I know I ought to wait. I really, really ought to wait, but patience is a virtue I forgot to buy. ;-)

John climbed the familiar stairs that led to the flat he once shared with his best friend. He returned from holiday with Mary last night and came over the first chance he got. He felt bad having to leave so soon after Sherlock's miraculous return from the dead, but he'd promised her and he couldn't let her down.

Sherlock, of course, didn't understand and had argued, but then his friend couldn't understand that sort of thing what with relationships, even passing fancies, not being his area, as the detective pointed out when they first met.

He opened the door and stepped into Sherlock's flat, knowing the only thing he'd ever interrupt with his friend would be an experiment of some sort. He glanced around the room. Empty. Maybe Sherlock was out? He hadn't thought to call or text ahead of time, but that might've been an oversight. He was about to call out for Sherlock when he spied something odd on the back of his friend's chair.

John closed the door and crossed the room, eyeing the strange garment. It couldn't be. He picked it up. It was. A dress. What the devil was Sherlock doing with a dress? He laid the garment back on the chair. Must be something he was working on for a client or the police.

For a moment he thought…John shook his head, smiling at himself. It wasn't anything else. This was Sherlock after all. He turned around, glancing in the kitchen. Empty and there wasn't any…there was a noise. A sort of creak. It came from his friend's room. Was he…? John glanced at his watch. 10 am. Sherlock never slept this long. Maybe he was ill.

He hurried through the kitchen, consumed with worry. He'd never known Sherlock to be sick. The door to his friend's room was open. He stepped inside and…froze. There was…but…no…what? All the gears in John's mind ground to a halt.

Sherlock was in bed all right, but he wasn't alone. There was…but…there couldn't be…but there was…but…There was a woman, but one he'd never seen before. Blonde, petite, wearing a pale blue tank top and well, he had no idea what else because she was under the covers. If that wasn't enough, which it certainly was for John, she was snuggled up next to Sherlock, her arm draped over his chest, but that was…and he was…well, his arm was over hers as if holding it in place, but he…and she…and…What the hell's going on?

He knew he was staring, that he should go, but he couldn't wrench his eyes from the sight. He took a step back, bumped the door and that's when everything changed. The woman's eyes snapped open, she glanced at Sherlock, her face mere inches from the detective's, her eyes widened, Sherlock's eyes opened, his eyes locked on hers, he froze, surprise didn't even begin to cover the look he gave her, John moved, she looked at him, the detective looked at him, they both tried to sit up, Sherlock yelled, "John," as he slid off the bed, grabbing the only thing within reach to stop himself, which turned out to be her arm and she went over after him, and they both landed in a heap on the floor.

"Sorry I…um…I…" John stammered, not entirely sure what to say or what he just walked in on.

"John Watson?" the woman asked, getting to her feet first.

"Y-yes," he replied, the pistons in his mind firing, but not really getting anywhere.

She grinned and he couldn't help smiling back, she had that sort of effect.

"It's a pleasure."

She crossed the room, offering her hand. He took it, glancing at Sherlock who finally managed to stand up and seemed entirely ruffled and completely confused.

"So, um, who're you?" John asked, eyeing his friend.

Sherlock's eyes snapped to his. His friend scowled from the other side of the room.

"She's no-" Sherlock began.

"I'm Rose, Rose Tyler. I live downstairs," she interrupted.

"Downstairs?"

He eyed the detective, grinning.

"Now, look here, John," Sherlock insisted, crossing the room and still a bit out of sorts, which made the doctor grin wider. "It's not what you think."

John raised his brow. The woman shot the detective a passing glance.

"Since he thinks we slept together then technically it's exactly what he thinks," Rose said, giving Sherlock what could only be considered a cheeky grin.

Wait. What?

"Really?" John asked, unable to form any other thought.

"No. No," the detective insisted, shaking his head and far more animated than the doctor had ever seen him. "Well, technically, but that's not the same thing."

"We had dinner and then you took me out to a club and now that we've slept together you want to get into technicalities?" she asked, eyeing his friend, but she was smiling and John couldn't work out exactly why she was doing that.

"Sorry…what?" the doctor asked, glancing from her to Sherlock.

"It was not a date," the detective insisted, a bit more than necessary, making John raise his brow.

"Oh, so now it's not a date?" she asked.

Her smile turned cheeky again, but at the word date John's eyes focused on Sherlock.

"Hang on. You two went out on a date?"

"No," Sherlock snapped.

"Yes," Rose replied at the same time.

A moment later she burst out laughing, earning a scowl from Sherlock. John stared at her wondering if she'd lost her mind or if, perhaps, he'd lost his and this whole thing was some hallucination.

"Come on, John," she said, grinning and taking his arm. "You can help me make tea while he finds his shoes."

He allowed her to lead him into the kitchen feeling a bit dazed by the whole scene. They'd been in bed together, that was apparent, and they'd been sleeping. Had they gone on a date? Well, after seeing that anything was possible.

Standard Disclaimer.

Thank you to all my brilliant readers!

If you have time reviews are always welcome. :)