In which there's accidently hip touching (if they could touch). Also we start with ASIP and I came to the conclusion that I need to involve another case because otherwise this one here will feel too short.

Thank you for your kind reviews!

Four days later John woke up with a start. It was a bang that had woken him up.

Blearily he opened his eyes and blinked a few times, trying to see the time on the clock. Not even 5 in the morning.

Groaning he dropped his head back, hugging the pillow tighter to himself and trying to go back to sleep. Slowly dragging his nose over the pillow he realized the he never hugged his pillow before. John also realized, albeit very sluggish, that the pillow didn't smell like his bed usually smelt.

Taking another deep breath, because the pillow smelled very nice, he opened his eyes again and starred at the pillow-that-was-not-his. It looked like the last time he had seen Sherlocks pillow but that couldn't be it. He was touching the thing, even hugging it. He always went through Sherlocks stuff as if it wasn't really th-

John was suddenly hugging himself, his hands had moved through the pillow and said thing dropped to the side, no longer in a tight grip.

Confused and blinking with still tired eyes he stared at it. It was way too early for this kind of shit.

Way too early for him to be awake. Why was he awake? What had woken him up? John remembered a noise but it hadn't reappeared again.

The noise. Right. He sighed and rolled over into a sitting position and pressed the palms of his hands onto his eyes, trying to get more awake. It wasn't really working but he stood up anyway.

John could see light coming through under the door when he walked towards it. It was either Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock. Probably Sherlock, based on the time and the pillow. So he threw open the door and marched towards the living room, since the kitchen was empty except for a few science things on the table.

"Sherlock, do you really have to be so lo- oh my god what have you done?!" The living room was one chaotic mess. There were pictures on the wall with various notes on them, folders were lying around and occupying space that was otherwise free in Johns flat. And his table was turned around, as if simply flipped over.

"What did you do to my table? Was that the noise? What is even going on?!"John stared at Sherlock who was standing on the couch, tacking another note on a picture and obviously not bothered by the chaos around him.

Sherlock just hummed back and jumped down from the couch, almost swirling around and grinning at John. "Hello to you too John~, technically it's my table and you have yours, but," and he looked over to the flipped table and held his head cocked to the side, "I can see where you're coming from. Apparently my table has merged with yours." As if this was a normal occurrence.

"Wh..Sherlock it's…it's way too early for this. What did you do to the table?! For gods sake." John had the desperate urge to rub his eyes and wish himself back to bed but since he knew that Sherlock was really there and probably goddamn right he stayed and listened.

Sherlock just walked over to the fireplace and starred into the mirror. It seemed that he looked at the opposite wall and his notes. He suddenly turned around and walked back over to the couch, actually stepping over the flipped table as if this was normal. Many things used to be normal around here.

"Sherlock," John pressed, and said detective seemed to remember that John was there. "Oh, don't be dull John. I flipped it, don't you see?"
"But why? Why at this hour, why even?!"
Sherlock huffed exasperated. "I am stuck with my case and my chest felt like it was going to burst, hence the table flipping. I feel great now, the only thing missing is a breakthrough in the case. Oh what a wonderful case John! The serial killer that I told you about! Lestrade finally came to me." At the end of it Sherlock was grinning and almost giggling but seemed to hold himself back. For now.

John's brain however stayed stuck on the thing about Sherlocks chest, because Sherlock was here, with him and his chest felt like exploding. "What drug did you take? I thought you're taking morphine 'Once in a while.'" Meanwhile the urge was strong to check the others vitals. Pulse, heartbeat and the likes but he knew what would happen. He knew.

But John stepped forward anyway because of the pillow in his bed. Not theirs, not thinking that way (don't even start). And there was the table. It had merged and Sherlock had flipped it, not just touched it but had applied force and changed its position.

Things seemed to change and why shouldn't they be able to touch too? John needed to try. For professional least those were his prime concerns (excuses).

Sherlock hadn't gifted him with an answer yet but watched amused as John came closer and meant to grab his hands.

Johns own pulse started to hammer its way through his very cells and he felt himself become nervous. Which was silly. As a doctor it's normal for him to touch people. Granted they didn't look like Sherlock or weren't as interesting as him but people where people.

His body's reaction told him otherwise because there was also Sherlock. Someone on his own. Different.

Honestly, John felt already worn out from this encounter and he had only just woken up. He hadn't even reached Sherlocks hand yet. Time to do so. One finger twitched shortly before there was skin on skin contact. His brain told him so, he could almost feel it too.

Only that his hand went straight through the others hand, and to add humiliation to the whole thing also through a part of Sherlocks hip. Tingling followed the passing through. For John only in his hand but for Sherlock in is hand and hip. The detective raised an eyebrow.

"Why, John, wanting to hold hands? If you're so desperate to know: it´s Cocaine. I take it from time to time to solve the crimes faster. It helps me think. It makes my brain run at even faster pace and I usually solve the case by then but now…" Sherlock looked over to the picture again, pouting and obvious to the blush on John's cheeks.

He hadn't meant to touch (pass through) Sherlocks hip but now he felt as if his thoughts couldn't be pulled away from it. He cleared his throat and forces himself to think about Sherlocks state. Once again drugged up (why he was here) and jumping topics at an alarming speed.

"You really should stop with the drugs Sherlock. Feeling as if your chest is about to burst isn't a good thing, not at all and you know that. You can solve the case anyway, the time won't make that bit a difference with your genius involved." John stated and followed Sherlocks gaze, studying the pictures from his position.

The first answer he got was a kind of snort which brought his gaze back to Sherlocks face. "It makes all the difference. Especially when a serial killer is involved. It's a race against the killer. Do I find him first or does he kill first. An excellent thrill." Sherlocks face broke into a grin and John frowned. Did Sherlock need excuses to take the drugs or did he honestly think that way?

John was silent and stared at Sherlock who started to fidget. Not because of his stare but because he seemed to become restless, needing to move. If John couldn't take his vitals he could stay up and observe Sherlock in his state making sure to prevent anything bad happened. How he wasn't sure but he would figure it out.

"Let's do it like this: I'll make myself a cuppa, sit down and you tell me about this case. Alright?" John already made his way into the kitchen and started to boil some water. He could hear Sherlock following him and stop at the entrance.

Sherlock seemed to watch him make tea and John would have gladly made him a cuppa too if that wouldn't have been pointless. He didn't even want to think what would happen if he put his tea in a cup from Sherlock or stuff like that. It would make his brain probably hurt.

"Why would you want to hear about the case?" Sherlock finally asked and seemed genuinely confused, judging by the tone of his voice. John just prepared his tea. Only milk was missing now and so he made his way over to the fridge.

"Because it might help if you talk to someone about it. I'm not a genius but maybe I can point out something weird, who knows. It can only help in th-What the hell is this a fucking head?!" John immediately closed the fridge and needed to breathe for a second.

"Jesus Sherlock, is there a head in the fridge? In the fridge?!" It had been directly starring at John. He might never get the hiccups again. Bracing himself he breathed in deeply and opened the fridge again, ignoring the fucking starring head and grabbed the milk. The fridge was slammed shut again and he could have a tea exactly how he liked it. How he needed it right at this very moment.

He took his cuppa after pouring in the wanted milk and took a sip of the hot beverage. Only after that did he look at Sherlock again. The detective seemed amused. "Right, the head Sherlock."

"Where else should I put it? It will go bad outside of the fridge and I need it for an ongoing experiment," Sherlock contributed and nodded to himself, his curls bouncing slightly. John slowly nodded, "Okay, I…guess, but I recommend keeping the food away from it. You don't want it to get contaminated."

After that he made his way into the living room again, aware that he walked by Sherlock with more distance than needed (after the awkward hip grabbing he didn't want a repeat) and sat down in his chair, sighing with content. It wasn't that warm in the flat right now but John had a warm cup of tea and the chair would warm up soon to. Another sip and he looked expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock followed him and almost jumped onto his chair. Putting his feet on the chair too. John wondered how he could fit into it so well with such long limbs.

Sherlock placed his hands on his knees and grinned. "It's not my first experiment John, I know how to keep the fridge clean."
"Easy to say since there was almost no food in it. I know what I have in my fridge," John sniffed. He almost wanted to say that Sherlock should also eat more but he didn't want to mother hen Sherlock on a constant basis.

The detective just nodded, "Good for you." It didn't sound demeaning, it only sounded like a statement which was fine with John. "The case, like I said before, there's a serial killer on the loose."

Sherlock waved at the wall with the pictures and notes. "All these people have been killed. Well, at least I know that they have been killed. The police calls them suicides because they all have one thing in common: They took the poison themselves. But!," here he looked sternly at John, challenging him to speak up while he gave his little speech.

John kept silent and nodded to get Sherlock to continue talking, "I have checked all their profiles, their histories. Simply put: Everything. And not one of them had a reason to do so. Not even a mild depression. Nothing to suggest that they would commit suicide in the near future. So someone has to give them the poison. Where would these randomly chosen people - and I do mean random because they have absolutely nothing in common - even get the same kind of poison? There has to be some kind of system behind it. I just haven't seen it yet."

When Sherlock finished talking it became silent safe for the quiet breathing noise coming from the detective. John just needed time to process the fast delivered information before he could even form a response.

"Maybe," John started to say, still sounding as if just making up what he wanted to say, "he holds something against them. Threatens them or something but I guess that's probably already crossed your mind." He sounded apologetic for not offering better options and took a sip of his cooling tea.

Sherlock nodded and stared at the wall again, going mentally over the facts again. "There isn't really much we can do as long as the killer doesn't make a mistake." Positioning his hands like a prayer and touching his lips he looked back at John and noticed that the doctor had an odd look on his face. Unable to read what exactly made that face appear he snapped at John. "What?!"

John just shook his head with a soft grin. "We? You mean you, right? Because I'm not a genius and don't solve crimes." Though John felt strangely charmed that Sherlock decided to include him in all of this. It certainly was way more interesting than his days.

The detective looked warily at John. While he could have meant himself and the Yard he knew for himself that he had meant John. Despite being high he could see the benefit in talking aloud to John even if he couldn't provide satisfying ideas. It felt like losing weight and thinking even faster (but it could have been the cocaine too), Sherlock liked that thought. Something akin to a companion.

Of course he couldn't just say that. "Don't be dull John you specifically asked to be included. I do mean 'we'," said Sherlock haughtily.

John could only blink and take another sip of his tea. He could imagine himself on Sherlocks side, taking in all these crime scenes. It would probably be nothing like he imagined it right now.

He got startled out of his musings when Sherlock suddenly cocked his head to the window, seeing something that he couldn't. John had the fleeting impression that he had seen colours flash on the windows but when he tried to focus on it nothing was there. "What is it?"

"Lestrade is coming! Something must have happened, maybe the killer finally made a mistake." Sherlock sprang up and walked to the window, seeing the head of Lestrade disappear into the building. He looked back to the doctor when said person hissed.

John stood up too, placing his tea over the fireplace. "Shit. Won't he see that you're high? What about me?!" He felt nervous. This was the first time that someone else would be with them when they saw each other and Sherlock was high as a kite. He would have preferred to be drunk himself in such a situation, at least that wasn't illegal.

Sherlock just lit up like a Christmas tree, beaming at John. "New information for the both of us, it will be great! And don't worry he won't notice, I can pull off the sober role any time," while saying this he pulled at his suit jacket and patted his hair into a desired form.

"Wait, does that mean you don't bother looking sob-," but John stopped midsentence and looked at the door because Sherlock had just greeted Lestrade.

Not that John could greet him too. What he saw was some kind of shadowy form that must have looked like Lestrade, if he had ever met that Detective Inspector. Said bloke also didn't seem to see John since he didn't even react to him standing there in his sleeping clothes and dishevelled hair (people would probably talk if he had been seen like this with Sherlock).

Sitting down still wasn't an option because it would have felt weird, casually sitting down while there was actually a bloke that couldn't see him. Sherlock had his fun though.

He had strategically placed himself by the window by the couch so that Lestrade (or the strange shadow from Johns point of view) had moved between them. Sherlock seemed to jump from Lestrades face to Johns as if in though while listening.

While John couldn't hear a thing from Lestrade he could hear Sherlock as good as ever.

"Well, tell me! Something must be different because you came here by yourself instead of texting." Sherlock demanded and looked serious, not like the christmas tree impression from before.

It was weird hearing the silence between Sherlocks replies. Just like overhearing a phone call, but even weirder. Usually you could make out garbled sounds on the other end but this was complete silence for John, as if Sherlock just spoke into the air and imagined the answers.

John saw Sherlock nod at Lestrade, "Yes but not in the police car. What's the address I'll follow soon." After another few seconds of silence, which meant that Lestrade answered Sherlock, did the shadowy figure move out of the flat and soon after that the might-be-there colours on the windows were gone.

He kept starring at the windows for a little while before he looked at the detective again. "You got called away then? Did he notice anything?" John asked worried.

Sherlock just shook his head and moved over to his coat. "Don't be dull, you were here the whole time, you saw that he didn't question anything. But that doesn't matter now. Put on some clothes and come with me."

When John didn't start to move he looked up from tying his scarf the way he always did. "Well? I imagine you don't want to go out like this?" followed the impatient question.

John just blinked at Sherlock before he signed. "No but I'm not coming with you." He started to massage the space between his eyes for a moment and didn't let Sherlock interrupt him.

"And no I didn't see anything. The only thing I saw was a shadowy kind of figure that could have been Lestrade. And hearing was never an option, whenever he talked there was silence." John swallowed for a moment because he would have loved to come with Sherlock. To see him on The Work as he had called it once.

"Our…our whatevers apparently are too different Sherlock. Wherever you're just about to go might be a lived in place for me with actual people there. And I won't even mention the corpse because I might not see it." He was vaguely aware that he sounded disappointed about the whole thing. He wasn't sure that he cared about that.

For a moment he averted his eyes from Sherlocks piercing eyes (no matter how high he was they looked the same or was he crashing?) and looked at the flipped table. Sherlock had said that both their tables had merged. It was one thing now instead of two. Sadly that didn't mean that they now lived in the same dimension (world?) because if so he should have been able to see Lestrade. Communicate with him.

"So…sorry but I can't," John finally said and looked back at Sherlock who stood ready to run to the crime scene waiting for him. For a second John thought that Sherlock might just do that, without another word.

But Sherlock stayed and slowly nodded while doing the last button on his coat. "Very well, you would have been a great help John, maybe…maybe someday…," even the detective seemed to have a problem with the situation, that they couldn't do anything about it.

Sherlock huffed almost annoyed, trying to get rid of the emotion in the room. "Until next time then." He nodded at John and turned around.

John spoke up before he could make another step. "What about the table?" John almost sounded amused.
"The table?"
"Yes. You flipped it. Help me pick it up. Like you said: Our tables merged and that means my stuff was on it too and I need to tidy up in least my stuff."

Sherlock sighed dramatically and went over to the table. Placing himself on the opposite side from where John stood and bent down.

"Having you as a flatmate is so taxing. If I had wanted a flat share I would have looked around myself," Sherlock drawled lazily while both grabbed the table. John almost feared that his hand would go through it because it might just be Sherlocks table now (wouldn't that be awful? To lose his table) but he could grab it just fine and so could Sherlock. Together they turned it around to place it like it usually stood.

John chuckled because of Sherlocks antic now. "That wouldn't have worked out well."
"Why not?"
"Because we wouldn't have met. Remember? I'm dead where you are," John grinned and looked at Sherlock. The detective looked lost for a moment before the corner of his mouth formed into a tiny smile.

But he didn't answer John, he merely walked to the door and nodded to him. "Have a nice day John, I really must go now," he said and walked out without waiting for an answer.

Standing there alone now, his hand on the table (the one he and Sherlock had touched, at the same time) he starred at the open door. "Take care," John said into the room before looking down at his hand.

"Having you as a flatmate is very interesting," John mumbled to himself to mirror Sherlocks words from a few minutes ago.

He even dared to smile fondly before he noticed that he really needed to clean up now.

John groaned. "Great."