Trigger warning for drugs/addiction in Light.

Cake

Sherlock and Bell were about to take a bite of their cake when their phones rang.

"Joan," Sherlock predicted.

"Captain?" Bell guessed. "Uh-huh."

"Yes."

"Got it."

"Alright."

They both hung up at the same time.

"Homicide," Bell reported.

"Horrific timing. Waiter?" Called Sherlock, pulling on his coat. "I'm afraid we must duck out. Send the bill to the NYPD."

"I'm sorry, sir, we can't exactly-" They were already out the door.

Bell frowned, but it was more exasperated than frustrated. "I don't think the Captain will be too happy about that."

"He interrupted our date; he should pay for dinner."

Horse

Bell can think of eleven things he would like to wake him up. Six of them involve Sherlock Holmes. None of them involve a severed horse's head.

He trudges to the scene. Anyone densible would be exhausted, but no, late mornings are a thing of the past. It would be nice to get some coffee, though.

"Separation occured postmortem," someone proclaims. Something warm appears in Bell's hand. He looks up, and Sherlock is there, fingers lingering around the coffee cup.

"Thought you might want some." He smiles, more awake at the mere smell. "The head, yes, but the eyeballs, no..."

Light

There was a light at the end of the tunner for Sherlock. He so often wanted to spiral back down, to fall into the haze of needles and powder. It would be easy enough.

But no, no, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. The light was the friends he'd made in New York, the life he had built. And he would be damned if he let them down.

He would not fail Joan. He would not fail Gregson. He would not fail Alfredo. He would not fail Bell.

Not after everything they had been through together.

Eyes

He was dreaming.

He had to be, right?

No, Sherlock didn't dream much anymore. He rarely entered REM sleep anyway.

But for Bell to be looking at him life that, the resentment gone from his eyes? It couldn't be real.

Sherlock hadn't expected forgiveness, not after everything that had happened. He had resigned himself to the possibility that he and Bell would never really be friends again, let alone more.

It could've been a gradual thing. The anger fading slowly, replaced bit by bit with acceptance and warmth. Sherlock only noticing it now, though? No.

Or maybe it didn't matter.

Blood

Of all the times they had been injured, every bloody scrape, bruise, gunshot wound, for some reason a paper cut set Sherlock off.

He rushed to get a Band-Aid, wrapping it around Bell's finger almost ridiculously tenderly.

If Bell didn't know better, he'd swear Sherlock was about to kiss it better. He took the papers they had been rifling through to prevent further injury.

The throbbing was minimal. Nothing, really, compared to what he'd gotten in the field.

As if he sensed the incredulity, Sherlock muttered, "One should be safe in one's own home."

Bell looked around the brownstone. Home.

I DID IT
I'm so sorry this is late. But technically, it's still the 15th. It's Saturnight; it's not Sunday until I go to bed. Which I haven't.
The quality of these might be somewhat... lacking... considering it's 3AM. But who knows! Maybe they're sleep-deprived genius!
Tell me which in the reviews =D