A/N: I am so incredibly unsatisfied with this chapter, but I have no idea what to do with it so here you are =_=' Oh and I just realised last night that the line breaks weren't showing up properly to break up the chapters, becauseI'manidiot. I didn't even know you could edit on doc manager...hah...hah.

Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, thank you people who added this to their alerts, we reached over 20 alert peoples! :D

Please review, IhavenoideawhatI'mdoing.

John mumbled incoherently into the pillow he'd apparently been drooling on before rolling over onto his back and sitting up. He had genuinely no idea where he was, it definitely wasn't his room. Glancing around the room as a vague sense of panic settled in him before he finally noticed Sherlock watching from the corner.
"Morning."The taller said in an unnervingly neutral tone.
"This is your room?"
"No, I broke into someone else's and decided to wait around for the entire night." Sherlock replied dryly.
John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, swinging his legs off the bed to perch on the edge,
"Why am I here?"
"You were left on the field."
"What do you mean left?" John asked, though as he said it snippets of the previous night came back to him. He groaned and let his head drop into his hands, "Nevermind, I remember."

He could have sworn he saw Sherlock smile, but by the time he looked up the other's face was as blank as before. John internally slapped himself; he'd actually chosen those tossers over probably the most irritating but equally brilliant person he'd ever met. A small part of him panicked, that couldn't be a normal way to think of even ones closest friend, but a much larger part couldn't bring itself to be even slightly bothered. After all, Sherlock was hardly normal, why should he be normal about him?

He sighed softly and moved on from that confusing train of thought and tried to recall the events of last night. He could only remember small sections; he remembered the beginning of the night and waking on the field. Nauseous dread washed over him as he suddenly remembered stumbling into Sherlock's room, rambling at the taller. Eyes drawn to him, he recalled startlingly vividly telling Sherlock how clever he was, how annoying he was and fatally, how hot he was. John could feel the panic climbing up his throat, clawing mercilessly as it went. But then Sherlock hadn't really reacted, had he? He certainly didn't seem inclined to mention it now morning had dawned. Making an effort to calm his breathing John tried to think it through, surely he would have said something if he was going to by that point. More likely he took it as drunken ramblings, they didn't mean anything. Sherlock was more than a little clever; he would have worked that much out. John nodded minutely, ignoring the dull sense of disappointment settling in his stomach.

"Thank you," He suddenly piped up, "For letting me stay."
Sherlock started at the sudden interruption of his thoughts and turned to look at the other,
"Oh, um, it's fine."
"Sorry. For being a twat generally." The words came out blurred together and barely comprehensible.
"That's fine too."
After a slightly awkward moment of silence Sherlock gave John a tiny smile. John smiled back.

John wandered down to breakfast later than usual; having taken care to make sure his roommate had left by the time he went back to his room. He would have loved to run into him, but he doubted he'd get away with punching him in the face. As he walked into the hall he noticed the same group of people he'd been sitting with for the past week, except that morning he had even less desire to sit with them than usual. Shooting them a pointedly disgusted look he walked over to where Sherlock was sitting, near the back with a few other people.

Sherlock didn't even look up when John sat down, in fact it took him several minutes to notice he'd even arrived, so absorbed was he in whatever he was reading. The other smiled amusedly, picking at his food.

"When did you get here?" Sherlock asked suddenly, making the shorter boy jump and nearly knock over his glass.
Looking up with an expression of mock-irritation he replied,
"About five minutes ago, don't mind me, wouldn't want to interrupt."
"And yet you've become so adept at it." He retorted.
John snorted somewhat inelegantly as he pushed his bowl away from himself.
"It's nice to know you value my company."
"Why of course, so much so I've stolen you away from your dear friends." An amused smile played on his lips as he nodded towards the boys who were trying to surreptitiously glance over.
"What are they looking at?" He frowned, throwing them an annoyed look before turning back around.
Sherlock shrugged offhandedly, though he had his suspicions.

Staring out of the library window, Sherlock sighed deeply. He was always so careful about people, getting to involved generally only meant trouble. Yet somehow before he'd realised it he'd got himself tangled up in someone's life, he cared a lot more than he'd like to admit. He chuckled grimly at the thought of what Mycroft's reaction would be to know he'd found himself a friend, and not even a useful one. It wasn't the way they were meant to work; the Holmes family was cold, unattached and ultimately hugely successful. Groaning quietly he slumped back in his chair, he didn't know what he was doing anymore. It was bizarre, the way everything was going along more or less in the same way it always did, but it seemed to him it had changed completely. He was probably getting too close, far too close. A friend he could deal with, but anything deeper was completely out of the question. He dropped his head heavily onto the desk, John's drunken words still circling round his mind.