The morning light shown in the window too early for John's liking, but he rolled over, making an attempt to shift his tired body out of bed. Being woken up early in the morning takes a toll on people, but it wasn't as if he wasn't used to Sherlock's wake up calls. In fact, sometimes he wondered if Sherlock just did that to get his attention. In wasn't until he was about to tumble out of bed when he heard the water running downstairs.

He got up, groaning as he stretched, wrapping his dressing gown around him once again, and trudged down the stairs. Sherlock wasn't anywhere to be seen, and his brain hadn't woken up enough to comprehend that his godly flatmate was in the shower. In fact, the coffee was brewing when Sherlock stepped out, towel wrapped tightly around his waist, hair still dripping wet when John put two and two together, and stood there gaping at him.

Sherlock's dark curls were weighted down by the water, which dripped down his perfectly sculpted chest. His abs, which showed above the towel, were tight and toned to perfection. Sherlock had the body ever man worked their whole life for, and yet, he didn't seem to care. He knew he had announced before that he wasn't gay, but right now, he was trying to find a way to take it back. Well, being bi wasn't the same as being gay, so it could be a good enough reason.

Sherlock smirked lightly. "You're staring, John." He said with a slight chuckle in his voice. John didn't even look away, he just blushed, and darkly. His brain slowly tried to form a sentence, but even when he went to speak, his voice wouldn't work. It took about five minutes for him to manage one word.

"Breakfast?" He asked, finally finding his voice. Sherlock shrugged, sitting at the table in front of his microscope, not bothering to get dressed yet. John flushed more as he set a cup of coffee beside the numerous amounts of Petri dishes stacked up beside the microscope, his hand brushing against Sherlock's bare arm. There was no way he was going to make it through the morning if Sherlock kept insisting on not getting dressed, but secretly, and honestly, he could care less.

Deciding better than to ask again, he scrambled the three eggs that were left in the fridge, fried up some bacon, popped four pieces of bread into the toaster, and pulled out two places. It wasn't long before a pair of arms wrapped around his waist and hot air brushed across his ear. John flushed at the feeling of the still wet and bare chest of Sherlock's pressed against his back, with only a dressing gown between their bare skin. Surprisingly, the position felt… right.

He quickly dished up the breakfast, equally distributing it between the two of them then, turning around to face Sherlock, their lips brushed softly. It took all he could to keep a grip on the plates in his hands, instinctively freezing at the contact. Sherlock moved back, looking almost apologetic. Sherlock was apologetic? No, it couldn't be. He would never apologize, to anyone, and especially not for something like that.

"Breakfast actually sounds good right now." Sherlock said after a moment. John nodded, setting the plates on the table, after pushing all of the science clutter out of the way. Sherlock, for once, sat like a normal adult instead of a five year old child with his feet tucked up under him. He smiled to himself, settling for the chair across from the microscope.

"So, any new cases, experiments, or anything truly exciting on the agenda today?" John asked between bites. Sherlock nodded once, but didn't say anything on what he was planning to do; instead, he busied himself with shoveling food into his mouth. For some reason, this only made John smile more with excitement, his mind buzzing about, deducing what Sherlock could possibly be hiding. Maybe it was exploding rocks, or mixing two completely unknown chemical compounds together to see what would happen. With Sherlock Holmes, one could never be sure what to expect. All John knew was that this was going to be a surprisingly good day.


John hadn't been able to decode what Sherlock was planning, but he needed to sleep. A hot shower had done the trick to make him ready to doze off as he let himself fall helplessly into his usual chair. Sherlock was buzzing about the flat, probably taking inventory of his experiment components and making a mental list of what to get on his next trip to the morgue. Honestly, just as long as there wasn't making too much noise, he didn't care. It wasn't too long before he fell into a much needed, recently deprived, sleep.

The dreams that followed John were usually ones of horror and death and caused him to wake up with screams echoing through his head. But this time, he didn't dream of the war, or of the army, or of friends in the army. He dreamt of Sherlock; the perfectly built chest, the palest of pale skin, the softest touch with those long and slim fingers that could pick any lock in London, the pink lips that brushed gently against his earlier that morning.

Sleep was pleasant for a change. John actually felt at peace with the world. It was the first time he'd dreamt of Sherlock, but somewhere in his subconscious, he knew the reason why.

When their lips had brushed for the first time in the kitchen, it felt as though lightning had struck him. His heart faltered slightly before pounding all too hard in his chest. His breath had caught in his throat and it stayed there until Sherlock had pulled away. His body felt on fire, but it had only lasted while his godly flatmate had been closer to him than anyone had been in what seemed like years.

John suddenly woke with a start. His body was suddenly telling him what he hadn't expected. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective and god on earth. He turned to find that a sticky note was posted on the laptop lid, positioned on the desk where he could read it with ease.

Be back later. Went to buy food. Tea is ready to make when you wake. –SH