A/N: It's been a while since I've written anything, but my current obsession is just demanding to have some contribution on my part. I don't claim to know or remember much of the original series or earlier versions, having been many years since I've read and seen them, so what's written will be based off the BBC version of the characters. I claim no rights to any of the characters or locations within this story, etc.

Just a little free write to get back into the swing of things. And yes, I did put a few fandom cookies in just for you. I might or might not continue. Any comments would be appreciated!

The Mysterious Case of Sherlock Holmes

Screeeeech. Pause. Silence.

Sherlock was being kind. Screeeech. He clenched his eyelids shut, as if squeezing them tighter would stop the now thrumming, erratic plucks on the strings of the violin. Footsteps—he listened closely—getting deeper in tone and fainter. Going downstairs, then. Leaving. Someone was here, but it definitely wasn't Mrs. Hudson, her voice carried no matter how soft she spoke; with Sherlock's sudden need to practice, whomever he was speaking with would be frustrated. The blonde dared to open his left eye and peek at the red numbers of the alarm clock on his left. 5:34.

He closed his eye again, but there was no use denying it: he was awake, now. Conceding the fact, the doctor slowly sat up and slid his feet into the slippers that waited in their usual place. With a yawn he stretched out his arms and extended his back, working his arm in circles and rubbed his left shoulder encouraging the stiffening pain to leave. He got to his feet and grabbed a tee shirt from a drawer—he'd get dressed once he'd had some tea and learned what their early morning visitor wanted.

The man eased his way down the stairs, the seventh step groaning under his weight, to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, violin in hand, piercing blue eyes boring into him. Reading everything about him—how he had slept, that his shoulder throbbed slightly from bearing his weight due to sleeping in the wrong position, his annoyance (which would most likely be ignored), and even things that had not crossed his own mind—the instant he came into view, and most likely before that. His flatmate's eyes didn't waver from the object he was deducing. He waited for Sherlock to say something, but the younger man clearly found nothing of importance to say. "Tea?"

He got a slight grunt in reply as Sherlock broke their eye contact and became overly interested with the strings and bridge of the instrument in his hand. Yes, then. The doctor, whom many might refer to as short standing at a mere 5'7", went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and returned back to the sitting room. "Mycroft or Lestrade?"

"Lestrade would not be awake at this hour unless it was to play football," he paused, "Besides, he would have asked me to come to him."

"Mycroft, then," he sighed internally. Sometimes talking to Sherlock was like trying to draw the full story out of a seven year old—no focus and you're expected to know what happened because they experienced it and they couldn't be bothered to give any more detail then what was directly asked. "What did he want? Does he have a case?"

"He's gained four pounds," matter-of-fact, disinterested—the usual manner in which Sherlock spoke of anything related to Mycroft. He dragged the bow across the stings of the violin again. Johns hand reflexively went to cup his ears—anything to soften the offensive sound.

"Can you not do that?" before Sherlock could reply with another attack on the tortured instrument, the short man sought refuge in the kitchen, under the preface of making tea, and poured the now-hot water into two separate cups to brew. "So, we have a case, that's good then," he supplied over his shoulder through the room.

"No," the deep voice called back with just the right volume to carry, but not be too loud, "No case."

He stood in the doorway of the room, two cups in hand, "But—"

"Government work," John knew the next word before it was said as it always was, with a sigh, "dull."

He set down a cup in front of his flatmate, "Sherlock," he started, careful of his tone, "you have been complaining for days now about how bored you are. Remember what happened last time?" His mind drifted back to what Mr. Holmes had referred to as a game. The old woman, Moriarty, the pool-he shuddered. No, best not think of that now. He set his own tea on the table. "Take the case."

"Boring."

"Sherlock..."

Screech

Hair standing on end, his body reflexively recoiled from the offensive sound. Sherlock knew how to play and often times it didn't make sense until after he finished, but today he was just making noise to make his position clear.

"Boring!"

He looked around the room. Scattered papers, books, empty tea cups, plates with remnants of the last take out—Chinese, I think, and several experiments all littered the small room. It was a wonder they could cross from one side to the other without tripping over or trampling anything. There was light reflecting off of glass bits on the floor near what would be used as a dinner table in any other home. There was an experiment on that table that Sherlock had clearly forgo—no, disregarded that the doctor was surprised it hadn't just grown legs and walked away.

Through the mess of the flat, he somehow managed to notice the one new folder on the table—most likely strategically placed by the older Holmes brother where it would be easily discovered by a certain someone. He picked up the folder and noticed his curly haired flatmate's frown grow deeper, the wrinkles becoming more apparent between his eyebrows, making Sherlock look rather like a frustrated puppy, he noted with some amusement.

Sherlock's expression suddenly changed. The furrowed brow gone, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly, and a distinct look of interest gleamed in his eyes, but he still said nothing. The blonde shook his head, opened the folder, and stared at the file—a mess of photos from crime scenes seemingly unrelated, police reports, employee records, the works. His blue eyes scanned through the pages, not retaining any of the information listed before him.

His mind was wandering back to things his sister had said recently. Normally everything that came from Harry's mouth was inaccurate, annoying, misguided, and something only a drunk would say. What does she know? I am not in love with my flatmate. He thought of his blog—he'd stopped updating it during Sherlock's "Great Game," and even after they managed to make it out of the pool, he still hadn't chose to update the wretched thing. His old friends and Harry had all found the flat share amusing, claiming his interests had changed. And surely, they had. He was no longer a brooding, self-loathing veteran with a psychosomatic limp. He felt alive for the first time since he had returned from Afghanistan; he was doing things, making a difference!

He mentioned his relationship with Sarah hoping that would make them stop commenting on his love life. To the normal person, that would seem backwards, but with the accusations and back handed compliments he knew what people were thinking. Not that he really cared, but it was getting tiresome. Then, next thing you know, they're wanting to arrange play dates with future kids. Then the comments flip to "get a room." It's like they can't decide whether or not to believe he's in a relationship. He wonders absently if his sister would accuse him of having an affair with both Sarah and Sherlock at the same time. It was unthinkable. Sherlock is like an adolescent genius with too much time on his hands. He picks and chooses his cases like selecting jam from the marketplace. I'm more like a parent than a—what am I? Flatmate doesn't really define it, not anymore. Colleague, what he had called me the first time I met Lestrade.

I still sometimes think Sherlock could be mad, the pompous git, but here I am nearly half a year after moving in with him and I have not done a thing to live somewhere else. I can't imagine being anywhere else. My prediction was right—I'm definitely never bored around this brilliant man. I rather enjoy his company, but working with my flatmate and enjoying his company does not make me romantically interested in him.

Nothing would happen between me and Sherlock Holmes. First of all, I'm not gay. Secondly, he's only interested in his work. And thirdly, I've still got Sarah... I think.

Besides, I am not gay.

Sherlock's phone buzzed from a received text. "It's Lestrade, we have a case!" He jumped up and for a moment the image of a puppy being given a new toy or going for a walk flashed into the doctor's mind. Sherlock disappeard into his room for a short time and comes back out fully dressed, hair still remarkably disheveled, and the wicked grin plastered on his face. He put on his coat and scarf and turned to look back at the doctor in his shorts and tee, still holding the folder; the tea long forgotten on the table. "Well, are you coming?"

"Oh God, yes."

My name is Doctor John H. Watson and I am NOT in love with Sherlock Holmes.