Title: Untitled
Author: bigfish05
Disclaimer: I own nothing, of course.
Notes: This fic has not been beta'd and English is not my first language, so please be kind and if you find any mistakes, feel free to point them out to me. I haven't been writing fic in ages and I just recently started watching BBCs Sherlock and finally found a pairing that inspired me again ;) To get going again, because my writing skills have become quite rusty, I simply choose 3 songs out of my playlist at random. A few lines of each song gave me ideas and thus, this drabbles happened. They're not connected, but I guess you can read them as one piece :) I hope you enjoy it and please, let me know what you think of it.

Coldplay - Crest of Waves

It could be worse
I could be alone
I could be locked in here on my own

Sherlock briefly watched his new flatmate rummaging through the kitchen. Was he really trying to tidy up the small kitchen table? One would think that after several weeks of living together, John would've understood that there was no sense in doing so. He should know that after half a day there would be no trace left of all his efforts. Sherlock always liked to quote Einstein here – not that he usually liked to quote anyone, because it's not like any of them had anything to say that he couldn't have come up with on his own – but in this case it seemed quite fitting: If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?

So what was John's insistince that they should at least try to keep the flat tidy about anyway? Or his constant nagging about the importance of regular sleeping hours? And the all the scowling and muttering on about Sherlocks eating habits, or rather the lack thereof...

He sighed and focused back on the newspaper in his hands. Sherlock would probably never understand how John could waste his time with such mundane topics. Ah, the pleasures of a simple mind, he assumed.

A shadow fell over him and he looked up from where he was sitting hunched over the desk. No need in trying to keep on reading when John effectivitely blocked any light from coming in trough the window behind them.

"What?", he asked, slightly annoyed at being interrupted.

But John simply raised one eyebrow – like he always did when Sherlock snapped at him, the detective noted absentmindetly – and placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him. "A simple thank you would've sufficed." And with that, John turned around and went back into the kitchen, probably to continue his useless task of cleaning up.

Well, Sherlock thought as he watched the retreating back of his flatmate and raised the cup to his lips. There could be worse flatmates than John Watson.

Beatles - With A Little Help from My Friends

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends

It's not like Sherlock had needed the drugs. Well, maybe that's not the right way to put it. He had needed them, but not in a way most people would think. He had never felt an all consuming need to take them, never had to physically recover when he went without them for a longer period of time.

It was just that most people could also not fathom the extent of absolute boredom he felt throughout his everyday life. There was very little that could stimulate a mind like his. And it wasn't like a mad manhunt or crazy murder case happened just every day. He sometimes had to get through a long period of time without anything happening. With nothing to occupy his mind. That's when the drugs came in handy.

So, it came as a little shock even to himself as he walked in the living room one morning, cup of coffee in hand and flopped down in John's favourite armchair – simply because he could, it was still his armchair after all – looked at the sun shining outside and realised with a start that he didn't have a case to solve in weeks. And not once had the drugs in his cabinet crossed his mind.

Sherlock guessed between all the chess games with John, the restaurant and theatre visits and lazy evenings in front of the TV, they must've completely slipped his mind. When had such boring things suddenly become, well, not so boring anymore?

Very strange indeed.

Then again, maybe not so strange, Sherlock thought as the door opened and John entered the living room. Still grumpy from just waking up, his hair a tousled mess from sleep, his boxer shorts and shirt bed-crumpled, John yawned and stretched.

Watching the small strip of skin becoming visible as John's shirt rode up over his stomach, Sherlock smirked to himself and grabbed the doctor's wrist as he tried to pass by the chair after mumbling a distracted greeting.

He definitely had better ways of fighting his boredom now, Sherlock thought as he simply pulled John down into his lap and, in one swift motion, buried his nose in the crook where his neck and shoulder met and ignored the undignified yelp his friend gave in response.

Yes, really. Much better ways.

The Kinks - A Well Respected Man

And he's oh, so good,
And he's oh, so fine,
And he's oh, so healthy,
In his body and his mind.
He's a well respected man about town,
Doing the best things so conservatively.

John Watson had basically been raised to be a good soldier. Be always disciplined, modest, healthy, but also brave, polite, kind, compassionate. Those were the rules he lived by.

They may seem conservative and quite boring to others, but they're also the only rules he knows and the attributes which define him. If he wouldn't have these rules, what would he have then?

Apparently, it took a crazy, arrogant and admiringly brilliant self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath to show him.

From the very first moment they met, John had felt inadequate. Like he was not worthy to follow Sherlock on his manhunts, because seriously, what had he to offer that would help solve the cases? He may be modest, but he had no problem with self-confidence. He was simply being realistic. Who in the world could keep up with Sherlock Holmes?

It made him strive to be an even better soldier, be disciplined where Sherlock lacked any kind of it. To look after both their healths, to be compassionate towards the people that needed their help. All that to at least contribute something.

Then one evening, when they had returned to their flat after closing up the last case they had been working on, Sherlock had shrugged of his coat and simply shot John a pointed look. "You're trying too hard. There's no need for this."

John had wanted to act dumbfounded and splutter a confused 'What?!', but somehow he'd known exactly what his friend had been talking about. Still, his mouth had opened on his own accord, he was that embarrased at being caught in his efforts. Sherlock, calm as ever, had raised a hand und shook his head. "Stop it, I mean it."

And that had been the end of this conversation. Sherlock had simply gone into his bedroom without another word and had left John standing there, starring after him for god knows how long before he also went to his room.

Looking back on it now, John felt like smiling from ear to ear. That had been the beginning.

The beginning of touches that lingered too long, which turned into feverent kisses pressed into heated skin and sweaty limbs tangled together, breaths mingling and hands holding so tight it sometimes hurt.

Each time Sherlock stripped John off his clothes with sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce touches, while looking at him with such longing that there wasn't a word strong enough to express it, John knew. He knew that in Sherlock, he found someone who understood. Sherlock didn't label him, he simply let him be, looked past appearances and rules.

John didn't need to define himself, because Sherlock didn't need him to be defined.

And John Watson had never before in his entire life felt so much at ease.