A/N: Hello all you beautiful readers, just wanted to let you all know how much I love your kind reviews and the fact that you read this nonsense of mine. a huge thank you to Rubberbird who mentioned this fic on Tumblr, thanks hon!

Allons-y!

John channel hopped for a while before he stumbled upon an announcer saying that the Jim Carrey version of "A Christmas Carol" was just about to start. He headed to the kitchen, made an entire pot of tea, grabbed two rolls of Hobnobs and settled down in front of the telly.

He could hear Sherlock shuffling around upstairs—no loud thumps or crashing yet.

After a good half hour John heard footsteps descending the stairs, just Sherlock needing a cuppa he thought; after about ten minutes time Sherlock entered the living room with a steaming cuppa in his hands.

"Can I join you?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

God was he acting strange John thought, but this was better than a moody and self-destructive Sherlock. John had even noticed that he wasn't smoking more than one or two a day now (well, what he saw and smelled anyway).

"Sure, and Sherlock, you don't have to ask, we're mates right? If I didn't want you here I'd have chucked you out of the room, okay? Besides, this is your house." John laughed.

Sherlock sat himself next to him on the sofa, again very strange; he usually took up one of the large armchairs.

"What are we watching?" Sherlock asked as he nicked a Hobnob.

"A Christmas Carol, the Jim Carrey one," John answered taking a sip of his tea. "Have you read the book?" He looked over at Sherlock.

"Of course I have," Sherlock snarled, keeping his gaze on the telly. Ah, there was the Sherlock John knew and it made him smile.

"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock asked; god that boy doesn't miss a thing does he?

"Oh, nothing, nothing," John replied, keeping his cool.

Sherlock was squirming on the sofa while they watched the film. By the end, Sherlock was half-lying, half-sitting, so his toes just about touched John's thigh. John felt the heat radiating from Sherlock—his stomach made a summersault. He once again did all he could to mute his subconscious thoughts.

The film ended around three o'clock; John rose to go to the loo while Sherlock stayed on the couch. John looked over, Sherlock had fallen asleep. John smiled and covered him with a blanket.

Coming back from the loo John took notice of Sherlock's shifting. He was turned around, now lying on his side with his face firmly planted in the pillow John had been sitting against. John smiled again and gathered up the mugs, pot and rubbish, cleaned up the kitchen and headed upstairs for a shower and change of clothes before they went out. He smiled at the thought—when they went out—Sherlock had in fact suggested what most people would consider a date, but John knew better. Sherlock didn't date. Sherlock had not in the four months they had known each other, make one sign of being interested in dating anyone, girls or boys.

A sixteen year old bloke would have, at some point during four months, talked of sex, boobs, girls, boys, or things alike. Even when John had to go to the loo during the night, he hadn't caught Sherlock masturbating or anything. John had resolved that perhaps Sherlock was in fact asexual.

John threw his clothes in the hamper, which was already full by now. Geesh, no wonder his mum was bitching on about the amount of washing a teenage boy produced. He went off to the shower. He dressed into a pair of black jeans and his black and white striped jumper. Upon his return downstairs he took his laundry with him, searching for a washing room. He found one in the basement; yes, the house had a basement too apparently. He sorted his clothes out like his mum taught him and started the washing machine.

He went back upstairs and checked the living room, he found the sofa Sherlock-less—he had woken during John's shower. John ventured upstairs and knocked on Sherlock's door.

"Oh come on in Watson," Sherlock yelled from the other side. He was lying, sprawled on his bed reading a magazine of sorts in nothing but boxers and his burgundy dressing gown—which covered neither chest nor boxers.

"Geesh, Sherlock, put some clothes on would you?" John huffed.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, utterly perplexed.

"Because, argh, never mind, I know arguing with you is a lost cause." John resigned and sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, trying his best not to sneak a peek.

"Why did you not wake me?" Sherlock asked, clearly offended.

"Well, you don't really sleep, so I thought that a nap would do you good."

"Do me good? Oh, please! Only the simple minded need that much sleep, I function quite well on four hours or less." Sherlock huffed, not looking away from the magazine. John laughed. Sherlock looked up at him, confused by the laughter.

"You did it again Sherlock, offended me, by saying that, you basically called me an idiot." John shook his head.

"You know I don't mean you, John." Sherlock slammed down the magazine on the bed stand and sat up next to him.

"Let me put on some clothes and we're off okay?" Sherlock asked, trying for a friendly tone. It did not convince John.

"Yeah alright, I'll pop to my room."

"Oh don't be silly, it'll only take me two seconds. Besides you've already changed and have your stuff in your pockets," at that Sherlock discarded the dressing gown and put on a pair of black slacks and a tight fitted, deep purple, shirt. He grabbed his phone, keys, and walled from his desk.

"Ready when you are Watson." Sherlock held the door open and John jumped from the bed and rushed out of the room.

They walked through St. James' Park; John saw all the brilliant Christmas lights. A lot of families were taking a walk before the hectic of Christmas was upon them. John marveled at the sights. It was just so beautiful.

They bought two coffees to go from a vendor and drank while they walked. They stopped by Buckingham Palace to have a look at the splendor of it all. They continued down the Mall and walked in the direction of Convent Garden. Sherlock and John chatted idly away as they walked. Sherlock doing most of the talking since it was about his experiments, but John listened gladly. He wasn't bad at chemistry and physics, but Sherlock was a bit (well loads) more advanced than he was. He still listened gladly to the rambling of his friend.

John quickly snapped a photo of Sherlock by the Convent Garden Christmas tree when he was looking away. Sherlock led them to a restaurant down a secluded road. The owner seemed to know him.

"Ah, mister Sherlock, good to see you; whatever you and your date want it's on the house okay." The man was clearly Italian.

"I'm not his—" but the man was gone before John could finish his sentence. John looked over at Sherlock. "Do you know every single restaurant owner in the greater London area?"

"No, only the good ones; I helped Udolpho out when he was in a dodgy situation, mostly due to tax fraud." Sherlock said as he skimmed the menu.

"Right," John knew better than to ask further; he looked down the menu too. "I think I'll have the spaghetti a la carbonara."

Sherlock looked over at Udolpho and he came rushing towards them.

"The spaghetti a la carbonara, the tomato soup, and two large cokes, please." Sherlock ordered for them.

"Very good Mr. Holmes, for you I shall make it myself!" Udolpho then yelled something in Italian to his waiter and went into the kitchens.

"So John, are you enjoying your visit here in London, or are you regretting it? Wanting to be back with your family?" Sherlock asked.

"Very much, not one bit of regret from me. I would be cooped up in my bedroom playing Amnesia or something if I was back home. This is much better. I could get used to this, not having anyone other than ourselves to answer to." John blushed a bit, he had accidently insinuated that he wanted to move in with Sherlock.

"Amnesia?" Sherlock asked, John's insides sighed with relief. Sherlock had either not picked up on his insinuation or he had the courtesy to not bring it up.

"It's a horror game, for us simple minded mortals." John smiled.

Their drinks arrived and their food followed soon after. They ate in silence, a comfortable silence though. John thought about the idea of living with Sherlock, in London, when they left St. Barts. He could really picture that, but he still didn't really know what he wanted to do when he left Barts, perhaps he could—

"Shut up." Sherlock said, dragging John back to reality.

"I haven't said anything!" John hissed

"No, but you are thinking, very loudly." Sherlock huffed.

"Oh come on, even the great mastermind of Sherlock Holmes can't read minds." John laughed, but a slight worry came across his mind, "Can you?"

"Of course I can't. No one can, but your face is showing it and it's slightly off putting." Sherlock said as he finished his soup.

"I'm sorry?" John said, finishing his spaghetti and drinking the last of his coke.

"I'm in dying need of a fag, let's get out of here."

Sherlock got the attention of Udolpho, and after a bit of bickering between the two, Udolpho got his way and the two of them thanked him for a free meal.

They got a cab home; John had begun to feel the strain on his dodgy leg. They arrived home around nine; Sherlock went upstairs to work on some of his experiments. John borrowed a book from the massive collection in the library—of course they had a freaking library in the mega house too.

John went to Sherlock's room, knocked and went in.

"Well I'm settling for the night, goodnight Sherlock, and thank you for a great day."

Sherlock looked up from his experiment and gave John a vague hint of a smile, "You too, John, goodnight."

John left Sherlock's room and headed to his own. Changed into his pyjamas and snuggled up in the huge and incredibly comfy bed and started to read. He had read the book several times before but it was one of his guilty pleasures. The idea of Neverland, of never growing up; as a kid he often wished he was one of the lost boys, taken by Peter Pan to Neverland—a place with no arguing parents, drunken sisters, or expectations.

He read on late into the night, finishing the book and settled down for another sleep, filled with dreams of flying away. This time he wasn't alone on his journey, this time he was flying off to Neverland holding a pale, long-fingered, hand.