Thank you guys so much for your nice reviews, the favs and the follows!
I'd never thought people would actually like my story.

So, a little sooner than planned (I just couldn't wait any longer), here's chapter 2.

I don't know if I can live up to your expectations, but I hope you'll enjoy it :)
Comments & criticism are always welcome.


Sherlock Holmes was sulking on the couch in 221B and waiting for John to return.
What could take him so long? Normally he should already be back home.
John always went to the same places with his dates (dull) and no matter which one he chose this time (although Sherlock was rather sure it was the little café just two streets away, he could tell from John's shoes), it shouldn't take more than 10 minutes to get here.

Sherlock didn't like it when John went on dates.
Why would John want to do that? Meet uninteresting women who couldn't meet his expectations anyway.

Hadn't John everything he wanted here? With him in Baker Street?

He just couldn't understand John's need for those stupid dates.
What could he possibly get out of them?

Sherlock already gave John what he wanted:

Comradeship.
Sherlock had never had a friend before and now John was his best friend, the most important person in his life (except from himself) – what could John expect more?

Happiness.
John was happy. Everybody could see that.
Since John moved into Baker Street he was laughing more and he liked their way of life. He felt at home here.
Sherlock could read it in the way he behaved, how he coped with everything Sherlock threw at him, and in his eyes.
John's eyes...

Sherlock shook his head to get the thought out of his head.
Useless sentiment.
Back to the case at hand.

What was there more that John could want?

Ah. Danger.
Well that was certainly something that John got from their ... 'relationship'.
And it was certainly something that only Sherlock could provide.

So why would John still want to date? He got everything he needed from Sherlock.
Those women could never give John what he needed.

And still John went on his stupid dates with those boring women and was therefore not available to Sherlock. (At least not immediately – John still came running home when Sherlock texted him, Sherlock thought with a mischievous smile.)

But somehow ... the thought of John wasting his time dating instead of spending his time here with him ... bothered the detective.
... WHY?

Sherlock didn't understand that.
What was wrong with him? He had never cared if John was dating or not.
Hell, he had never cared what anybody did and now he was here, fussing about John's useless dates?

He had even met some of John's dates - but they had all broken up with John sooner or later.
And Sherlock knew that at least one of the reasons they broke up with John was Sherlock himself and John's relationship to him (Sherlock couldn't deny that it gave him a kind of smug feeling, though he'd never admit it to anyone).

Sherlock smiled softly.
He had a lot of influence on John's life – if John was dating or not and if John wanted him to or not.

Sherlock was aware that many people thought he was in a romantic relationship with John.

He even knew about the betting pool at the Yard.
He snorted. Betting if he and John were shagging and just denying it or, if they didn't, when they would start. Ridiculous.

Sherlock dismissed the thought. Childish behaviour.
It didn't matter what they thought about him and John.
Nobody knew John better than him and if these imbeciles thought they could see something Sherlock couldn't, they were simply wrong.
No point in discussing that. And it didn't help him solve the problem with the dates either.

At that moment he heard the front door open, close and steps on the staircase.

Sherlock knew that these were John's steps.
He had a certain way of taking the steps that Sherlock could recognize under thousands.

Quietly Sherlock turned his back to the room and faced the back of the sofa in order to look more pouting (and to make John feel guilty, because it took him so long to get back), when John entered the room.

He heard John stopping in the doorway.
He could imagine him taking a look around the room until his gaze fell on Sherlock on the sofa.
Then he heard him coming nearer.

"Sherlock."

Two steps.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer nor move and he felt John sitting down beside him.

"Sherlock, I'm back. What did you want?"

He could feel John's gaze on him, but Sherlock still didn't answer. He wanted John to know he was moping.
John sighed and stood up.

... What?

Sherlock's head snapped around. This was odd.
No 'Sherlock, I was on a date. You know you shouldn't text me unless it's really important'-speech?

Sherlock quickly turned completely around to see where John went. He wouldn't just leave again, would he?

Ah. John was going into the kitchen to make tea.
Sherlock felt something heavy lifting from his heart.
This was how it was supposed to be. John coming home to Sherlock and making tea.
Because that's what John always did.

Right. John would never just leave Sherlock, would he?
And he would always come back to him.

Sherlock took a second to think and then got up from the sofa to follow John into the kitchen.

He leaned against the desk on which he had worked on some really interesting experiments about livers this morning (but which he had finished soon after John had went on his date and it hadn't taken long for him then to be cross with John for leaving him to go to his unnecessary date).

Silently, Sherlock watched John making tea.

He didn't know why, but somehow he enjoyed the way John was doing the housework.
Every move was sure, no second thought about what he had to do; effective, no useless embellishments; just the plain work.

He was that absorbed in observing John working that Sherlock completely forgot to make some noises – so that John would know Sherlock was behind him.
John never heard Sherlock moving around the flat (except when Sherlock wanted him to).

Hence when John finally turned around with two cups of hot tea in his hands, he jerked, half of the tea splashed onto the floor and John slipped.

Sherlock reacted instinctively. His arm shot forward quickly, he took hold of John's wrist and pulled John close to his body. Then he put his arm around John in order to hold him stable.

For a moment, they just stayed in that position, their chests lifting and falling quickly, their hearts beating fast from the adrenaline.
And ... it felt ... good. Sherlock quite liked the warm feeling of John's body pressed so close to his.
It made his stomach tingle, his heart beating even faster, he felt a little bit dizzy, he -

Before Sherlock could analyze the feeling any more, John pulled away slightly and looked up to Sherlock.

"Ehm ... thanks for ..." He cleared his throat. "For catching me."

"No problem." Sherlock's voice sounded strange to him, like it was somebody else's voice coming out of his mouth.

He looked down in John's eyes and felt that funny tingle in his stomach again.
Somehow John seemed different somehow.
And ... was it the light or was John blushing?

No.

Why should John be blushing?
There was no reason to.

Then John completely pulled away and Sherlock felt a strange wave of disappointment rushing over him.
What was wrong with him today?

John put the mugs down on the counter and took a towel to clean up the mess on the floor.
Sherlock didn't pay attention anymore. He had already gone to his mind palace.

Automatically, he turned around and went back to the sofa, where he flopped down, put his hands together under his chin and tried to classify the curious feelings and thoughts he was having today.

A few minutes later, he was that deep in his mind palace again that everything around him was just a blur. He didn't even notice when John came back into the sitting room, put Sherlock's mug on the table in front of him and then headed straight to his room upstairs.