Okay everybody, this is inspired by the Plain White T's song, "Our Song." It's so awesome. I seriously love every song on that album. Which is weird for me. I'm hoping to finish/upload my first rated M fic this week, so I'll keep you guys posted on that front. Hope you guys enjoy. ^.^


"The sheets have just been washed." He bent down and took in a deep breath, and the brightly clean and yet slightly musty smell of the bed filled his nostrils. "They've been in storage. They used bleach to clean the sheets, luckily they were already white so it's not as noticeable, but they haven't had to use them in a while. Not surprising considering her social skills."

"Oh do calm yourself, Sherlock." Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother, and his pointless deduction. Sherlock was just trying to prove that he was smart. He was trying to dominate the room, dominate him. It wasn't going to work.

"If I have to come to this inane reunion, then I am allowed to observe. Don't feel threatened that your popularity among our family will decrease just because your odd little brother Sherlock is smarter than you."

They both glared, but Mycroft merely rolled his eyes again, and left the room. Sherlock continued to stare daggers at the door. And then his phone rang.

Not pinged. Rang.

He picked up his phone. It was John.

"Hello, John." Sherlock said.

"Hey, Sherlock. How are you?" John asked.

"Awful."

"Me too. I didn't even like the bloke when I was in the service, and now I have to attend his funeral."

"You could've ignored the request."

"Yeah…I know. But I think it would've been more trouble than it's worth. The guy, Simmons, we used to call him Scrooge when he wasn't around. It's probably going to be a very cheap funeral. I bet there won't be any food."

Sherlock chuckled at John's ease at speaking ill of this dead man, Simmons. It was that fire in John that he loved and missed having with him now. He could've used that spunk here, to rile the relatives. But Mycroft wouldn't have warmed to the idea of John accompanying Sherlock to a family reunion. Honestly, Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if Mycroft had killed Simmons and summoned John to his funeral, just so he would be busy during the reunion.

"How are the beds? At the hotel?"

"Decent. I didn't want to pay too much though, so…yeah. Take that as you will. How about yours?"

"They've been bleached. Haven't been used in a while because they haven't had guests, so they're trying to compensate by making them as white as possible."

Both men sighed in unison.

"It's only for a few days."

"Yes, I know."

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"I miss you. And Baker Street. And my own bed. And my skull. Mycroft wouldn't let me bring it." John could hear the pout in the last sentence and gave a light-hearted laugh. The sound of it made Sherlock smile a little. It reminded him of home.

Maybe that was it. Maybe John was his home.

"I wish you were here, Sherlock. You'd make the funeral interesting. You'd fluster all of those pompous military gits. It'd be so brilliant. You'd make it fun."

Both men smiled.

"You really miss me?"

"Of course I do, moron. I always miss you." John said exasperatedly. He didn't want to get too sentimental, but he was enjoying talking to Sherlock, and Sherlock could hear the flirtation in his words. John hesitated. "Do you really miss me?"

"Of course, you idiot." Sherlock laughed, that deep, rumbling laugh that only John knew, and it made him laugh as well.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"This room feels like hell. Seriously. I hate this bloody room. And this bed. It's not right."

"Because it's not ours?"

"Yeah…" They thought of how often they spent sleeping in the same bed, and how it really had become their bed.

Sherlock smiled, and so did John, and even though they couldn't see each other, they both knew the other one was too.

"Sherlock!"

"What is it, Mycroft?" Sherlock sighed, looking at the intruder, who had not even bothered to knock before barging in.

"Come in here now. People are here."

"Then I believe where I am is where I would like to remain."

"Now, Sherlock. And I swear, if you mention, or observe," he said with disdain, "anything about Aunt Imogene's drinking I will kill you."

"Tell that prat 'over my dead body.'" John snarled. Sherlock merely gave a throaty chuckle at John's threat.

Mycroft's lips tightened at this response (as he had not heard John's comment), which he interpreted as Sherlock ignoring his order.

"Now. Sherlock."

"Fine. I'll be out there in two minutes." He barked, and Mycroft turned on his heels and strode out of the room.

"God I hate him." John sighed. "So we've got two minutes?"

"One minute. The other will be my walking there."

"Oh." John said, disappointed.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I miss you."

"I miss you too. I'll leave as early as I can, promise."

"As do I."

"Have a good time."

"Without you? Impossible."

And they both hung up without a goodbye, because they knew each other so well that they didn't need to. And they began to count down the hours until they would see their bed. Until they would see their home. Until they would see the other.