The faintest strains of a violin welcomed him out of the cab later that night. Mozart, by the sound of it, something frustrated and wild, like a bird trying to beat its way out of a cage. A new case then, some sort of puzzle needing a frantic soundtrack as it ricocheted around the corridors of Sherlock's mind. So much for tomorrow night. John found it a bit of a disappointment.

His evening hadn't gone quite as expected; not that he hadn't enjoyed catching up with Bill or had more than one woman approach him. But it felt...strange. Empty. Hollow. Boring. The same routine he'd done while he was at uni, the few bars he'd been to on leave, the same old workable, comfortable routine. God, it was deadly dull.

He climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to disturb Sherlock in the middle of a brain-dance, wondering what adventure they'd be off on next. But he stopped as the violin screeched to a halt, Sherlock's low, musical voice replacing it.

"So, no sexual escapades tonight, Doctor? Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Shall I seduce an extra for you, or would you just prefer to watch?" The smooth baritone floated down the stairs, all velvet bile.

The man deserved a beating. Regularly. John only partly veiled his irritation. "I told you I'd be home early. A couple of pints and a dance or two. And that's what happened." He climbed the last of the stairs and headed for the red armchair he usually claimed. "You haven't got a case? You were playing your...puzzle music when I came in."

"I was working on a puzzle. It just wasn't a case." Sherlock placed the violin and bow in their case. "I do occasionally think of other things." Arctic eyes met John's. "Ah, so your evening was disappointing. I told you it would be. You really should listen to me. I'm generally right."

"Not...disappointing so much. Predictable." He hated admitting it. "But then I wasn't aiming for much adventure tonight, remember? Bill noticed, though. Gave me a right ribbing for it, said I'm losing my touch."

The faintest twitch graced the corners of Sherlock's lips. "I warned you Mulligan's is boring. Crap telly is less tedious." He picked up the violin again and settled on the couch. "Tea, John. I'll play Mendelssohn."

"For Mendelssohn I'll ignore the absence of a 'please' in there." He dropped his jacket over the back of the chair and moved to fill the kettle. "Did you actually eat something tonight? Don't make me nag you more."

"Yes." Drawn out as only Sherlock could, an unspoken "boring" lighting the air of the flat in neon colors. Then the expected silence and thump of long, narrow feet onto the sofa, and John imagined the dirty look boring into his back.

"...too blasted cuddly for your own good..."

Surely he hadn't heard... "I'm sorry, what?"

"Absolutely impossible to argue with..."

That's more like it. John chuckled as he set the kettle on to boil. "Good. If you're not arguing with me, I might manage to get you to eat more than once a week." More silence. "Maybe even twice a week." He rummaged in the cupboard for the last of the biscuits.

The growl sounded about right. John didn't catch the first part of the mutter, or even the second. "...damned jumpers. No man should look appealing in those. It's an affront to logic." The mutter decreased and the violin strings sang in protest, most definitely not Mendelssohn. "...completely detrimental to clear, concise analysis..."

"What?" He checked the tea tin and made a mental note to add tea to the shopping along with the biscuits. "What did you say?"

The plucked strings of the violin answered, sharp and discordant.

"Sherlock?"

"...constantly gallivanting off to romance..."

"What the hell are you wittering on about?" He hadn't even realized he'd poked his head out of the kitchen and was now glaring at the prone form on the sofa. He took in the wide grey eyes staring back at him and felt immediately contrite. "Sorry. I couldn't hear you is all, just got bits and pieces and...sorry. It wasn't cause enough to snap at you."

"You. You're not...logical. It's irritating. I understand the appeal you have for a great many women. The safety factor. I get that. But now it's even impacting me." Pale eyes flashed with irate fire.

"I'd hardly call me safe." The kettle bubbled and he turned it off, pouring water into two cups where he'd already added a teaspoon of sugar for himself and two for Sherlock. "Former soldier, front lines, all that post-traumatic stuff going on, you know..."

"It's not that you're safe, John. It's that you make others feel safe. It's the...cuddle factor."

"The what?" He wasn't sure he'd heard the word "cuddle" actually cross Sherlock's lips. Fortunately he still had the milk to add to their tea while he recovered.

"The cuddle factor. It's all part and parcel with those damned jumpers of yours and the almost knightly courtesy and that giggle and that grin and... all of it. It makes it patently impossible to maintain a decent argument with you, to even remain miffed at you for any length of time—especially if you go off in inclement weather—or to do things that make you get that completely annoying look on your face." The violin nearly screamed in displeasure. "It's absurdly unfair of you."

"Because I'm...cuddly." Okay, maybe those nicotine patches were laced with something considerably stronger. John regained his composure enough to bring a tray with their teas and the plate of biscuits over to the coffee table, nudging Sherlock's feet further back so he could sit. "You're joking, right?"

The death-glare clearly indicated Sherlock was as far from joking as he could possibly be. "You're doing it now. Were you anyone but you, I would hurl you down the stairs uncaring of the number of broken bones which would result. Instead, I'm accepting a cuppa from your hands, which I know will be perfect because you always make my tea perfectly. It really is deeply unfair of you, John."

"So you're hacked off at me because I make a perfect cup of tea. That's...strangely not strange." John sipped at his tea for a moment, playing the conversation back in his head, trying to find the logical thread that always existed under the walkabout. "Cuddly." The sheer absurdity of it left him shaking his head before turning to look at Sherlock again. "Cuddly?"

"Repeating it won't make it untrue. You're appallingly cuddly. Distractingly so. Unnervingly so. Eighty-two percent of the time you look like you hug kittens for a living." Sherlock glared. "At first, I thought you might actually have plotted it, but after thirty-seven-point-three seconds decided that was just silly. It is merely your natural state."

"Ookay." It seemed wisest to just let the subject slide. Otherwise he'd spend the rest of the evening locked in a circular discussion that made no sense whatsoever. He contented himself with a couple of biscuits and let the silence settle.

Sherlock set the violin on the rug and sat up enough to take a tentative sip of his tea. "Perfect. I knew it would be." He hissed his displeasure. "Well, there's nothing for it." He sighed and settled back. "Most truly unfair. I'll simply have to find some way to combat it. Until I do, I must resign myself to being unable to remain miffed at you."

"I'd apologize if I knew what the hell I was doing to irritate you." Really, the man was enough to drive a person right off his chump. John let the mutter dip into his teacup. "Cuddly..."

"As a teddy bear." Sherlock grinned. "Already you've worked your magic and I'm back in charity with you." The grin grew. "And if you insist on repeating that all night, I'll warn you in about three more rounds I'm going to have to kiss you just to get it out of my system."

Thank God for milk. Otherwise, the tea inhaled and subsequently discharged through his nasal passages would have burned a lot more. "What?"

"Don't worry, it wouldn't go any further than that. I usually have amazing self-control." Sherlock folded his hands behind his head. "But you really are just too damned cuddly for your own—or my, for that matter—good."

"That bad? Really?" John grabbed the jumper he'd left on the nearby chair to mop up the worst of the mess. Hope those weren't important papers strewn on the coffee table.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing, John. Do try to keep up." Sherlock's eyes warmed from grey to a near blue. "I find it...endearing. Which is no doubt part of the cuddle factor. Still..." He settled into a pose of thoughtful consideration, hands folded as if in prayer, fingers barely touching his full lips, gaze unfocused. "Yes...quite. A very necessary part of the equation."

"The equation that ends in you having to kiss me to...get it out of your system." John wasn't sure whether to be insulted, interested, or very, very afraid. All three emotions quite likely showed up on his face as his blood tried to simultaneously pool in and drain from his cerebellum.

"And don't look at me like that or I really will have to kiss you. The cuddle factor is increasing."

So was the warmth in Sherlock's eyes. Not Good. Very Not Good. Words like kiss and cuddle should not fall so easily from Sherlock's mouth, shouldn't sound so smooth and round and full in his voice.

"It's fast approaching irresistible."

Okay, fear's good... Or maybe he should just assume he'd fallen asleep and this was simply his subconscious on a tour of the Twilight Zone. Oh, what the hell. It'll get me out of this conversation if nothing else. John set down his teacup and faced the nemesis of his theta-waves. "Well...if it's that bad...but just a kiss, okay? Three seconds, five if you must. Then I'm going upstairs and locking my door. In the morning I'll wake up and find this entire conversation was just an ale-induced dream."

"I fear now you've added a...a..." Sherlock looked as though he might break down or possibly retch. "Oh, God help me, a hug to the equation now. A certain need to offer comfort appears to have become embedded in my psyche and I can't dislodge it. Really, John! Did you have to do that?" Honestly, Sherlock looked as if he might weep.

John blinked. "You're completely mental; you know that."

"I wasn't until you moved in. Now I fear I've gone completely 'round the twist."

The sight of the world's only consulting detective clutching the sides of his own head and groaning in utter melodrama just topped off the surreal evening and John found himself laughing until he was breathless, the same soul-filling giggle his flatmate had induced the very first night they'd shared this space. God, my life is fantastic...barmy as hell, but fantastic...

"You're...amazing. Cuddly and amazing." Pale blue framed by riotous dark curls filled John's vision. "I did warn you." Soft lips brushed his. Nothing more. Just the gentlest touch for a handful of seconds. "And I really should go to bed now. Goodnight, John."

John sat for a long while in the dark silence of the flat before he went upstairs.