After the movie ended, with Sherlock still unaware of what they had watched, they decided to go to bed since there was nothing else to do. They padded to the bedroom, Sherlock stripping off his clothes as he walked, leaving them uncaringly on the floor. John, walking behind him, picked them up as he dropped them and placed them in the laundry basket along with his own clothes. It was automatic for him, he felt like he'd been caring for Sherlock forever. The detective crossed the wooden floor of the bedroom to his side of the bed in just his boxers; John wore the same but with the added touch of his white undershirt. He was a far more modest man.

Sherlock climbed between the cool sheets as he watched his partner perform his nightly ritual. It had been strange to him at first, having never seen it done before, but after five months it was natural, it made sense. First, he stands himself at his side of the bed and touches the center of his chest, his fingers lingering for a few seconds. Then he reaches under his collar, pulls out a chain, and drags it over his head. A pair of dog tags dangle and clink together at the end of it. He then cradles them in the palm of his right hand, staring at them with glazed over eyes as though he were remembering something important long since forgotten. After half a minute he snaps back to reality and strokes the tags with his thumb before placing them on his end table. Last, a new addition, he climbs into bed and ends it with a kiss, Sherlocks favorite part.

It was little more than a peck, John's bottom lip catching slightly on Sherlocks top as they pulled apart, but any contact with the doctor was good. It burned his flesh with a light flush and caused his heart to pound in his chest. John turned over on his side away from Sherlock so that the detective could cuddle up behind him. They fit together perfectly and comfortably. A pale hand clutching the military doctor's chest, legs tangled together like unwound yarn, and John absently caressing the crook of Sherlocks arm that was scarred by needle marks.

"I love you," John said, already half asleep.

"You too," Sherlock mumbled into his blond hair.

When the light ripped through the shades the next morning Sherlock knew it was going to be one of those days. The moment his eyes opened he could feel his cynical irritability stirring within him. There was nothing he could do to stop it so he decided to do the next best thing: he would try to avoid John for the day. While he still held a certain amount of emotional clarity he knew John didn't deserve the abuse he would receive just by being in his presence.

Sherlock pulled himself away from John, careful not to disturb him, and walked to the closet to pull on trousers and a shirt. He grabbed his cell phone from his nightstand and glanced over at the lightly snoring John before he left the bedroom. He walked through the flat and jogged up the stairs in bare feet to the spare bedroom, where he decided he would spend the day. There were several experiments that he had been ignoring and he figured he would utilize his time.

His current project was a study on the human eye and he had a collection of them stored in a jar of formaldehyde. A colleague from a past case of his was a coroner and provided him with spare parts from organ donors as a thanks for clearing his name. Unfortunately, it was hard to reach them because the room was so packed with his belongings that an outsider would assume he was a hoarder. Boxes were piled up along the walls, the floor was littered with books, and the bed was buried under beakers and vials. Sherlock was mildly impressed with his collection but displeased with the immobility it created.

He made a makeshift walkway by pushing objects off to the sides and he cleared off the desk in the room by moving all of the items on it to the bed. He organized his space within a half hour and set to work, allowing the idea time to melt into non-existence. What he assumed were hours passed by interrupted, slides and samples scattered around the desk, when a knock on the door pulled him from his trance-like state. He glared at the wooden slab for a few seconds before bothering to respond.

"Who is it?" he called, turning his attention back to the microscope in front of him.

"Who do you think it is?" John asked, the groggy sound of sleep still in his voice. "Can I come in?"

"Go away, John," Sherlock snapped as he adjusted the resolution.

"Did I do something?"

Sherlock sighed. "No, I'm just busy. I'll be down when I'm done."

"Okay, Sherlock. I love you."

Sherlock hesitated, taken aback by John's casual affection. "…You too."

He listened to John's footsteps echo away, completely put off from his work. He was definitely in one of his anti-relationship moods and he knew that if he didn't keep himself from John that the day would end badly for both of them. So, Sherlock pretended that he didn't exist and moved onto the next part of his project involving the human eye, various chemicals, and a Bunsen burner. After a few more hours of keeping to himself without interruption he was startled out of his work again, this time by his phone. It's chime sounded and he was very hopeful that he had a case. He became even more hopeful when he saw that it was a text from Lestrade. Two texts in two days, Sherlock thought, maybe Lestrade will text from now on.

Are you up for a case? What a ludicrous question, thought Sherlock. Still, he responded.

Always - SH

It's right up your alley. Killer didn't leave much evidence.

Sounds perfect. Address? - SH

Lestrade responded swiftly with an address that was quite out of the way but he knew where it was and what the place looked like. It was an abandoned building that was fairly well hidden and made for a decent place to commit a murder, in his personal opinion. He shut off the burner and left his experiments where they lay without a second thought. Sherlock flew down the steps three at a time and rushed to pull on his coat and scarf at the front door. He would've been able to escape the flat without John's notice if it hadn't been for the fact that he was barefoot. He walked into the bedroom, wishing he were invisible, where John was sitting on the bed jotting something down in a notebook. As if he had a Sherlock sense, he looked up as soon as he walked into the room.

"Where are you headed?" he asked, pausing in his avid scribbling.

"Out," Sherlock replied as he strode to the dresser, rummaging through it for socks.

"Out where?"

Sherlock knew that he could tell the truth or lie. The problem was, he wasn't sure which would land him in more trouble.

"On a case," he said, deciding the truth would be better in the long run.

John studied him as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks and shoes. "Need any help with the case?"

"No, you're not to leave the flat," he said shortly.

"But if I'm with you-"

"When you're with me is when you're the least safe." His tone was despondent but his tense body language displayed frustration.

Sherlock moved so he could see John who was staring at him with a concerned expression.

"I don't believe that," John said.

"You wouldn't."

Sherlock scowled at him and left the room in a huff. He had made it as far as reaching for the front door when he was jerked away from it. John had a firm grip on one of his arms and determination.

"Sherlock, listen-"

"I have a case, John. I have to go." He tried to wriggle out of John's grip but he was a lot stronger than he seemed.

"Sherlock, listen to me!" He grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's coat and forced the detective to look at him. "I'm sorry, okay? You're right; just don't be angry with me."

Sherlock stared at John without allowing his emotions to reach his eyes while John's eyes were pleading with him. Sherlock couldn't stand to look directly at him. John leaned in hoping for an apology kiss, but Sherlock flinched and shifted his head to the side. He turned away without glancing at John and opened the door with no reluctance. He paused before leaving, fighting the urge to turn back around.

"I'll be back later… don't wait up."

He walked out of the flat and shut the door behind him.