugget of his past was brought up. John picked up a loose picture from the box. It showed a class of young boys, all about five years old, wearing a menagerie of different costumes. All the other boys were beaming at the camera, bar one little boy, who looked rather sullen in his cotton wool monstrosity.

"Oh yes, this was Sherlock at his first nativity play. He was the little lamb right there. St. Benedict's school for boys was the first school Sherlock was ever expelled from."

John glanced over to Sherlock and saw a proud smile beginning to bud. "What did you do?" he asked.

"I merely pointed out the flaws in the whole nativity story," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, you announced them during the birthing of Christ."

"What better time?"

John laughed. "You… you've always been like this, huh?"

Sherlock shrugged and put his head on John's. He nuzzled slightly, and looked at John softly. "Aren't you bored yet?" he asked quietly.

Mycroft raised his eyebrow quizzically at the pair. "Perhaps I should take my leave. I'll send Anthea to collect the box. You don't mind do you?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He simply got up and left. John sighed and moved away from Sherlock. Sherlock grinned and flopped back. He punched the air victoriously.

"Finally!"

"You used me, didn't you?" John asked.

"Slightly; intimacy is a sure-fire method of repelling Mycroft."

John laughed and picked up the next album- a red book with 'Teen years' embossed in gold. "So, what were you like as a teenager?"

Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed the book. He threw it across the room. "That's enough of that," he said indefinitely. "Fancy an Indians? I know a good place in Soho. You can tell a good Indian restaurant by the spices they use."

"You're paying."

My first Sherlock fanfic, though I adore the series. Constructive criticism is welcome, and the rating may go up. It depends on how bold I'm feeling.

Thank you for reading. Reviews are nice

-QSoD