A/N: Okay another fluffy one for you, a bit shorter this time though. I promise plot next time but I couldn't get these scenes out of my head. Thanks for all the reviews. You guys are amazing and to avoid gushing like a blabbering fool I will just say this. You are all a paragon among gods.

When he returned to the room he found John was already wearing the jumper, curled up on the chaise long by the window, sun shining in as he read some sort of heavy tome. It looked familiar and he realised with horror that it was a summary of his exploits as a child, his memoir. John looked up when he entered, smiling and closing the book with a soft thump.

"Interesting read."

"Mother thought it healthy to write down my deductions should I need to refer to them at a later date."

"I can see that. "

John was smiling and Sherlock sighed crossing the room quickly and falling (elegantly) onto the bed face first, a deep guttural groan rumbling from his chest. His muscles still ached, head pulsing with it. He had to come up with the perfect moment to discuss his emotions with John...perhaps he could get him drunk as per getting him to reveal the cause of his and Sarah's breakup. But no, it would be untoward to do so and he quashed the idea instantly.

He spent the rest of the night stewing it over in his mind, coming up with multiple possible scenarios, all unfortunately ending with John sighing like the female from the film he watched and collapsing into Sherlocks arms.

It was certainly an enticing picture if uncharacteristic.

John had read almost half of the enormous tome by the time the sun had set, checking the clock and letting out a surprised gust of wind when noticed just how late it was.

"Sherlock, get up. "

"Mmphf" (His face was sill burying in the pillows. He couldn't muster up the energy to lift it.)

"Sherlock, you have to go to your own room now. I want to go to bed."

Sherlock did lift his head this time, scowling up at John. I mean, how rude.

"This is my room. I have spent much more time here than you, therefore it is mine."

"No this is Mycroft's room, he owns the house and he said that I can stay here, he also said you are welcome to any other room on this hall. It's not really that far."

Sherlock let his head fall back down and didn't comment.

"Sherlock."

A warning tone but he still remained resolute. There was a long minute of silence before John sighed and stamped to the door. "Fine I will just go there then. You take the bloody bed."

Sherlock blinked once into the pillow and then sprang to life, twisting to sit up. "John! Don't leave!"

The doctor stopped in his tracks and turned, his anger dissipating instantly as he stared at the detective, his voice had sounded pleading, fearful, and defiant all at once, a hand outstretched towards the doctor as in the second of realisation a sickening spread of panic had gripped him and he had tried to grasp the doctors clothes as he walked by.

He couldn't leave, not now, not already. John lifted his hands up as Sherlock lowered his, walking forwards his tone now softer, voice quiet and comforting. "It's okay. It's fine I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock slumped, muscles relaxing when he realised the truth in the doctors' words. He wouldn't leave, not now. He shuffled over on the bed, feet (now bare. He had discarded the socks as soon as he had left Mycroft's office, his sneer burning in his mind.) curling against the cold of the floor and John sat heavily next to him.

"I am so sorry Sherlock. I didn't let myself think that they... it must've been awful."

"It was." He couldn't lie to him. Not right now. "It was not your fault."

John seemed to droop as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He opened his mouth as if to say something but thought better of it, blinking hazily at his colleague.

"Come on. I meant it about going to bed. I'm exhausted and you need the sleep."

"I have slept more in the last 24 hours than I have in months John."

"Exactly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and in silence they got dressed (turning their backs although Sherlock did peek. A newfound pleasure is a difficult one to refuse and especially one as simple as seeing Johns pale smooth back, the scar on his shoulder, the supple movement of his shoulders. )

Neither hesitated as they climbed into the (single, surprisingly Sherlock had forgotten this fact) bed, John closest to the wall with Sherlock curled around him like and octopus. It was a great leap from the rather innocent hand holding of old but Sherlock didn't care, John was here and he was going to make the most of it.

Pressing his legs up against the back of his knees and holding his back against his chest, Sherlocks nose in his hair. They were silent for a few minutes Johns breathing changing minutely a few times and the detective sighed.

"You want to ask me something?"

John laughed, "No hiding anything is there."

"No."

John laughed again although this time there was a strange tone to it, it lacked the usual depth. "Sherlock...did you hallucinate on the drugs? I mean I know they can cause the-"

Sherlock squeeze the doctor stopping his stumbling question in its tracks. "Yes. I hallucinated."

"Oh..."

"You want to know what I saw."

There was a seconds hesitation and Sherlocks skin was on fire, John smelt as sweet and comforting as he was solid and warm but even this couldn't still the furious beating of his heart.

"Yes."

"I saw my childhood, and a Latin lesson I once had in university and you. I would see you the most although you weren't very helpful as I recall. You just sort of stood there."

"Oh. Did you...I mean did you talk to these hallucinations?"

"After a while. Gave me something to do when I was left on the table."

"Oh...what kind of things would you say?"

There was no mistaking the anticipation, the strange need in his voice. Sherlock frowned, was that because he wanted to hear that Sherlock loved him? Or to hear that Sherlock loved someone else, that he had misheard...

"Mostly I would discuss my deductions about Bossley, the mistress of the organisation and I would tell you about my childhood, my first cases. You would greet me and then just let me talk... why?"

"Nothing it's just...it's not important."

"John." His turn to be stern and suddenly he wanted it, he wanted to hold John close like this and tell him he loved him. To tell him about the stirring broiling emotions in his chest.

"You just said something to me that was a bit weird..."

"What did I say? Nothing offensive I presume...did I tell you about the Taiwanese lady boy?"

There was an intake of breath and John laughed, a blush flooding the back of his neck. "Taiwanese lady boy?"

"Ah, I assume that wasn't it then."

"No."

"What did I say?"

"You said...you...you told me the wings I was wearing looked ridiculous and that I don't suit tawny."

Sherlock frowned disappointment pooling in his gut and making him hold back a frustrated growl.

"Oh. I apologise, I am sure tawny suits you very well."

John laughed and wriggled a little bit, sighing softly. The detective stared at the back of his head in confusion, why had he changed his mind? Why hadn't John told him about telling him he loved him? It would've been the natural progression of the conversation and yet he lied...or did he. Johns pulse had been steady, his breathing too so Sherlock must've said that at one point. Why had he chosen that phrase then instead of ...it didn't matter. He would just have to tell him the next day. Even if being so evasive was uncomfortably out of John's usual behaviour.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

His voice vibrated through the detective's bones and he smiled, comfortable heat following the timbre of his voice. He decided then and there not to allow his mind to run, right now he should concentrate on the sensation and the warm pool of what he assumed was contentment that sat low in his gut.

"Goodnight John."

He woke up early the next morning to find John had rolled sometime in the night and was now lying with his head against Sherlocks chest, snoring softly, his feet tangled in the sheets so that they were pulled down, uncovering his arm which had wrapped around Sherlocks waist.

He smiled committing the image, the sensation and the smell to memory. It was surprising really that more people didn't fall in love with their flatmates if this was a common occurrence (although he greatly suspected it wasn't. Of course he couldn't be sure.)

John snorted awake about an hour later, blushing red with his eyes closed. "You're still here."

"Yes"

"You heard that."

"I did."

John ducked his head, essentially brushing his head down Sherlocks chest and snorting in laughter against his ribs. Hot air blew through the thin fabric and Sherlock laughed too, moving a hand up to lay it on his arms. The warm buzz at the base of his spine began moving upwards and spreading through his veins so he lifted John from his chest a little. Couldn't have John coming across his continued reaction.

"What do you want to do today?"

John was looking up at him, eyes wide and innocent as though he wasn't currently entangled with his colleague in a single bed dressed only in a pair of boxers and a thin t-shirt. (Sherlock duly noted)

"And before you say it. No work. Not today. Take just one day off."

"I just had two weeks off!"

John glared at him and punched him in the chest (actually quite hard.) "Don't. Don't say that like it was nothing."

Sherlock frowned. "But it's the truth..."

John shook his head, glancing to the side with an odd glaze to his eyes, his line of sight landing on the memoir on the desk. "Tell you what, you can show me around this place. According to your diary-"

"Memoir."

"Memoir, you actually lived here as a kid? I haven't seen much, I was pretty much holed up in here the entire time."

Sherlock wasn't sure what his reaction was supposed to be, but John seemed genuinely interested.

"Okay."

They ate breakfast with John doing most of the eating whilst Sherlock explained how they had come to acquire the house and how Mycroft had been chosen to take it when mummy left for the country because she didn't want Sherlock 'blowing it up with his little games'

John laughed and put too much on his own plate. It was obvious he had noticed Sherlock preferred to eat off the doctors' plate because he completely ignored the left side of his meal, glancing at Sherlocks thin arms and tiny waist every time he took a bite. So Sherlock ate (only little. He gagged at the thought of eating to the expanse of the day before) and regaled him with the unfortunate tale of his father's funeral.

He gave John a tour of the old servant halls, now replaced by offices bustling with Mycroft's team, a fully trained chef still on staff as well as a horde of gardeners. Sherlock explained how he had built a shelter out here, hidden beneath the roots of a fallen down oak. (Despite the popular saying lightening does strike twice and in one fell swoop finished off the tree and Sherlocks personal hiding place)

John would nod, and smile and laugh as he talked him through his exploits. Sherlock kept trying to find a way to bring up what he had said but John would always ask a question or notice something that would lead them away and he grew more and more frustrated as the day wore on.

At one point the doctor removed the red sweater long enough that Sherlock managed to get it in his hands before John noticed him trying to sneak it away and ripped it from his tender grasp. A stern look in his eyes as he pulled it back over his head. Sherlock glared and led him onwards to the drawing room.

Finally they ended up in Sherlocks old bedroom in the now almost deserted west wing, Mycroft's time taken up with too much other business to restore or maintain it at any great length so it sat like a museum to the Holmes family past.

Sherlocks room was up a twisted light of stairs at the end of the library and study corridor in the far corner of the house. He ducked instinctively as he went through the door, John not being so familiar didn't and the detective chuckled at the thump and following cursing as he crossed his room. John stepped in rubbing his forehead and glanced around and strange expression on his face.

"What?"

"It's just...just like I thought it'd be."

The room still smelt of copper and fire from his last great experiment before he was carted off to boarding school. The wall still showing scorch marks, and blackened books sat nearby. In fact books were 'nearby' to everything, piled up in corners, falling off shelves, littering the floor. A pin board had photographs, hand written notes and bits of string stretched across it like a map of his mind, somewhere lay his first violin, still in this case polished and clean and smelling like all ancient instruments of great masterpieces that now settled to dust that one day will be blown off and will hum in the air again.

The walls were a deep purple he had long forgotten, bed sheets a similar blood red. He remembered his insistence; he wanted his room to be dark. Bright colours distracted his childish mind and he needed to focus on his work. On the desk lay a large feather quill presented to him on his birthday. He had received a extra large amount of presents that year and he suspected that as it had followed the unfortunate deflowering and subsequent humiliation of that summer they were in essence trying to 'cheer him up'. He could not be sure of course, the Holmes family strayed from open expression of emotion, the word love never crossing their lips. It was hell he was told to find suitable cards for birthdays and Christmas that did not include such soppy and soft words.

He sighed and sat heavily on his old bed. An ancient four poster that creaked and groaned even with his slim stature. John poked around his books, papers he had written and the small number of experiments he had logged in large leather bound volumes. He asked questions, peering at photographs and prodding jars of brightly coloured fluid with various animals entombed within (all dead of natural causes.) eventually sitting next to him on the bed.

"It's nice in here."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that.

"I guess you spent a lot of time up here..."

"Yes. I was not...I did not understand my family and they do not understand me."

John nodded his face solemn.

After an awkward beat Sherlock suddenly remembered a conversation and a promise clearly escaping the doctors own thoughts. "John. In what way would you hug a friend and how does this differ from how you would hug a lover?"

John's mouth dropped open and he shook his head, a smile gracing his features. Sherlock jumped from the bed, ducking his shoulder and bowing a little as he wheedled to John, hands out in a pleading fashion.

"John, you promised you would show me. It is vital I understand these things."

The doctor seemed to resolve something in himself because he slumped and then straightened his back, shoulders squared a deep breath and then he nodded arms by his side.

"You know what. Fine. Step back a bit."

Sherlock stepped back obediently and couldn't stop the wide grin that took over his face. A success. (Of course it was always his aim these days to get John as close to him as possible.)His heart rate picked up and he could feel his lungs constricting.

"Right if I didn't know you but we met at a party as friends of friends you would hug like this."

He reached out a hand and took Sherlocks in a brief handshake and then pulled him into a short one armed hug, a hard slap on the shoulder. It reminded him vividly of the dance class of his youth sand the brutal stamping little girls he was forced to lead through ballroom dance steps to the delight of mummy.

"I see. Is this common among both sexes?"

John took him through quite a fascinating mirage of different circumstances and situations and the appropriate form of hug. The most interesting were the close friend hug (very close together, hips pointed away but not too much, chest and shoulders against each other, arms around shoulders) and then he got to the romantic ones.

He paused after explaining the different ones for male and females and female female pairings (they did not try these out. Neither wanted to try being the female) and Sherlock waited for him to start explaining male hugs. But he didn't, he just blushed and frowned.

"What about males John?"

"Well they are the same as the ones with girls just with a guy."

"Well come on then." Sherlock opened his arms with his best innocent curious expression plastered on his face and John went a delightful deep red, before breathing out of his nose and setting his shoulders. (Not a good sign.)

But ever the soldier he stepped forwards anyway and put a arm low around Sherlocks waist, the other around his back, Sherlock mimicking his stance. Then he leant his head against the detectives neck and stepped close, his hips bumping against the thinner ones of his companion, chest brushing(in fact crushed) together.

It was certainly exciting, energy thrumming under his skin and he could feel every fibre of the red sweater against his skin, John shorter stature meaning that his face was directly against the skin of his neck and for a second, just a second he could've dreamed he swore he felt a soft kiss pressed to his Adams apple.

John pulled back.

"Well you get the idea."

He then turned and strode across the room in the pretence of reading the volumes there, ignoring Sherlocks own slightly flushed face. He was simultaneously thankful and disappointed that John had left. His skin still tingled where he had held him, chest feeling oddly cold without the doctors body heat. He was left wanting, and he knew then that he would do anything to have John hug him like that again; it was different from the nights cuddled up in bed or the furious embraces during cases or when he found John after a kidnapping.

It was more personal than that it seemed and Sherlock felt a stab to his chest. John had run from him, perhaps this was him rejecting the detective? Showing him he did in fact dislike his presence in a more than friendly way.

He turned and sat on the bed, John glancing at him with an odd look on his face like he was checking to see if Sherlock would suddenly lose his mind. When he didn't (it was much too late for that) the doctor put the book he had (pretended) been so immersed in on the floor and crossed the room sinking down next to his friend.

A distinctly odd moment, he was not sure exactly what to say so he did nothing, said nothing.

They sat in contemplative silence for a while, a loud ringing pulling them from their respective thoughts. Sherlock had laid back; John next to him, the doctor's face turned towards him but Sherlock didn't want to look. He knew that if he did, if he made eye contact he wouldn't be able to say anything anyway, but Johns hands touched his and he had to fight not to see the expression on his face, the light in his eyes. He wasn't sure if now was the time to talk about what he said.

"Ah. I see tea is ready."

Sherlocks voice was loud in the tiny, dust filled space the falling sunset glowing orange light through high up windows casting fiery shadows against the walls. John sighed and got up. He walked out leaving Sherlock alone on the bed, feeling like he had missed something important.

Dinner was a quiet affair (in fact he would even call it tense) and the Holmes brothers spent it listening to John, interspersed with Mycroft living Sherlock meaningful looks and slipping comments about how happy they are, how lucky his brother is to have found someone who cares ad nauseum.

That night John didn't even try to ask him to move from the bedroom, simply getting dressed and slipping between the sheets, glancing over his shoulder after half an hour and the detective still hadn't joined him. Having been preoccupied recreating his last great experiment he had missed this event and was now was rooting around the room, searching for his prize.

"If you are looking for my red jumper it's not in here."

Sherlock glared at him and straightened up. The doctor raised an eyebrow and the detective sighed, turning his back to change. He listened to Johns breathing but there seemed to be no change although he did feel a pair of eyes on his skin. (Possibly imaginary.) When dressed he got into bed, mumbling under his breath.

"What was that?"

John placed a hand over Sherlocks as it curled around his chest, squeezing to prompt a reply.

"I said it's our jumper. We both wear it."

"No Sherlock. It is my jumper, you just happen to steal it sometimes."

Sherlock scoffed but didn't reply. John took this as a victory and grinned. Sherlock could almost feel it in the air. Scientifically impossible of course.

"Glad you agree. Lestrade text me earlier, we can go home tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled into the back of his hair.

We can go home.