They didn't make it back to the house until nine o' clock that night. They ended up solving the case and John had insisted on the nearby pub, settling down with a shared fish and chips between them. Sherlock ended up wolfing down most of it. John mostly drank. He didn't intend to end up drunk, but he fell against Sherlock when they were in the cab and giggled about it a bit, and realised that he must have drank more than he thought.

Sherlock just sighed, shaking his head as he looked towards the window. "You're drunk."

"I am not drunk," John retorted.

"Fine. You are slightly inebriated. Does that suit you better?"

John tried to think. "I think... Wait. No?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am not explaining your behaviour to your parents."

The idea of this sobered John up more quickly than time or sleep or coffee could. "Right." He sat up straight and ran his fingers back through his hair, fixing his coat.

"What is it about your parents that makes you act so differently?" Sherlock asked, looking at John again.

John jolted, looking up at Sherlock. "Huh?"

"You sit up straight, you straighten your clothes, fix your hair, make yourself proper when they're mentioned. You've been tense ever since the phone call with your sister, and I can tell that by the tension in your neck and back, not just your eyebrows. You avoid the topic but you've been thinking about it ever since you found out and you haven't been thinking about it with kind thoughts. Not to mention the interrupted sleep pattern lately and the fact that you didn't notice the blonde woman at the pub watching you is proof that something is bothering you. The only logical solution is that there is something about your parents that makes you uncomfortable."

John's nostrils flared in irritation but he had nothing to say to that.

Sherlock didn't say anything else, but John was aware of his eyes on him the rest of the cab ride.

"This is uncomfortable," John muttered.

Sherlock shifted his arm beneath his head. "I do believe I should be the one saying that."

John stared at the ceiling, trying in vain to fall asleep. It was just... weird to have Sherlock in his bedroom. Albeit if he was sleeping on the floor.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, joints protesting as he moved. "... It really isn't comfortable, John."

John sighed. "Well, what am I supposed to do about it? Harry's on the sofa and there's no other bedroom."

"I could sleep on the sofa and your sister could sleep with you."

"That's worse than sleeping with you," John muttered.

"Why? She's your sister," Sherlock retorted.

"And the only time we have a civil conversation is over the blog or a phone call. Usually it's not even civil," John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Give me another blanket. I just don't see why I can't sleep with you."

John sighed and pushed the blankets off, stepping over Sherlock's mess of blankets and the detective's gangly form. "Because, we're at my parent's house, Sherlock. And while we know that we're... that I'm not gay, I don't care to have my Dad walk in on you cuddling me," he said, throwing another blanket to Sherlock.

"I do not cuddle."

"Please. You clung to me like a bloody octopus after that incident with the Thames." John threw a pillow down from the closet.

"My body temperature was low; it was the only logical solution." Sherlock shuffled around a bit and situated the pillow.

John crawled back into bed, sighing. "Yeah, whatever. Go to sleep. It's going to be a long weekend."

Sherlock didn't respond, but simply stared at the ceiling unblinkingly.

John woke up with a start, drenched in cold sweat and his heart pounding wildly. He sat up and groped for the lamp, flicking it on. There was a soft noise of distress from somewhere near the floor and John leaned over to look.

Sherlock flung his arm over his eyes. "Warning would be preferable next time," he said dryly.

"Why aren't you asleep?" John muttered, trying to chase the dreams away from his mind. "It's gone... half past four already."

"Thinking," Sherlock replied.

"Think about sleep," John muttered, kicking the blankets away. He was drenched in sweat and there was no way Sherlock had been oblivious to the whole thing. Of course the nightmares would return on the night where he knew (for a fact) that Sherlock was in his room. "You had a case. You should be tired."

"I should be, shouldn't I?" Sherlock echoed.

"Go to sleep," John said, as firmly as he could manage. He left the room and went to the toilet, closing the door behind him. He flicked on the light and splashed a bit of cold water on his face, leaning forward to rest his arms on the sink.

By the time that he returned to the bedroom, Sherlock was curled into a huddle and his breathing was evened out. John just crawled back into bed, after changing his shirt, and struggled to find sleep again.

Sherlock lay awake, feigning sleep, staring into the dark abyss under John's bed when he was sure that his troubled flatmate had dropped off.

"Where were you, John? You didn't get back until late," Harold said, forking a breakfast sausage.

"Got back 'round nine-thirty, actually..."

"He was out gallivanting with Sherlock," Harry said.

"We were not gallivanting," John muttered, swirling his toast in his egg yolk. "We were solving the case that brought Sherlock up here."

"What was it about?" Linda asked pleasantly.

"Serial murders, multiple amputations of men's-"

"Sherlock," John hissed, aiming a well-deserved kick at his flatmate's shin. "Sorry," he said, louder. "Ignore him. Was a serial killer, wasn't that exciting."

Sherlock hmmed, still not looking away from his phone. He'd been glued to it since Linda and Harold had insisted on him joining them for breakfast. He didn't socialise, he didn't eat, he didn't look up from the phone. So yes, John thought the kick was deserved.

Included was the fact that the bloody detective had kept him up most of the night just by being in the same room. He had half expected him to pull the warm water trick, or draw on his face with a permanent marker, but then he had realised that if Sherlock had wanted to do that, Sherlock would have done it already. It hadn't really relaxed him.

"Do you work with many... serial killers?" Linda asked timidly.

"Not enough," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes," John said loudly. "Well, no. Sorry. We've had a few... none particularly memorable, though."

He opted not to mention his and Sherlock's very first case together, nor the other times that they had gotten in trouble with serial killers. Like Jim.

"John, where's your bathroom?" Sherlock asked abruptly, looking up. "Not feeling well, I'm afraid."

John stared at him. There were no lines of pain, no noticeable change in pallor, no sweat or shivering, nothing. Sherlock just stared back at him calmly, his eyes keen and unreadable.

Slimy git, John thought bitterly, he's not ill at all. He knew that Sherlock knew he knew where the bathroom was- of course he did; they'd been there a whole day almost already- but John pointed to the hall all the same. "Second door on the left. One across from ours."

It was an out, John knew, a reason for Sherlock to excuse himself from the table so he didn't have to listen to them talk or fuss about eating. He wished he had his own out.

"Thank you." Sherlock stood fluidly and strode from the room.

John watched for any sign of dizziness or nausea, anything that would have signified that Sherlock was sick, but he found nothing. Clearly faking, then. Maybe they would both come down with an imaginary cold... Or a fake case of food poisoning. It was an idea, John had to admit.

"Is he alright?" Linda asked, looking between the doorway and John.

"What?" John glanced back at her. "Oh, no, he's fine. He's... he does terrible with flights, you know. Upset stomach and all. Lingers a bit," he lied.

"Oh. Would he take something for it?"

John- while tempted to say yes just to spite the bastard for leaving the table- shook his head. "No. He hates doctoring things. Medicine included."

"And he gets along with you?" Harold asked, eyebrows raised.

"I just try to ignore my instincts and let him run wild," John said, munching on his toast. "And catch him when he collapses."

"That doesn't sound very pleasant."

I had years of practice with Harry, John wanted to say, but, instead, he just shrugged.

"John's in love with him," Harry said, her tone sing-song, sounding like a young child who was divulging a particularly taboo secret.

John sighed. "No. Would you stop it already?"

Harry snorted. "It has to be love for you to put up with that bastard the way you do."

John sighed and put his fork down. "Right. While there's something certainly wrong with him, and probably me for putting up with it, we're not gay. And his name is Sherlock; while he doesn't care what people call him, I do."

He stood up and strode from the room without waiting for a response. He slipped back into his room and closed the door behind himself. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the door with a heavy sigh.

He had no idea what that was. He never snapped when people got on Sherlock's case. If he did, Anderson and Donovan would have been dead a long time ago. But his own parents... John guessed maybe it was stress.

There was a soft noise like a cough and John snapped his eyes open. Sherlock was sprawled on his stomach on the bed, laptop in front of his face. Except, he wasn't looking at the laptop, he was looking at John. Intently.

"Are all of your family reunions like this?" he asked in a monotone.

John sighed. "What family reunions?" He joined Sherlock, elbowing him over until there was enough space to watch the laptop. "Bring up coverage of the game. Want to listen to it."

He knew ignoring the problem wouldn't make it better, but it sure as hell couldn't make it worse, either.

Sherlock let John take control of the laptop when he joined him with little complaint. He'd already checked his email with no new results and he had better things to think about.

Like John.

Sherlock had recognised the look on John's face when his flatmate had walked into the room. He hadn't known that he was there, so it had been a glimpse straight into John's most private thoughts and Sherlock recognised the look, the body language, the tension. Everything.

It reminded Sherlock heavily of his own childhood and, not for the first time, he wondered what sort of life John had lived before he had joined the Fusiliers.

Lots of timeline breaks here, but it'll go more smoothly once the plot is up and running.

Poor Johnny. He's stressed.

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!