JOHN WATSON

I suppose if anyone could find a way to make faking a wet dream in front of your flatmate less awkward it would be Sherlock, who seems to view the human body with complete clinical detachment. However, after the initial violin playing on the coffee table until 2 in the morning which seemed almost cheerful and rollicking in its defiance of social norms (at least, I assume that's what he's going for), he dropped the bow and began to stare out the window, his brows knitted together.

"You know Sherlock, I really don't mind. I know better than to take your experiments seriously."

"I'm not EMBARASSED, John," he snapped in response.

I sighed. I should have known better than to assume that. He's just entering one of his moods. He probably realizes that this irritating spate of sexual experiments is over. "All right you barmy…" My voice trailed off as he glared at me, and I stood up. "I'm going to bed. Please don't come into my room to watch me sleep again."

"Why would I?"

I assume the reason why it sounds as though he actually wants an answer to that question is because it's late, and I'm exhausted. I shrug and practically stagger to the stairs. I hear him put away his violin, and then hear the clink of test tubes and the freezer door opening as I fall into bed. I suppose I'll have to clear away bits of Barry before I make tea tomorrow morning. Thank God tomorrow will be a Saturday.

OoOoOoOo

Technically, Sherlock isn't fair when he accuses me of watching him sleep. The television is at a strange angle and can only really be seen from the couch or his chair (which I find ridiculously uncomfortable), so when he finally sleeps after a case or after trying to keep himself occupied during a bored marathon for a week by starting and not quite finishing numerous experiments, he usually curls up in a fetal position at one end of the couch and sleeps for 12 hours. Nor does Sherlock Holmes bow to normal human conventions such as "day" and "night"; when I find him asleep it's just as likely to be midday as it is to be midnight.

After the first few times of seeing him miraculously asleep and creeping around the flat on tiptoes, I realize that when Sherlock sleeps he sleeps like a log. He can be pushed around and repositioned, there can be loud music blaring or the telly on and he won't even roll over or change the frequency of his breathing. So, tip-toing around the flat was right out, and I began to watch telly and read the newspaper at the other end of the sofa as I normally would.

It is surprising, but not unpleasantly so, when I realize that Sherlock seems to gravitate towards body heat while he's sleeping like a bloody cat. Usually it's just his feet that end up scrunched into my side, but occasionally he ends up draped across my lap. I used to stand up with a start once his head or legs began encroaching into lap territory, but eventually I became irritated with him for interrupting my movie, and rather than fight the inevitable I'd only move when the movie finished or when he started waking up.

The example I discussed with him last night occurred when his head ended up on my lap one day during a fairly enjoyable re-viewing of The Godfather. I took it in my stride, as usual, perhaps even petting the back of his neck a little.

I was drifting off a bit myself (love movies, but can't stay awake during them), when I noticed that his breathing had become a little ragged. At first, as a doctor, I was worried, until I saw him straining his legs and hips a little. My eyes grew wide as he gave a breathy whimper and he bit down on my jumper.

Oh god. I rolled my eyes. It's probably telling of how used to him slinging himself over me as he slept that I didn't think to move until there was a wet spot spreading across his crotch and his jaws relaxed enough for me to pull my jumper free.

I wasn't entirely sure what to make of my own erection as I took it in hand in my bedroom, especially since the best fantasy I could muster was Sherlock moaning, much louder than he did in the living room as he bit down on my shoulder, rather than my jumper.

A week later, after a case and the usual amount of sleep and food deprivation, I was sitting on the couch yet again, watching a fairly bad rental and feeling disproportionately proud of the fact that I had managed to get the world's only consulting detective to eat a plate of Chinese by placing it on the table next to him and engaging him in conversation about blood splatter patterns. At first he had just poked at the food absently with his fork, but as the conversation progressed, I was amused to note that his arm began using the fork like a shovel, pushing food into his mouth as if the arm knew that this was possibley the only sustenance it was going to get for the rest of the week.

I decided that if Sherlock Holmes was a pet, he would have the following care instructions:

Food: May eat once a day if you're lucky. If you're not, he will refuse to eat for days on end. For successful feeding, make sure that he is distracted and not actually aware that he is putting food in his mouth. Make sure a pot of tea or coffee is always accessible for intermittent consumption and hydration.

Exercise: Give his mind at least one case per week. If cases are not available, commit a crime yourself. It beats having your bloody head bitten off.

Plumage change: After a case will shed his extra-ordinarily expensive suit and too tight shirt for the irritatingly poncey combination of silk pajamas and robe. During this transformation, do not touch, approach, or startle. See above description of having head bitten off.

Training: Unlikely, but can be attempted. Excessive praise can result in a bond between this creature and his keeper. If the bond is strong enough, his pride and massive intellect may occasionally give way to your common sense. If it isn't, see above descriptions about head being bitten off.

OoOoOoOoOo

The next week I am fairly useless on the case. The body is present, in a ditch by an overpass, but decomposition is so far along that my skills as a doctor are useless and quite frankly the stench makes me feel a bit ill. Sherlock is muttering something about an experiment he did three years ago on the rate of decomposition of different body parts, and I am feeling supremely relieved that I was not around for that stage in his research.

"Okay Sherlock, you've been here for 15 minutes, you need to pull together what you have and tell me what you've got." Lestrade's arms are crossed, Donovan is hovering over him with evidence bags.

"Oh, it I can give you the name and address of the murderer. He confessed on my "Science of Deduction" website about a month ago. I just didn't have a decomposing body accessible to test a theory of mine, so I let this one sit for a month. The murderer is quite harmless, I've been watching him. He won't kill again, and has become depressed instead of planning on leaving the country. It was premeditated though, so I'm sure his sentence will be severe."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Oh. God. No.

The explosion that comes from Lestrade would rival that of an ordinance weapon, and the one that comes from Sally is only slightly less. Anderson is just standing there, like a kid at Christmas, enjoying watching what could possibly be the destruction of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock is practically vibrating with excitement; he hasn't had a case for over two weeks and I can imagine that right now being charged with harboring a murderer and resisting arrest are starting to sound infinitely more exciting than being stuck for yet another day on the sofa, staring with glazed eyes at the ceiling.

Right then.

I stalk over to the scene unfolding around the unfortunate body. "Sherlock."

God, the man is grinning. Probably light headed; I couldn't remember the last time I saw him eat. His skin is dry too, that man really needs to drink something other than tea and coffee. Stupid,stupid, stupid to let him out of the flat like this.

It looks ridiculous, I know. I'm half a foot shorter than he is. Really, the man could wrap his coat around me and I'd practically disappear from view. I shake that idea out of my head, and fist a handful of his shirt, and draw myself up as tall as I can manage. He is startled enough and close enough to the brink of starvation that I meet with little resistance as I back him into the brick wall behind him.

"Sherlock. A bit. Not. Good." His eyes widen slightly, then narrow.

"John?"

I know I'm usually seen as a useless, slightly adorable accessory, perhaps some cross between a good luck charm and a sounding board. But suddenly, I see why Sherlock so badly needs an assistant. Damn him, why did he have to make me into his blasted KEEPER? Sherlock's sociopath behavior may be high functioning, but it still needs a significant check occasionally, and I'm the only person close enough to the man to recognize what it is and supply it. And this is serious. I'm not clear on the laws, but I'm sure that withholding evidence for a month and failing to tell the police about a murder could turn into a decent amount of jail time, no matter how illuminating the experiment is.

There is a crack as I slap him across those stupid cheekbones. I ignore the snort from Anderson. "You. Right now, you are going to apologize to Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan. Be humble. Give them the murder's address."

I walk back over to Lestrade. "Sir, it is my medical opinion that Mr. Holmes has been malnourished and sleep deprived for the better part of the month, and shouldn't be held responsible for his actions." It's an extremely tenuous line of reasoning, so I add, "Plus I should remind you of the triple homicide he solved for you last month."

"Good to see who wears the pants in the relationship," Anderson comments snidely.

A moment later Lestrade deftly catches a beautiful punch that probably would have broken Anderson's nose with a very satisfying crunch and is trying to turn it into a handshake. "Thank you doctor. If your instructions are followed to the LETTER, we won't press charges."

There is a pause as everyone turns to look at Sherlock, who is staring at me and touching the red mark on his cheek with bemusement, and almost a certain amount of satisfaction. I'm honestly a little surprised. Part of me was expecting him to run while I was distracting everyone.

"I apologize, detective inspector. I have been a little… distracted recently. Here's the suspect's information. If you need any further assistance you know where to find me." He hands the DI a small notebook containing what looks like thorough information as to the suspects whereabouts, and turns to walk towards the main road to find a cab.

Lestrade is gazing between the two of us with his mouth hanging slightly open, a fairly satisfied look on his face. Donovan turns away, rolling her eyes. Sherlock turns on his heel and stalks towards the main road in search of a taxi.

Before I follow, Lestrade grabs my arm. "John…" He scratches the back of his head uneasily.

"Sherlock is not going to jail." (Will not be taken from me.) I glare at the DI; I can look quite formidable if I want to. (If you're going to accuse me of abuse… was that abuse?) I shake my head. "I… no, I'm just here to protect him from himself." (And possibly the rest of the world).

"Oh, right then." There's a certain amount of relief on Lestrade's face. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes slightly. "In that case, keep at it John."

"Come along John." I look over my shoulder, Sherlock is waiting expectantly.

"Right." I pull away, and follow the Enigma as he promptly pretends that our previous exchange never happened.

When we get back to Baker Street, however, he eats the chicken soup I give him, drinks a large glass of water, and sleeps for twelve hours straight.