Wow 5000 words. Not even half of last chapter.

And not even half of what I wanted this Chapter to contain!

I'll do the rest of what I planned soon. But I'm really tired and you guys have been patient, so here is the next bit.

Continue reviewing! Also, I would LOVE fanart for this story c: if you draw some, send it to me on my tumblr.

.com

Enjoy. -ACR

Day Five

John didn't think he could ever get used to waking up next to Sherlock. The beauty of that man while he slept was breathtaking. John felt like he was unworthy. His curly hair was a mess on the pillow, the blankets pulled up around his mouth. He looked amazing.

But before John could drown in it, the image of what had happened the night before sunk into his stomach. He sat up on his elbows and looked at the window, closed now. Had someone been watching them? Was it a trick, a coincidence? Or did someone really know they were there?

He reached for his phone and looked at it. Two missed calls from Mycroft, no texts. He quickly picked it up and called him back.

"Hello?" He answered almost immediately.

"Hey," John stood up, pulled his robe around him and glanced at Sherlock, being careful not to wake him.

"What was that text last night? Someone was watching you?"

"Yeah. Sherlock saw him and I looked out the window and there he was. Just standing there, looking right at us. It was so creepy."

"And Sherlock saw?" He could hear Mycroft frowning.

"Yeah but he was delirious, I don't know if he'll remember when he wakes up."

"Okay. I'm sure it was nothing. But I'll keep my eyes open, if it will make you feel better."

"Okay. Thanks." John whispered. Mycroft grunted and hung up.

John snuck out of the room and tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen. It was six in the morning, still too early. At least too early for Molly or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade to be awake. Today… Irene was coming. Sherlock said he had told her off, but hadn't really mentioned her after that. Maybe she wouldn't come, one could only hope. He started to make coffee.

Sherlock startled awake, sitting up quickly. A cold sweat broke over him, something feeling wrong. A nightmare, again. He hadn't had them since he was a child, and now they were consistent. The only thing was, he couldn't remember them. He didn't know at all.

He glanced at the clock. 7:13. He stood up and stretched his arms out, looking around. John was up already. He opened the door and wandered into the kitchen. The sight there shocked him.

John was at the table, on his computer, sipping a cup of coffee. Across was him was Irene, tapping away at her cellphone and glancing at John earnestly. John looked like he was trying his best to ignore her.

"Uh," Sherlock looked around, wondering if he was missing something, "Hello."

Irene Adler looked up, a smile stretching across her face. "Sherlock, dear! So happy you could join us. Have some coffee, won't you? John made it himself with love."

John glared at her and continued reading whatever was on his screen. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and turned to get coffee. Irene never stopped watching him.

"So… What are you doing here?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I thought about your offer," She stood up, "But I decided to come anyway. Don't worry, I won't flirt, since you asked so not nicely."

As she walked past, Sherlock turned to John and pointed at her, trying to communicate "I told you" with his eyes. John just smirked.

"Would you like me to show you to your room?" Sherlock walked past her and towards the odd stairs in the middle of the room, "It's across from Molly and Lestrades, so you might hear weird noises. I advise you to ignore them."

She turned on him, "You could have just told me."

"What?" He looked past her.

"That you're in love with him, and that's why I'm not allowed to flirt with you." She moved into his line of sight so he couldn't avoid her, "If you had told me, I would have listened."

"I'm not-" He looked around, making sure no one was around to hear, "How did you get that? I haven't even seen you for two minutes."

"I'm not an idiot," Her fingers traced along his face, "I outsmarted you, remember?"

"Almost outsmarted me," He pushed her hand away.

"You saw him and your face lit up," She turned around and headed down the stairs, "You should have just told me."

She vanished and Sherlock turned around, returning to the kitchen and sipping at his coffee.

"So you just sat there and didn't talk to her?" Sherlock sat across from John.

"She just walked in. It was very rude." He didn't look up at him.

"I'm sure that's why," Sherlock crossed his arms on the table and leaned on them, smiling at John.

"Well I don't want to talk to her, so why should I?" I pretended to not notice the eyes on him.

"Mmhmm."

"You told her not to come," John looked up at him finally, "Why?"

"I didn't want her making you crazy if she couldn't resist me." Sherlock leaned forward and rested his chin on the top of Johns laptop.

John stared at him, "Yes, because you're so irresistible."

"I don't think you're in the position to be using sarcasm."

"You're absolutely right," He leaned forward and rested a kiss on Sherlocks lips, "Thank you."

"Of course," he leaned back down just in time as Molly walked in.

"Good morning boys," She offered them the sweet smile. She had the aura of a very happy and pleased woman. Sherlock must have noticed because he was making a very sour face.

"I made coffee," John said to her, kicking Sherlock under the table and silently begging him not to say what they were both thinking. Of course, Sherlock can't really be tamed.

"Gross, did you just have sex?" He shook his head, looking genuinely disgusted.

"How did you…" She frowned at him, continuing to pour her coffee. She genuinely didn't seem that concerned about him knowing though.

"You could at least wait a bit," Sherlock mumbled unhappily.

She turned around and faced him, "Don't be angry just because, at least I'm getting sex."

John and Sherlock both looked at her, momentarily baffled.

"Yeah," She stuck her tongue out at them and began to leave the room, "I can deduce too."

John and Sherlock exchanged a look before bursting into laughter. They laughed for a while, John leaning into his laptop for support and Sherlock gripping the table. After a few minutes they calmed down until it was a deep chuckle in the back of Sherlocks throat.

"I feel bad for Irene, she gets to listen to them doing it all night," John smiled.

"Knowing her she'll like it," Sherlock pulled out his phone, "Or worse, join in."

"Disturbing mental image, Sherlock,"

He laughed and stood up, "I have to talk to Lestrade. I'll be right back."

That day was fairly normal, little did John know it was the last few moments of normalcy he would get. He sat on his computer and looked at news and forums. The uprising of Sherlock Holmes was gaining speed now; people were on the edge of their seats waiting to find out if it was really true. Johns blog had more hits now than it ever had, and the vanishing of Lestrade had made quite the impact. Questions were arising now, why had everyone who had know Sherlock suddenly up and disappeared in this critical time? It was becoming interesting, a mystery in itself. Sherlock talked to Lestrade, nailing down the last points of the plan. It would be coming soon now, a press conference where his existence would be revealed for the world. After that, they could maybe continue living normally in Bakers Street. Mrs. Hudson complained, nearly insisted that John and Sherlock move out for their own safety. But it wasn't about being safe; it was about the fact Bakers Street had become their home.

Irene assured them that her absence would only reinforce what her underground system of "rats" already knew; that Sherlock Holmes was indeed alive. John personally saw no need for her to be there, and found himself constantly sitting on the edge of a room while they all talked, just watching her. But she behaved herself, almost like something had changed her mind about Sherlock. She didn't even look at him, really. And their conversations were strictly professional.

Mrs. Hudson spent a lot of time ignoring them and complaining about how many people there were under one roof and how silly it was. John actually enjoyed it; nothing was ever boring. He sat for an hour on the couch and listened to Lestrade and Sherlock argue about whether or not he could let Sherlock work for him again. John knew he would, though. There was a striking amount of baffling cases over the past year; cases Lestrade couldn't solve without Sherlock. So even though they argued, he heard it as two friends giving each other a hard time.

He spent a portion of the day with Molly. Though curious, John didn't really want to understand much about the goings on of the 'plan,' and neither did Molly. She sat with John in his room and talked mindlessly, almost to herself. But he listened. She talked about her mom, how she was coming to London soon and wanted to meet Greg, how nervous she was about it. She didn't really ask for Johns opinion and he didn't give it, just nodded and smiled and listened. Her problems seemed trivial, a nice break from all this confusion and complexity.

After an hour or two of talking in his room, she stopped and looked at him, "Are you and Sherlock like… you know."

"Are we what?" Of course he knew, but it was different to hear her say it.

"Dating," She looked at him.

"No," He sighed truthfully, sitting up straighter. He had been picking absentmindedly at Sherlocks violin.

"Well, maybe dating isn't the right word?"

He glanced up, "What do you mean?"

"I never thought of him as having much of a fondness for labels," She laughed, "He barely says the word 'friend.' So, maybe you aren't dating? But you are…."

"Together," John looked at her, "You're asking me if we are romantically involved."

"I am asking."

She was looking hard at him, unblinking. It was a little unnerving. Finally, he let out a sigh, "I guess we are. But there isn't much to it, don't take it and talk about it and-"

"And don't tell Greg. I know." She smiled.

"How do you know?"

"Sherlock wouldn't want him to know," She looked at her hands and played with some string on her shirt, "He'd feel weak. But Greg isn't like that; he won't make fun of you guys. Just because Sherlock makes fun of us."

"You know Sherlock doesn't mean it. He's secretly ecstatic about it."

"Really?"

"Really," John stood up, "I mean, he wants you both to be happy. And you are."

"You're right," She stood up too, "Should we go make some tea?"

"I think yes."

That night they all sat together and shared a meal that Mrs. Hudson made for them. Since there weren't enough chairs at the table, they sat in the living room. Irene wanted to watch television but no one could agree on anything so they left it off. Mrs. Hudson was gently situated on the couch with John next to her. Sherlock had perched himself on the floor, leaning his slender back on Johns leg. Irene sat in the only remaining chair, eating delicately, while Lestrade and Molly sat on the floor, next to each other. They sat in silence, the only relative silence that had fallen over the house in a while. No one talking or planning or arguing, just sitting in comfortable quiet that seemed peaceful. But something about it didn't feel right, something still itched in the back of Johns brain.

Sherlock barely allowed himself to touch John with everyone around. It was actually becoming a fun game; how to sneak this relationship past them while also being terribly obvious. Lestrade was glancing at him now, sitting at Johns feet like a dog. Sherlock, of course, wasn't eating. Just sitting, watching.

After a few peaceful moments, Molly managed to spill water all over her. She looked on the verge of tears and Lestrade just laughed at her, and then helped her up and to the kitchen. After they vanished, Irene stood up very quietly and vanished into the basement stairs. John set aside his plate and sighed. Nothing could stay normal around these people.

A few more minutes passed and Mrs. Hudson gracefully got to her feet, gathering plates and offering sweet smiles to the two. Then she disappeared into the kitchen. They heard her begin to make a fuss about Molly making a mess.

"You could eat, you know." John settled his hands at his sides.

"I ate yesterday." Sherlock adjusted himself so he was between Johns knees, leaning back comfortably.

"Some people eat every day. Several times."

"People are boring. And predictable."

John rolled his eyes, and then felt a tiny warmth as Sherlock leaned his temple on his knee, "I don't like eating. I don't like food."

"You're a robot," John moved his hand and began to twirl a finger through Sherlocks hair.

"Mmmhmm…"

"Are you tired?"

"Are you?"

"A little bit," John shrugged. He hadn't slept much, and when he did it was restless, at least after last night's weird encounter with the stranger looking in on them. He wouldn't say no to a little sleep right now.

Sherlock nodded and got to his feet. He was wary of the nightmares that had so recently begun to creep on him while he slept, and more wary of the fact it was making him so easily exhausted. And that John was starting to notice.

They said short goodnights to their friends making a scene in the kitchen and John went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Sherlock walked into the room and picked up his violin, quickly beginning to play a lullaby. It was something he had written while he had spent this past year away.

After a few minutes, John returned. His eyes caught Sherlock and he stood in the doorway, listening to the tune. Sherlock softly played the notes, and they reverberated Johns skin, making their way in. He wondered why they gave him chills as it finished slowly.

"That was beautiful." John said, and Sherlock smiled like he often did when John complimented him.

"I wrote it," Sherlock set the violin down and walked towards the door, passing his companion, "It's called John."

John sat, a little bit shocked. The door clicked shut, and he just smiled and got into bed, closing his eyes and letting the last notes flow through him. After a few minutes, Sherlock was there and darkness was surrounding them.

"Sometimes I don't know," John muttered without opening his eyes, "Where you end and where I begin."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

John turned and looked at him, flawless face in the darkness. "Can I tell you something? A secret. Don't get mad."

"Yes," Sherlock was looking at the ceiling.

"I almost killed myself."

Silence crawled out after the words were spoken. John needed to say them, though. Maybe Sherlock would yell, John wanted him to. But he needed to tell him.

"So did I." His voice was a whisper, a child.

John found his hand and just held it.

Day Six

Mycroft was there Sunday morning before anyone else was even awake. He carried his bags inside and downstairs, fixating himself into the last remaining room. He walked past the doors, and back upstairs. He crept down the hall and opened the door to the room, quietly.

John's face was soft and sleeping, Sherlock was curled up close to him, his face buried in his chest. Under the sheets, white like clouds, they looked really peaceful.

Mycroft smiled despite himself.

The sixth day of being cooped up in the house was making John stir-crazy. He woke up feeling irritated and grumpy, and it got worse as the day progressed. Whatever craziness that had been present for the past week seemed like child's play compared to today. Sherlock was on a new edge with Mycroft there and they had run out of cigarettes a day ago, which made everything so much worse. Molly and Lestrade had obviously had a fight and they both were having such a hard time avoiding each other that he thought Molly was going to rip out her hair. Irene was the one on Johns nerves the most though. She was weirdly and unnaturally quiet, but she watched Sherlock like a hawk. It was all making him want to kill everyone.

He marched into the living room a little past noon after a final and unsuccessful hunt for any remaining cigarettes, and found Sherlock standing on the couch with his arms cross and Mycroft standing on the other side of the room looking irritated.

"Get your feet off the couch, it's expensive." Mycroft frowned.

"Is it?" Sherlock jumped on it, "Is that why it's so springy?"

"Sherlock, you are being a child."

"I've been hearing that a lot lately," He kept jumping, "LET ME LEAVE FOR CIGARETTES!"

"No," Mycroft was shaking his head now, "You said none of us can leave, you can't either."

"John got to leave a few days ago," Sherlock laughed a little hysterically, "So do the rules matter?"

"John's not supposed to be dead." Mycroft was raising his voice now.

Sherlock kept jumping on the couch. Molly walked up the stairs and eyed him.

"Oh, fucking hell." She grumbled.

"You should try it! It's fun!" Sherlock laughed and spotted him, "John! John, come jump with me."

John frowned and crossed the room quickly, stopping at the edge of the sofa.

"Sherlock,"

"Jump," He grinned, "With me."

"Sherlock, get off the bloody couch."

He stopped jumping.

"See? John thinks you're being stupid too," Mycroft smirked.

"I'm not getting off the couch until someone gets me a fucking cigarette!" Sherlock shouted suddenly, offering a stupid smile and started bouncing again.

"Would you stop yelling?" Lestrade called from downstairs.

"NO!"

"SHERLOCK," Mycroft was yelling now.

"NO, NO, NO, NO, NO." Sherlock bounced. John considered punching them both.

"STOP!" Irene suddenly shouted from her silent spot on the chair. They all stopped what there were doing and stared at her. She was looking around critically.

"What?" Mycroft asked.

"Did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything but Sherlock yelling," John said, throwing a glare at his friend.

"There was just a knock," She stood up, "On the door."

Eery silence grew over them, John and Mycroft sharing a weird look. Sherlock hopped off the couch and walked towards the door. Without thinking, he threw it open. But no one was there.

But, lying on the porch was a letter.

Sherlock stepped out and looked up and down the street. It was nearly deserted, besides an elderly couple sitting on their porch and a man walking to his car. A part of him wanted to start running, because the person who put this here couldn't be very far. But he knew if he was seen now, it was all over. He leaned down and picked it up.

It was white, a standard envelope. Even licked closed. He turned it over and stared at the words there, carefully written in black felt pen;

Sherlock

He lost his breath, just staring down at it. John came up behind him and looked at it over his shoulder.

"Someone knows we're here." John breathed, looking at Sherlock from the corners of his eyes.

"You're right." He stepped back and shut the door, locking it. He turned around and walked to the couch, being watched closely by Mycroft and Irene.

"What is that? Sherlock?" Mycroft frowned as his brother sat on the couch, studying the letter.

"It's a letter, Mycroft, don't be dense." Sherlock muttered without thinking, turning the letter over again and again.

"Mycroft," John gave the tall man a meaningful look and sat next to Sherlock, "Maybe we should get everyone in here?"

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, and then nodded, going down the stairs to fetch Lestrade.

"I'll get Molly and Mrs. Hudson," Irene stood up and crossed the room, vanishing into the kitchen.

"It's okay," John leaning into Sherlock and rested his chin on his shoulder, "So someone knows we're here. I'm sure it's fine."

"Please be quiet, I'm thinking."

John pulled away and looked at the letter. Sherlocks hands were shaking.

Mycroft and Lestrade returned from downstairs, Irene and Molly and Mrs. Hudson came in from the hall. They all gathered around, solemnly, and looked at the piece of paper. A million questions were racing through their heads.

"Who do you think sent it?" Molly looked at them, searching their faces.

"Maybe if Sherlock would open it," Lestrade glanced nervously between them.

"Sherlock," John nudged him, "Do you want me to?"

"No." He held it up, "Mycroft, you do it."

Mycroft stood for a moment, almost making sure his brother wasn't joking. And then he took it, looking over the words on the front. As he tore it open, Sherlock found Johns hand and gripped it, not really caring who saw.

Inside was a tiny index card. Mycroft glanced over it, but his face didn't change.

"What does it say?" John squeezed Sherlocks hand.

He just handed it to him.

There's a park two blocks from here.

Meet me there tomorrow, 9 a.m.

-S.M.

"S.M.?" John looked around, "Who's that?"

"I don't know…" Sherlock took it from John and studied it.

"S.M.?" Irene perked up, "Is that what is says?"

"That's how it's signed," Mycroft looked at her, "Why?"

"Oh," her hand flew to her mouth, "Oh, god."

"What?" Sherlock stood up, "Who sent this?"

"I didn't…" She sighed, walked a few feet and sat down on the chair, "I didn't anticipate this."

"He worked for Moriarty, didn't he?" Sherlock frowned at her, "I thought you took care of all his men."

"No. He doesn't… work for Moriarty."

"Who is he?" John asked, watching Sherlock carefully.

"His name is Sebastian Moran. He's deranged. I've worked with him before."

"And why does he want to see me?" Sherlock asked harshly.

"He didn't work for Moriarty, but… they knew each other. Moran used to be Moriarty's puppy, basically. It was a complex relationship."

"And you didn't think to tell us this?" Lestrade piped up.

"They hadn't talked in a long time. I didn't think of him until now."

"Flaws in your judgment, typical." Sherlock said, sitting back down and bringing his hands together.

Irene looked wounded.

"What could he want with Sherlock? What do you know about him?" John interjected.

"…I don't know. He's dangerous, maybe only second to Moriarty. He's crazy."

"Like Moriarty."

"No," She met his eyes, "No, he's not like him. He's… different. It's never a game to him. A feeling of passion. He's a murderer, a traitor, a sniper, a dealer. If it's dangerous, he'll do it just because he can."

"And I'm dangerous. I killed his only competitor," Sherlock closed his eyes.

John was looking around between them, everyone had grown silent and distant. He looked at Sherlock, trying hard to comprehend what this mean. When realization hit him, it was like a train.

"What if he wants to kill you?" he asked, speaking what everyone was thinking.

"I don't think so," Sherlock sighed, "Too easy."

"He could." Irene looked at them, "If you killed his only competition, that could mean you're all that stands between him and being number one. I've met him before; I can see him doing it."

John didn't really want to hear anymore. He looked at Sherlock, "Don't go."

"I have to. He knows where I am. He could tell people, the plan could be in danger." Sherlock looked at his friend.

"Then we'll leave."

"John-"

"You can't do this."

"He won't kill me," Sherlock said with finality, "I'll go, see what he has to say. Then I'll be back and everything will be fine."

John stood up and left the room. He didn't know why. Sherlock was probably right, and Irene was a bitch who was trying to rile him up. But he walked into their room and slammed the door shut.

He sighed and stared out the window. He hated this room, he hated it so much. He glanced around; perfect blankets and pillows and the bed that Sherlock had never used. He locked the door and went to his bag, digging through until he found his army knife.

Sherlock had made his choice, whether or not John liked it. Everyone sort of cleared out, vanished to separate rooms. He went to the kitchen and looked out the window, stared into the sky for a long time. Hours, maybe. He knew the sun was low in the sky when Lestrade finally came in and sat across from him.

"You okay?" He held a box out to him; cigarette's. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and took two. One for John.

"I'm fine."

"It's a little alarming. This Moran thing."

"I suppose," He placed the cigarette between his lips and Lestrade lit it. He inhaled deeply and held it, letting it out, "I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't. Quit long time ago, but I have an extra pack for emergencies, thought I'd bring it."

"Good."

"It's kind of complicated, ain't it? This whole thing," Lestrade lit his own cigarette.

"Very, but worth it, I'd presume."

"And you're okay?"

"Why do you keep asking me that? I'm fine."

"Is John?"

Sherlock looked at him, "I don't know."

"Maybe you should," The man ran his fingers through his grey hair and exhaled.

"His emotions aren't really my responsibility."

"No," Lestrade stood up, "I guess they aren't." He left.

Sherlock tapped his fingers for a few moments and finished his smoke before leaving the bud in the tiny pile of ash that had accumulated on the table. He stood up and went to the hall. As assumed, the door was locked. And, of course, Mycroft had left the key on the top of the door hinge. He opened the door and tried not to be shocked by what he saw.

Every pillow in the room had been ripped to shreds, slashes in the feather mattress they hadn't used, even a shredded blanket. And the room was coated with feathers, and John was lying on the bed with his laptop laying near him, headphones plugged into his ears. He looked like he was asleep.

Sherlock closed the door as quietly as he could, but John heard him still. His eyes were open, on his friend. He looked oddly innocent for a man who had massacred the room. Sherlock leaned against the door, locking it again and just looking long and hard at him.

John looked for a moment before closing his eyes again. Sherlock walked forward and leaned across the bed, picking up the laptop, slamming it shut, and taking the headphones away. He crossed the room and half-tossed them onto the remains of the other mattress.

"What-" John nearly complained but Sherlock was suddenly at his side again, his hand on Johns mouth.

"Stop talking," Sherlock straddled him and held him down, pinning one wrist with one hand and keeping his hand on Johns mouth, "Listen to me. I'm going to do what I have to in order to protect you, and us. And you are going to stop… This. This dramatic, teenager acting out when he doesn't get what he wants thing."

John stared at him looked annoyed.

"And another thing," He shook his head, "It isn't going to be like this forever. Being around everyone who makes us crazy, it's going to get easier. But it might be more dangerous; there will always be people who try to kill us. That's just how it is. And you need to get a hold of yourself, and stop running out every time there's a problem. We will talk to each other, or scream at each other, but we will fix everything and you aren't allowed to keep running away. Alright?"

John didn't react.

"Aright?" Sherlock pressed down harder.

John nodded and Sherlock pulled away his hand, resting it on the other side of his face. John breathed and glared at him.

"Was pinning me down necessary?" He mumbled.

"Yes, because," Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips on his, "I've been wanting to do this."

He pressed his lips down and adjusted his body so their hips were aligned. His hands trailed along his stomach and under his shirt, sending shivers up Johns body.

"Sherlock, what are you doing," John moaned as Sherlock bit his neck.

"Ravaging you," He breathed.

John let out a shaky laugh, "I can see that."

Sherlock kept moving along him, tracing Johns scars with his tongue, flesh on flesh. When he started undoing Johns pants, Johns hands shot down and grabbed his wrists, pulling him away.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock glared up at him.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" He sat up and looked at him.

"Didn't I just answer this question?" Sherlock sat up and looked away, "I was kind of hoping we could have sex now."

"Really? Now?" John frowned, "Before it's even dark, with people around, in a pile of feathers?"

"You ripped up the mattress." Sherlock pouted.

John smiled and stretched out his hand, touching the beautiful face, "We aren't doing this right now."

"Why not?"

"Because you're only doing it in case you die tomorrow."

Sherlock looked up at him, his face crumpling, "What if I do?"

"You won't. And if you do, then you'll die a virgin and that's okay. But you won't die, and I don't want our first time to be stupid because we rushed anything."

"But I do. Want to."

"Really?" John smiled bigger.

"Yes," Sherlock sat back and pulled his knees to his chest, "I love you."

"Then we will," John leaned in and kissed Sherlock, deeply, with meaning, desperate, but soft, "Tomorrow, if you still want to, we will."

"Okay,"

Someone tried to open the door outside, and then knocked, "Sherlock? John? Are you in there?"

It was Mycroft. Sherlock sighed, "Yes."

"There's tea, if you want some."

"Do we want some?" Sherlock smiled at his blonde friend.

John smirked, "Aren't we busy?"

"Yes," Sherlock leaned back and pulled the cigarette from his pocket, "And you're a little on edge."

The initial shock was gone, but feelings of anticipation remained. John and Sherlock joined their friends, they all talked normally, like tomorrow might not change anything at all. John hoped and silently prayed it wouldn't. They all still argued, John wondered how Sherlock and Mycroft ever lived together without killing each other.

That night John and Sherlock fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed, not really minding the distance. But when John couldn't take it anymore, he moved too close and Sherlock wrapped himself within him, not caring anymore.