Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or John, unfortunately.

A/N: Every time I write from Sherlock's POV my search history ends up looking like:
"synonyms for idiot"
"time it takes to bleed out"
"types of toxic molds"
which earns me several strange looks from my family.

Sorry I couldn't have this up sooner, guys! But I've decided that this story is going to be at least 4 chapters, instead of the two that I originally planned. Writing this has been so much fun, I hope you guys like reading it as much as I enjoyed creating it! :)

Previously:

"Mycroft had the most wonderful news! He's found a lovely murder case out in the country for you and John! It should take at least a few days to work through – yes dear, even with your genius – and he's even gone through the trouble of booking a nice hotel for the two of you while you're up there," Mrs. Hudson grins, shaking her head. "I really don't think the timing could have been more perfect,"

But Sherlock stops listening. His nostrils flare slightly and the tendons in his right hand flex, but his expression remains otherwise devoid of any outward irritation or anger. To the untrained eye he is calm, unperturbed. However, to the keen stare of Mrs. Hudson it becomes immediately apparent that he is seething. She stops smiling and crinkles her brow in concern.

"Sherlock, dear, this is a good thing!" She insists, placing a soothing hand on his tense shoulder. "This will give you the opportunity to spend some alone time with John and figure out if you prefer him as a friend or…something greater. This is a wonderful opportunity, love; do not waste it simply to spite Mycroft,"

He sighs and drops his forehead into his large palms, wearily raking his fingers through his curls. "Mrs. Hudson my dilemma lies in John's feelings, not my own, though I will admit that they are equally as perplexing. I don't know if what I feel for him is typical among friends or a sign that I am looking for something more. How do I know? How can I possibly find out?" he asks, agitated. Mrs. Hudson eyes him sympathetically.

"Oh, Sherlock, just do what you'd normally do when testing a hypothesis," she pauses and smiles, "Experiment!"

Sherlock will not do Mycroft's damned legwork. He will not. He refuses.

Mrs. Hudson insists that this case is a great chance to spend time with John, which is true, but she fails to understand that Sherlock can't just do Mycroft favors like this. Sherlock's relationship with Mycroft functions only because there is a constant balance between doing what Mycroft tells him and not doing what Mycroft tells him. His mental tally system indicates that solving this case will put him too far into the "friendly brother" zone, which is a place he'd rather not be.

So, two sulky days after visiting Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock sits on the couch, crosses his arms, and tells John exactly why they aren't taking the case.

"Sherlock, don't you think you're being just a tad bit ridiculous?" John looks amused and not even half as serious as he ought to be. He sweeps a thick layer of dust from the top of the telly with a rag, mouth quirked into a grin. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you sound like a stubborn little boy," John stops dusting and moves over to tousle Sherlock's unruly curls. "With this hairstyle you even look like one,"

Sherlock glares in response, but John just keeps grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. That is unacceptable, because Sherlock is not being cute or endearing or anything else that warrants a smile; he is being serious.

"John. Mycroft is insufferable. If I do this, then before you know it, he will begin giving us all of his cases out of pure laziness and we'll be drowning in boring government assignments,"

"I highly doubt that'll happen, Sherlock. You're being a bit dramatic,"

Sherlock scoffs. "John, Mycroft could solve this case within twenty minutes if he cared to. He's only given this task to me to make my life more difficult or to perhaps free up time to devour more cake. Who knows; maybe both,"

Finished with the dusting, John walks in front of Sherlock, hands on his hips. "We are helping Mycroft, Sherlock. You don't have any cases right now, anyway; it'll be something interesting to do. Besides, I've put in enough hours at the clinic to get the next few days off with pay. At the very least I could use a vacation,"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and deadpans, "Oh really? Your ideal vacation involves a murder and copious amounts of time spent discussing the many ways one can be killed?"

"Sherlock, my life involves murder and copious amounts of time spent discussing the ways one can be killed. Seems fitting that my vacation would be just as mad, yes?"

Sherlock stops glaring. His lips twitch. "I suppose so,"

"Alright then. It's settled: you and I are popping down to Kent to solve us a nice little murder,"

"Fine. But only if I can't manage to solve this case from Baker Street first,"

"Sherlock, you really think you'll be able to sol—actually, what am I saying: of course you think that," John rolls his eyes, amused. "Alright then, we'll do things your way. You said Mycroft wants you down by Thursday, so I suppose you have at least the next twenty-four hours to work it out,"

Sherlock could not solve the case in twenty-four hours.

Thus: He is sitting on an uncomfortably jostling train, up to his eyeballs in files and news clips, on his not-so-merry way to Kent.

Sherlock glares down at the crumpled train ticket in his fist with more scorn than the innocuous paper deserves, only tearing his gaze away to periodically glower out the window at Kent scenery.

Sherlock decides he hates Mycroft.

And not in that insincere, familial manner that is only out of begrudging fondness. No. He honestly despises his conniving, scheming, cake-devouring brother and all of his terrible ideas. Mycroft is lucky that he isn't here otherwise he'd be chucked out the window along with the useless files currently in Sherlock's lap. Only the unpleasant thought of physical labor prevents him from pouring bin by bin of paperwork straight out of the train and onto the tracks where they belong.

He furiously kneads at his temple, vainly endeavoring to ward off a headache. His phone vibrates with a text and he ceases his ministrations to check it.

Enjoying the challenge, brother mine? -MH

Damn it, Mycroft. Only his brother could have managed to find a case that truly stumped him; everyone else automatically assumed he could handle any possible situation (himself included) but of course Mycroft begged to differ.

The deceptively simple case Mycroft had so generously presented him took place in a small, serene town in Kent about three days previous. A man was found dead on a local beach – discovered by two lovers no less – bloated, naked, and bearing a strange black mark on his chest. At first glance the cause of death could easily be surmised as a gang strike due to the mark, and upon a second look, it was found that the man's tongue was missing and there was a large amounts of drugs in his system. This seemingly only supported the theory that he was killed by a crime organization, then marked, perhaps over a drug dispute. However, it was quickly discovered – by Sherlock of course, because the detectives involved were somehow even less competent than those at the Yard – that the mark was a tattoo the man had willingly received at least three or four months prior to his murder, (How they mistook an aged tattoo for a gang marking was above and beyond his comprehension) and all of the drugs found were deliberately ingested. The lack of tongue was slightly more ambiguous, but he'd be able to piece it together once he got to see the corpse with his own eyes.

This of course rendered nearly every file on the case useless. Sherlock had spent the previous night and subsequent morning at Baker Street, shuffling through the paperwork and attempting to correct each error and inconsistency, but once it became clear that it would take longer than the few hours he was willing to sacrifice, he tossed the bin of files aside and fell into a sulk.

"Tea?" John had asked, standing before him with two mugs.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the ceiling to glance at John, making a vaguely affirmative gesture with his hands. "Yes but it will have to be to-go," he said, resigned. Unfortunately he'd have to take a look at the evidence in person, because the existing records were completely worthless. That meant going all the bloody way to Kent. Despite his best efforts it would seem that he was doing everything Mycroft had planned; the icing on the cake would be when he and John arrived and were forced to use the hotel Mycroft already booked for their lodgings. Unless, of course, they rebelled against his plans by sleeping on the ground or in some shoddy motel, though Sherlock was not particularly fond of either alternative.

"To-go? I thought you said you could, and I quote, 'solve Mycroft's stupid case from the sofa'?"

"Yes, John. I did say that. However that was before I realized how utterly thick the 'detectives' working on this case were. Now it appears we will have to go there and collect data for ourselves," he sighed long-sufferingly and plucked his scarf from the arm of the chair. "Grab your coat, will you?"

John looked at him strangely, "I'll be fine, Sherlock, I don't think I need—"

Sherlock waved him off, impatiently. "Yes, John, you do. Without it you'll get ill in this weather, and we certainly can't have that,"

John gave him that look again, and Sherlock mentally scolded himself for acting like some ridiculous mothering figure. If John wanted to be careless and catch a cold, fine.

But then that hypothetical cold turned into pneumonia, which then led to respiratory failure, Sepsis, Emphysema, lung abscesses, and ended with John slowly dying in a hospital bed. Sherlock's heart leaped into his throat and nearly choked him. Without a second thought he swiped John's neglected jacket from its perch on the chair and practically forced John into it.

"Sherlock! I'm not a child—why are you putting my jacket—hey! Bloody calm down, will you?" John managed to tear away from Sherlock's insistent grip just as he was pulling the right sleeve on. John indignantly adjusted the rumpled collar of his jacket and looked at Sherlock as if he were mad.

Inwardly pleased, but still attempting to salvage what remained of his pride, Sherlock cleared his throat and casually brushed down the lapel of his own coat. "Let's go shall we?"

John cast him a wary glance, perhaps wondering if Sherlock planned to man-handle him again, before replying, "Fine, yes. Let's get going, the train will be leaving soon."

Which brings Sherlock to the present, wherein a bin full of useless records are jostling on his lap, Mycroft is sending smug texts, and his brilliant, magnificent mind continues hitting dead-ends. He knows this is not his fault; he has nearly no reliable evidence to work with, so whatever conclusions he does manage to draw end up contradicting themselves as soon as he dredges up another misfiled paper or out-of-focus photograph.

It is absolutely maddening.

To make matters worse, he can't even distract himself by admiring, speaking with, or simply staring at John. Because although John is inches away in the next seat, he's too busy texting his woman-of-the-week to do much else but giggle at his mobile and punch flirtations into his keyboard, let alone give Sherlock some much needed attention. Annoyed, tired, and desperately wishing the train would stop already, Sherlock leans his forehead against the window and stares unseeingly at passing objects. Once John's texting conversation turns into an actual conversation, he has to clench both his jaw and fists to resist plucking the phone from John's hand and flinging it from the window.

"Yes, Laura, I did receive the picture; you look dashing in that dress," John says into his mobile, which is nearly mashed into the side of his head in eagerness. He grins at her reply. "Really, now? Well, I'd hardly call myself debonair, but if you say so…"

Sherlock groans. To revise his earlier thought: this is not just maddening, this is agony. His eyes fall to John's jumper, which is dark blue and soft-looking. Experimentally, he pokes John's shoulder. One touch quickly becomes two, and before he knows it he is pressing his index finger into the curve of John's shoulder to the beat of several different symphonies, most of his own creation.

Poke poke poke—poke poke—poke poke poke—poke.

"Yes, I'd love to—" John stops abruptly, presses the phone into his shoulder, and hisses at Sherlock, "Will you stop bloody jabbing me in the arm?"

Unperturbed, Sherlock continues poking John, albeit at a slower pace. "John, I'm bored. Terribly bored. Unfathomably bored. I demand that you end that foolish call immediately,"

John rolls his eyes and raises the phone back to his ear. "Yes, Laura, I'm back. As you were saying?" He continues speaking with her, and when Sherlock resumes his pestering, John reaches up and stills his hand with his own. He mouths 'stop' and Sherlock does, but John doesn't release his hand. Sherlock stares at their joined hands, then back up at John questioningly. John moves the phone away from his ear once again to whisper, "I don't trust that you aren't going to start up again, so I'm not letting go until you promise to stop for good,"

Hm. Well. John is currently holding his hand, and if promising not to bother him will end this wonderful contact, then of course he isn't going to promise anything.

"And if you don't promise I'll just move across the aisle," he adds, flicking his gaze to the empty seat a few feet away.

Defeated, Sherlock slumps in his seat and murmurs a sullen "I promise". John releases him and returns to his call. Sherlock's right hand now feels unpleasantly cold.

Minutes pass unhurriedly, and after what feels like ten lifetimes, he hears John say, much to his relief, "Oh, you have to go? Alright, then. I'll talk to you another time, Laura,"

"That took long enough," Sherlock breathes, posture straightening and eyes brightening immediately. Excellent. Now he has John all to himself. With no preamble, he plucks one of the more coherent documents from the bin and begins questioning John.

"John, in your medical opinion, would you say this man's tongue was sawed off – and if that's the case, I'm guessing it would have been done with some kind of generic Swiss-army knife – or bitten off, mid-seizure, due to an overdose of tricyclic antidepressants?"

"Sherlock—"

"And then of course, there is the very complex cluster of scar tissue bunched up near the crease of his knee - could be a bullet wound, but the shape says knife – and I'm not quite sure if it somehow occurred because of his occupation - a crossing guard, according this this file – or possibly what he did in his free time, which is, in my opinion, far more likely considering how generally uneventful the job of directing people across the street is,"

"Sherlock," John cuts in, more sharply this time.

Sherlock, just about to open his mouth and continue, pauses. Reluctantly he presses his lips shut and waits for John to speak. (Though, whatever it is surely could have waited until Sherlock shared that bit about the fingernails)

"Yes?"

"First of all, take a breath. You're speaking at a million miles an hour. In, out," John demonstrates, taking exaggerated inhalations and exhalations of air. Sherlock stares at him, trying, if anything, to breathe even less calmly than before out of pure pettiness. He doesn't need John to show him how to breathe for Christ's sake, valuable time is being wasted!

"Yes, John, I'm aware of how to use my lungs,"

"Excellent. Now, I am absolutely knackered from the late shift I took last night, so I'm going to take a quick nap. Wake me up when we're in Kent, alright? Shouldn't be more than twenty minutes,"

"Wha—John, how can you possibly sleep at a time like this? Those idiots mucked up the entire case, but there are still a few things we can piece together from the minimal amount of evidence that we have available, and I really do require your medical opinion on—"

"Wake me up in Kent," John repeats firmly. Then he closes his eyes, sinks down in his seat, and folds his hands on his abdomen. Within minutes he is fast asleep.

Sherlock glares out the window in a silent pout, his arms folded tightly, chin tucked into his chest. Why must John waste valuable time talking to imbeciles and bloody napping? Wouldn't he rather talk to me about this case? Let's not forget that it's the two of US that are on this damned trip anyway, not him and Laura! Why doesn't he—

Sherlock's mental ranting is cut short when John murmurs something in his sleep and leans into him. The train jostles and John's head ends up tucked into Sherlock's shoulder, his soft, cinnamon-scented hair brushing the underside of Sherlock's chin. Sherlock blinks, heat rushing to his face.

Okay. That feels…good. Not terribly bad. Decent.

Mm.

The twenty minutes that previously seemed to stretch on into eternity now pass at an alarming rate; before he has time to fully appreciate their position the train is pulling into the station and John is blinking himself awake.

"Mm, sorry about that," John mumbles, lifting his head from the scratchy wool of Sherlock's coat. "Did I bother you?"

Sherlock swallows and pointedly looks away. "No,"

After exiting the train, Sherlock strides ahead of John so they are not in close proximity. He needs some space; just a bit of time to allow the ridiculous pink splotches on his cheeks to cool back into smooth porcelain. He needs his heart to bloody calm down, too.

"Jesus, Sherlock, where's the fire? Would you bloody slow down?"

However, the separation ends up in vain because despite their distance Sherlock can't stop smelling cinnamon for the entire walk to the hotel.

As Sherlock stands alongside John in the hotel parking lot and gazes up at the towering, cream-colored building netted with ivy and bright purple bougainvillea, his only thought is Damn it, Mycroft.

Because of course a simple hotel was not an option for Mycroft, he just had to get them reservations at a five star resort swarmed with tan, shiny-haired people and their dazzling, overpriced cars. Sherlock can practically hear the smooth jazz that will play in the smartly-decorated lobby, the low buzz of refined chatter from rich mouths; the gentle whoosh of expensive fabric brushing against equally exorbitant furniture.

He knows for a fact there will be gourmet chocolate-covered mints beneath their pillows and designer shampoo in their showers.

"John, we are not going in there,"

John, who'd been staring at the building in faint distaste, tears his eyes away to meet Sherlock's. "Why, what don't you like about it?"

Sherlock glares at the hotel as if it has personally offended him. "If Mycroft was a building, this would be it. Need I say more?"

"Ah. No, I suppose not," They turn around and begin their walk from the parking lot. John tucks his hands into his pockets. "Just as well, though. I can't stand uppity places like this,"

Without missing a bit, Sherlock replies, "Yes, I know. It makes you uncomfortable. You grew up in a very frugal household and were always forced to live life as inexpensively as possible. Then you joined the army and money was more or less irrelevant. When you moved back to London you lived in a very small flat for a low monthly fee because you do not see the point in frivolous decorations or material items. I am of course referring to the flat that preceded 221b, though even our present arrangement is economically sensible as you split the rent with me. You are quite practical. In fact, it's one of your best characteristics, John,"

"Well…thanks. But what about you? You grew up in this kind of lifestyle, so why did the thought of staying in that hotel bother you so much?"

"I already answered that,"

John furrows his brow. "How? That's the first time I've asked the question,"

"Because, as I said moments ago, it would make you uncomfortable," Sherlock steals a glance at John, then looks away, embarrassed. "I…I don't want you to be uncomfortable,"

"Oh." John raises his eyebrows in surprise, before a smile pulls up the corners of his lips. "You know, Sherlock, that's actually very thoughtful of you,"

Sherlock can already feel heat creeping up from his collar.

Stop that. Stop smiling at me like that - all endearing and playful - right this instance, John. STOP.

"Er—I suppose," is Sherlock's grumbled reply. He pulls up his collar and ducks his head, attempting to subtly hide the spreading blush.

"No, really, it's quite kind," John insists, now grinning ear to ear. His eyes sparkle like a schoolboy's; he looks like he is planning on doing something either juvenile or silly or all of the above. Sherlock pointedly does not look at John's face because that happy expression alone will be enough to melt away all of his reservations as well as his carefully preserved self-control.

"Whatever, John. It's nothing," he complains.

But John, of course, is undeterred. He moves closer to Sherlock as they walk, so that there is not an inch of space between their shoulders. "Despite those razor-sharp cheekbones and equally lethal wit, you really can be nice when you want to," John teases. Then, shockingly, he throws a quick arm around Sherlock's waist and squeezes lightly in a sort of half-hug. Before it even occurs to Sherlock to attempt to reciprocate, or at least savor the sensation of John's fingertips pressing into his hip, John's arm is gone and his deliciously warm hands are tucked innocently back into his coat pockets.

Sherlock is still reeling long after the fact, but John appears to have found nothing unusual about what he did, because moments later he casually asks, "So which hotel should we stay in, then?" As if that hug was no more than a typical occurrence that hardly required subsequent thought.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is quite flustered. His mind is clouded with frantic lines of data – warm fingertips, light pressure, arm wrapped 'round my waist, cinnamon, laughter, playful smile – and a mishmash of emotions that he is neither inclined nor able to figure out. Why the hell does he feel nervous, happy, scared, and pleased all at once? It's all just so unnecessary. Whoever dares to say that human emotions aren't complicated deserves a solid kick in the rear.

"There's a place just a few minutes from here I b-believe," Sherlock deliberately clears his throat and tries to ignore the fact that he just stuttered. John cocks an eyebrow but decides to let it go.

"Do you think it'll have available rooms?"

Sherlock scans the area. Decent weather today means that people of all kinds will head straight to the park or a lake or somewhere else scenic, so there will be many vacancies because no one wants to be holed up in a room – especially one that is not theirs – when there is nice weather outside. However, there appears to be some kind of event happening near the hotel – as can be seen by the cars lining the sidewalks and the reoccurring logos on ten different peoples' shirts – so that significantly affects the amount of available area. It's a small event, though, an annual town event perhaps, judging by the quality of the logo and the general appearance of the decorations, so it will not be big enough to book the entire hotel. Ah, but wait! People holding hands, red and pink color scheme…this is a couple's event, a dating event perhaps, not a town festival, so only the double bedded rooms will be taken. That leaves the single rooms and the family sized rooms open.

"Yes, I believe so,"

...

The hotel's interior is pleasant and unassuming, a far cry from the palatial resort Mycroft booked for them. While John handles the boring task of checking in, Sherlock pulls out his phone to send a text.

Your taste is ridiculous. Do not feel inclined to choose lodgings on my behalf in the future, Mycroft. –SH

He smirks to himself. Seconds later, his mobile beeps.

Well, brother, your taste is nonexistent, which I rather think is worse than 'ridiculous'. What exactly displeased you? Was it not satisfactory to your John? –MH

Sherlock bristles at that. He can practically see the falsely innocent smile wrapped around 'your John'. Sodding Mycroft. But as much as it pains him to admit, Mycroft is correct, and unfortunately there is no way to say he is wrong without outright lying, so Sherlock decides against replying. Annoyed, he snaps his mobile shut and joins John at the front desk.

"Well, 'fraid there's only a single room left, lads," the concierge explains, apologetically. "I 'spose you could take a family-suite, but that's a hundred-something extra and comes with three beds,"

John glances at Sherlock, "The single room is fine, right?"

It is illogical to get a room with three beds when there are only two people, so Sherlock agrees. "Yes, that's fine."

"Alright, here's the key. Have a good one, lads,"

...

After some quick unpacking and a half-hearted attempt at lunch – soggy sandwich for John, hot tea for Sherlock – the two take a cab to the address Mycroft attached to one of the evidence files. At the moment, they sit side by side in the backseat of a cab on their way to the police department, Sherlock impatiently shaking his leg and staring out the window while John attempts to lay out what he calls "ground rules".

"First of all, I want you to at least try to keep the biting condescension to a minimum,"

"Impossible," Sherlock dismisses, not even bothering to tear his gaze from the window.

"Secondly, I'd like you to treat them with patience. They aren't geniuses like you, remember,"

To which he flatly replies: "No."

John doesn't seem even slightly upset though, because he clearly didn't expect Sherlock to listen to him at all. He is saying these things because as the moral compass of the pair he is obligated to at least attempt to guide Sherlock in the right direction, even though nine times out of ten it will be in vain.

"And last but not least, you should smile. Shake their hand in greeting. Converse about the weather," Ah, and there is that good old dry sarcasm. John does an impressive job of keeping a straight face.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but the quirk of his mouth undeniably proves his amusement. "Yes, yes, I'll definitely do that, John,"

John's shoulder shake in silent laughter as he turns his body to face the window. "Much appreciated."

The body is laid out on a table, pale, cold, bloated, and nearly past the stage in which usable data can be gleaned. Sherlock fancies himself lucky for showing up when he had, because even a few extra hours might've rendered this entire corpse useless.

Sherlock lifts the man's right eyelid and waits for John to obligatorily shine his small torch inside. The veins are swollen, some burst, and the broken capillaries seep pink and red to the rest of the sclera. Additionally, the small pupil of his eye is nearly swallowed by the colorless iris surrounding it. Clearly drugs-related, then.

Detective Richards, an irritable, twitchy-mustached man with pride far too large for his five-foot-three frame, steps forward and clears his throat. "Are you just about done staring at that man's eyes? He isn't gonna blink any time soon,"

Sherlock snaps the torch off and glares down at the man. He doesn't bother dignifying such a stupid remark with a response.

Annoyed at being ignored, the Detective continues, "We surmise that this man was drugged out of his wits and marked by a gang, most probably over a drug dispute that ended badly. Open and shut case, Mr. Holmes," his beady eyes narrow in distaste, "So I'm not exactly sure why you've been called down here,"

"Yes, judging by the inconsistent mess you call "evidence", I can see you are not 'exactly sure' about a lot of things, Detective. And you'd like to know why I am here? Well, since you are also quite poor at arriving at conclusions, I shall save you some time and precious brain power by explaining that you lot are entirely wrong and I was called in to do something right,"

"Excuse me? Listen, freak, I don't see how you can call yourself my superior when I am the one with the badge and you are the one with the useless lackey and nonexistent credentials,"

Sherlock puts the torch down beside the man's head and whirls around to face the snarling detective. "Do not speak of my colleague like that, Richards. And I am your superior. Paper documents and shiny badges mean virtually nothing when there is a dead body on a slab and you are too thunderously idiotic to realize how he died and too incredibly stupid to care,"

By now, the rest of the officers have backed up to leave the two in the center of the room. They circle each other like snarling dogs preparing to strike. "Do not speak to me like that in my office, Mr. Holmes! And if you call me stupid one more time…," he trails off, face red with anger, "And we have the bloody case solved already, so—"

"Oh? You think this was a gang-related crime, do you? So then are we going to completely ignore the four-point-five grams of antidepressants and two grams of cocaine that were found in his system? Oh, that's right, you didn't bloody know there were self-consumed drugs in his system, did you? Because although your reports vaguely mention drugs, you all drew the conclusion that they were some form of extremely potent benzodiazepines used to sedate him, when in reality all of the drugs found in this man's system were deliberately ingested,"

"Sherlock—"

"Not now, John, I'm not nearly finished. I've yet to even touch upon the ridiculous 'gang marking' nonsense this lot made up about the fully consented tattoos on his chest,"

The detective glowers. "Listen, Mr. fancy-London-crime solver, we do not need any of your help down here, in fact I'm not quite sure how you even heard about this case. We have everything handled so I'd appreciate it if you took your snarky comments and smart arse back to where you came from, thank you very goddamn much,"

Sherlock laughs, but it sounds more like a cruel bark of amazement than anything. "And just when I truly believed your stupidity had reached maximum levels,"

"Call me stupid one more time, Mr. Holmes…"

"Excuse me, Detective, but I believe you've made that unfinished threat at least several times today, so either you're being extremely repetitive or you simply cannot count past one,"

The man audibly growls and clenches his fists at his sides, fuming in silent anger.

From across the room, Sherlock watches John purse his lips and glance around the tense group. Since his face is extremely expressive, Sherlock can read his thoughts like a book: okay things are getting a bit strained here, we should probably give them a bit of time to cool off even though they are most certainly being idiots. It will probably be in our best interest if the detectives working on this case don't hate our guts. Time to take Sherlock for a little 'talk' to give them a break.

As predicted, John sighs and takes Sherlock by the crook of his arm, "Come with me for a mo', yes?" But John doesn't wait for a response, because he's already dragging Sherlock into an empty office by the time it even occurs to Sherlock that he should answer.

Sherlock is not entirely certain how John can maintain so calm in the presence of these imbeciles, because it has taken every ounce of Sherlock's patience to refrain from tearing out fist after fist of his own hair. The evidence and subsequent conclusions one ought to draw are right bloody there, yet they all insist that the fantastical story Detective Richards has cooked up is the most likely one.

John more or less shoves him inside, then turns to close the door. He leans against the wall and chuckles tiredly. He runs a hand down his face.

"John—"

"I know: they're idiots. I'm no consulting detective myself and even I can see the great inconsistencies in this case,"

"That's because you are clever, John. They quite plainly are not,"

"Okay, but even though I agree with you that does not mean I agree with your methods of handling the situation," he pauses, rolls his eyes, "I know that indignant look on your face, Sherlock: save your breath, I know you'll say that you will 'do whatever you please' or something to that extent. I'm only saying this because we are going to get nowhere with this daft lot if you continue snapping at them; they aren't the Yard, they will not just stand there and silently take it,"

"But it's what I do, John. I snap. I seethe. I hiss. It isn't my fault that they are too feeble-minded to look past their feelings of inferiority and mediocrity to view the facts clearly,"

"I know, it's just—"

There is a brief pounding at the door, before it swings open and Detective Richards, flanked by two of his officers, enter. He peers at the two of them, mustache twitching in anger. "Sorry, boys, hate to have interrupted your little date, but could we kindly get back to the damned case? Or, better yet, arrange your plans to return home?"

John glares. "We are in the middle of a discussion, detective, it would be lovely if you permitted us a bit of privacy,"

"Oh, a bit of privacy? I'm sorry, Mr. Walton, it didn't occur to me that we were hosting a social event—here I thought this was an actual case in an actual police station! Silly me!" Spittle flies from his mouth. "When I was told two professionals were coming down to look into our case, I didn't realize one would require intermittent breaks to compose his basket case of a partner," he snarls over John's shoulder, eyes fixed angrily on Sherlock. "Do try to keep the freak on a damned leash, will you, Mr. Walton?"

John, who'd previously looked only annoyed, is now shaking with suppressed fury. He clenches his steady hands into fists and stares at the Detective as if deciding where to land his first punch. His eyes linger on the man's face and Sherlock can already see thirty seconds into the future wherein Detective Richards will have a broken nose and John's knuckles will be covered with his blood. It's a bit early in the case for hospital bills, especially ones that aren't even their own.

As Sherlock watches John grow progressively angrier, he oddly finds himself calming down. It's as if an invisible balance is evening their collective emotions out, so that neither one of them is too angry or too relaxed. Sherlock clears his throat and steps in front of John, both out protectiveness and for the sake of stopping John from charging at the idiot before them. In one flat stream of degradation Sherlock says:

"You will address him as Dr. Watson, not Mr. Watson, or John, and least of all Mr. Walton, you imbecile. Though I'm well aware the power to correctly recall names exceeds your mental abilities, do attempt to properly title the kinder half of the pair that is currently assisting you and your hopeless department with this case, because I can guarantee winning me over will not be so easy. Or possible, at this point."

The detective stares back, his face as red as the ketchup stain on his tie, lips moving wordlessly beneath his mustache. "How—don't—dare you—in my office—you,"

Sherlock flicks his collar upwards and gathers his scarf from John. "Come now, John," he says, cheerily. "Let's go. It'll be about twenty minutes before he is able to coherently form a sentence, so we might as well do something interesting in the meantime,"

John stops clenching his fists and nods, his features smoothing over into mock pleasantness. "Yes, grand idea. It was lovely speaking to you, detective, but we're obviously not going to accomplish much today, so if you decide that you'd like to listen to Sherlock tomorrow, please do not hesitate to call us up. With an adequate apology prepared, of course. Until then," John offers him a final, false smile before storming out the door with Sherlock following behind.

"I deeply dislike that man," John snaps as they walk out of the building, in a tone that suggests he more than just dislikes him. Despise is probably more accurate.

"Yes, I'm not particularly fond, either," Sherlock tucks his hands into his pockets and ducks his head. "He called you Mr. Walton for christ's sake. I daresay Anderson would make for better company,"

John chuckles. "That's quite the statement. Are you sure you'd like to insult him to such an extreme extent?"

Sherlock huffs out a laugh in response, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, yes. I never thought it possible, but I have successfully found a man even more unpleasant than Phillip Anderson,"

The weather in Kent is fairly nice - as John would say, because Sherlock doesn't care about things like weather - now that the harsh wind has simmered down to a cool breeze and the solid roof of clouds are starting to allow a bit of greyish sunlight to break through. The air smells crisp with a faint hint of coffee from the shop a few streets down.

They walk down the sidewalk in the direction of their hotel, chins tucked in the layers of scarfs looping their necks, gloved fingers shoved into pockets.

"Do you think he'll call us back?" John asks in the lobby, room key moving nervously from one hand to the other. John appears to think he is at fault; he thinks that if they lose this case it is because of him, not Sherlock.

Strange.

"Yes, yes, of course. Tomorrow morning at the earliest and tomorrow night at the latest; however long it takes for his pride to simmer down. Mycroft wants this dealt with and dealt with it shall be. One ridiculous man with a bloody gopher on his upper lip is not going to stand in the way,"

"A gopher?" John's eyes twinkle with mirth. "Brilliant description, though I thought it looked more like a weasel the way it was jumping about on his face,"

Sherlock outright laughs at that, a long deep rumble of joy that seems to go on for ages. Before he knows it, John has joined him and they're leaning against the wall of the corridor, breathless and giggling, just like their first night together when they chased after the cab.

...

"John, you are not sleeping on the floor," Sherlock states, already peeling back the duvet and climbing in as if his word is final and the problem has been solved.

"Sherlock, I really don't mind it, I've slept on the floor before,"

Sherlock slides into the left side of the bed and wiggles his toes underneath the tightly tucked-in sheets. "Good for you. I've eaten a red beetle before, but that doesn't mean I'm going to do so for breakfast. There. Now that we've both shared pointless experiences that have no bearing in the present, you can stop being foolish and get into bed,"

John still looks doubtful. "Sherlock…"

He huffs and dramatically throws himself on his back to glare at the ceiling. "Really, John? Do you really care about what people think that much? There are no hidden cameras in here, no one's waiting behind the door to pop out and snap a picture, the world will continue in its endless revolutions whether you get into this bed or not. Frankly, if your heterosexuality is still in question despite the masses of women you date, then whoever you are attempting to convince is not worth it," Sherlock turns his back to John to face the wall, an unfamiliar ache settling somewhere behind his rib cage.

And yes, maybe it hurts just a little that John is so repulsed by the idea of sharing a bed that he is willing to sleep on the floor, but whatever. Sherlock doesn't care.

Sherlock can't see his face, but when John speaks, he sounds…confused. Surprised, too. "Wait, you think I don't want to share a bed because people will think I'm gay?" He laughs softly, as if to say 'oh you silly, silly man', "Jesus, Sherlock, who cares about that? As you've said: people do little else other than talk, so there's no use in worrying over it. No, I was just a bit reluctant because you have a tendency to sprawl yourself across the entire mattress, and I wasn't sure if sharing a bed would be uncomfortable for you. I mean, being confined to a smaller space, and all,"

Sherlock blinks. John was going to sleep on the floor because he thought Sherlock would prefer that? The cold feeling quickly morphs into a steady burn, coloring him red with flush all the way from his neck to the tips of his cheekbones. He turns to face John.

"I don't mind,"

"Okay, I'll get in after I brush my teeth. One mo'" John turns and pads into the small bathroom, blue toothbrush in tow.

Sherlock lays on his back and attempts to sort the events of the day – a sleeping John on his shoulder, the hug, cinnamon, the idiotic detective, laughing in the hallways, a smorgasbord of warm smiles and casual touches - and finds a low thrum of anticipation vibrating in his bones. He can't focus. There are bees under his skin, there must be, because his body is practically buzzing with both nausea and excitement at the same time. It's the same spike of adrenaline that usually accompanies a particularly dangerous case.

Reality: He is going to sleep beside John.

Yes, it's platonic – at least to John – but Sherlock has a feeling that somehow this is going to bring change. They are reaching a pinnacle here, of what he isn't sure, but its importance is undeniable.

John exits the bathroom in a cotton t-shirt that smells like laundry detergent and grey sweatpants that Sherlock amusedly notes once belonged to Harry. He stretches his arms over his head, ambles over to the bed, peels back the covers and climbs in as if this is just part of their typical routine. He shifts around for a bit – they are now precisely six inches apart – before reaching over to turn off the lamp light, shrouding the room in darkness.

Minutes later, when John clears his throat to speak, Sherlock expects him to say something akin to 'goodnight' and have that be the end of it, but instead he says, "If you hadn't ushered us out of that police station when you had, I swear I would have chinned Detective Richards,"

Sherlock smiles at the dark ceiling. "Yes, I know," he pauses, "But why?"

John scoffs and adjusts himself so that he is on his side, facing Sherlock. Sherlock listens to the sheets rustle and waits for John's response. "Because he was a git, that's why,"

"We've met people just as unpleasant as him before and you've never tried to punch them. What specifically did he do that made you so angry?"

"He called you a freak!" John sputters, as if that answer is obvious. "Do you not remember?"

Sherlock is confused. "Yes, of course I recall. Photographic memory. But I don't see why that would prompt you to hit him,"

There is a beat of surprised silence, then John laughs softly; not because Sherlock's confusion is humorous, but because John seems to find it…endearing. Again, he appears to consider the answer obvious. "Sherlock. You're my best friend; of course I get angry when people insult you to your face like that. I hate when Donovan does it too, but I can't exactly throw a punch at her, can I? It's just a quirk of mine I suppose; overprotectiveness. I'm sorry if it bothers you,"

John was protecting him. Sherlock is John's best friend.

Oh.

Well, isn't that an interesting feeling. Warmth pools in Sherlock's chest and spreads from his quickly-beating heart to the tips of his curled toes.

"N-no, I don't mind. No need to apologize," he feels another question bubbling up in his throat, but it sounds so needy that he initially resists voicing it. However, since there is something especially liberating about the dark, he finds himself quietly confirming, "I'm your best friend?"

Because John did not mean that, he couldn't have. Sherlock has never had a friend, let alone a best friend. Even in his wildest dreams he never imagined he'd meet someone like John, who is loved by all and could easily have a number of people in his life, but for some reason chooses Sherlock, the ill-mannered, socially-unaware consulting detective.

Why?

John is by far the most confusing puzzle he's ever encountered.

John doesn't seem to realize how perplexing the idea is for Sherlock. "Of course you are, Sherlock," he answers easily. No thought required. Stated like a well-known fact. "How could you be anything less? You're—" John yawns, "fantastic."

"You're fantastic too," Sherlock replies, without thinking. The words come out sounding rushed and childish in their eagerness. Sherlock's face goes ruddy and he is grateful for the blanket of darkness.

"Glad it's a mutual thought, then," Faint light from the moon glints off of John's teeth as he grins. "Goodnight, Sherlock," John says around another yawn. He sighs contently and tugs the sheet around his shoulders. "May we both have fantastic dreams."

...

When Sherlock wakes up, the first thing he notices is the overwhelming warmth surrounding him. How unfamiliar. At home he cocoons himself in a thin silk sheet and sleeps beneath a drafty open window, so he is accustomed to waking up cold. At the moment however, he is intertwined quite intricately with something that is warm and cinnamon/laundry soap-scented, which is both a new and entirely pleasing start to his day. His eyes are sticky with sleep so he doesn't bother trying to open them.

This feels nice. The sun is shining through a window to the left, warming the duvet, the side of Sherlock's face, and whatever solid mass he is burrowed into. He nuzzles his face further into the warmth and sighs. This is lovely, isn't it? This is pleasant. This is—

This is John's chest.

Suddenly alert, Sherlock stiffens and attempts to catalogue their exact position without moving a muscle, in fear of waking John. Okay, so his cheek is pressed somewhere along John's chest, yes that's John's chin on top of his head, and his right arm is slung across John's abdomen. Now for the legs…ah, so his right leg is curled over John's straightened legs, and his left leg is bent and pressed next to his right leg. What's that warm spot on his shoulder blades? Oh: it's John's hand. Okay. Splayed fingers, slight pressure.

This is interesting.

It appears that John - consciously or subconsciously, Sherlock would rather not analyze which at the moment – has allowed Sherlock to curl around him like a monkey in their sleep.

And, yes, as ineloquent as that sounds, that is really the only thing Sherlock can liken himself to: a monkey. Because he is practically clinging to John at the moment. Not that he is complaining, or anything.

Positions figured out, Sherlock now must analyze the situation itself. First: Sherlock never sleeps for more than three hours a night unless some kind of heavy sedative is involved, yet according to the room's clock, he has just slept for nine straight hours. Second: this is the most comfortable Sherlock has ever felt in his entire life, dreamy cocaine highs and all. Third: he really did not think he'd be this invested in – egad, even though this feels wonderful, saying the word is painful – cuddling. Yet he is. Clearly.

It's strange, but this somehow feels natural. If Sherlock can temporarily ignore the shock and heart-stopping joy he is feeling at this new experience, he can almost imagine himself waking up like this on a regular basis. And wouldn't that be smashing?

Sherlock has never before understood why it is so great to wake up next to someone you love, but now that he has done so himself, he empathizes completely.

Wait. He's done so himself? Love. John. This. What?

Sherlock's eyes widen and his heart nearly stutters to a halt.

And so, it is on a sunny morning in Kent, wrapped around the man in question, that Sherlock Holmes realizes that he is indeed in love with John Watson.

Bugger.

A/N: So, what did you think? Love it, hate it? All comments and criticisms are welcomed with open arms and chocolate chip cookies.:) Thank you so much for reading, loves! The next update will come sooner, because I already have most of chapter three already written out.

Until next time, darlings!