John was watching TV siting on the sofa with a cup of tea in his hand when Sherlock burst open the front door and got inside. John started a bit, but that's all, you get used to such loud sounds and dramatic entries living with Sherlock Holmes quite early.

Sherlock almost threw his long coat at the stand and tugged ferociously at his scarf. Uh oh bad mood. He was growling with exasperation, brows furrowed he started restlessly pacing about the room.

"What did Lestrade do now?"

"He put me out on a damn chilly night like this for a case which required 7 minutes of thinking. I urged him to tell me on phone what the case was to which he replied 'it's very complicated' obviously it was for his level of IQ, but he should have known it was not so to me!"

"Why don't you sit down now, I'll bring you a cup of tea, there's a nice fire. Warm up a bit. "

"One of these days we'll be solving the case of the murdered Detective Inspector G. Lestrade or the case of his missing brain." Sherlock said ignoring John's plea.

"There is nothing of interest for me out there, Nothing! I refuse to go out!" Sherlock said almost yelling.

"Calm down would you!" Said John alarmed.

Sherlock shot John a furious look and stopped pacing. After a moment he stomped off to his bedroom.

Nicotine patches. Of course, thought John exasperated. He wished he could replace those by doing something himself that may help soothe the agitated consultant detective, but he didn't know what.

Sherlock came out of his room with the box in hand. "Get yourself off the sofa would you? We have all sorts of sitting arrangements in this room!" He said rudely. John was used to it, yet it hurt a bit. He got himself off the sofa and sat on an arm chair watching Sherlock.

This man, thought John, will not give in to his bodily needs like eating or sleeping, will not feel how bad it feels when he discards a person when not needed as a piece of paper, this man, totally selfish and absolutely oblivious of others' feelings yet look at him now, exasperated, angry with himself and situation, restless like a child who has no one to play with, so easily giving in to these feelings. These were feelings also, though only concerning him and not nice, he was giving in to his bodily urge of having nicotine. Does he realize all this? Does he have all the feelings, urges, necessities segregated? To which he will give in and to which he won't?

Shirt sleeve rolled up on the right arm, four nicotine patches on it, head tilted backwards, eyes closed Sherlock was sprawling on the sofa, still with a frown. The patches aren't working, thought John trying to concentrate on the book in his hand. He had long turned off the TV; his flatmate was already in enough bad mood to be messed up further by crap telly. An hour passed in silence. John needed to tend the fire. He had just put the book down when he heard the baritone call him, his voice calm but commanding. "John."

John didn't expect the reaction his voice aroused in him. He felt a thrill deep inside, the voice resonating through him. This was new. Was there something new in his voice? Or am I just behaving like a teen suddenly? Keeping his reaction in check he walked up to his flatmate. Sensing him Sherlock opened his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow looking at him. "Sit here." He said softly gesturing toward where his head was. John hesitated, "I need to tend the fire Sherlock." "Please." First time in his life John heard a request which sounded more like a command. He couldn't help but sit because from within he was feeling a push to find out what this was all about. As soon as he sat Sherlock put his head on his lap. John gasped. This was the most intimate thing Sherlock ever did. For a man who avoided body contact with any other person except for hand-shakes, who was sensitive about the touch of fabrics also. Those times apart when some criminal was on lose with a gun and they had to squeeze in somewhere of course. John sat awkwardly looking at the head with magnificent dark curls and a face like angel. He didn't know what to do. Did he want me to touch him? Will it make him calm? "um, is there anything I can do for you?" The head was warm against his lap. "Just stay." the baritone purred. After a moment or two John eased a little. Sherlock kept his eyes closed. Slowly John raised a hand and quite hesitantly stroked his flatmate's hair. Sherlock let out a sigh. He likes it! John thought, and started stroking and ruffling the soft curls gently but confidently. Now I'm a total nanny! Thought John, chuckling in his mind. This felt good; he was able to sooth the detective, though nicotine patches had a large role to play in it. Why did Sherlock do this? Was this something he really wanted or just another whim? "It does feel good when someone special does something for us." Sarah's words came back to John's mind. Sherlock was special, in so many ways, his brilliance, his control, lightning fast reasoning, his musical talents, his wit, and his eccentricities everything was above and beyond anyone John or many other people have ever encountered in their lives. He had John live again, after war, injuries and being invalided home, what life would he be living without this marvel of a man? Yes Sherlock is special. Very special. These gestures of his make me feel wanted, needed to him. Am I special for him too? Suddenly Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at John breaking his reverie. The fire was going out making the room colder. "Would you mind letting me go? The room is getting cold." John said softly. Without a word Sherlock lifted his head. John's heart sank without a reason. He slowly went about tending the fire. Yes Sherlock was special, but I'm most definitely not. How can it ever be? How stupid of me to just let my imagination run wild like that. I'll have to get a hold of myself.

"Have you thought about our holiday in Lincolnshire?"

"huh? What? Oh that. Wait a minute when did I say that I was going there with you?"

"You didn't. That's why I'm asking. I need to ask Mycroft."

Oh no I'm not going to let you do that "I haven't decided where I want to go and with whom." John said with emphasis.

"You just have to say yes or no."

"No!"

"Good."

John ran a hand through his hair. "I think I'll just go and visit my family this weekend."

"So much for mental peace."

"Sherlock! They are my family! And I just want to get out from 221b Baker Street for some time for god's sake!" said John exasperated.

"Why?"

"I told you before."

"You said you wanted to get away from me, you didn't say why." Sherlock said making an innocent face.

"I didn't say that Sherlock!" Said John, wounded.

"Yes you did! You said that my eccentricities were a part of your daily life and you wanted to go away from that and that I make it impossible for you…"

John lost his patient and almost yelled "Oh god Sherlock! I need some time for myself!"

"Why?"

"Because I want to think!"

"About what?" Sherlock's voice rose.

"About us!" Abrupt and utter silence fell in the room.

John closed his eyes shut and turned around. The bloody git! He knew it; obviously he knew exactly what my problem was. He just wanted to hear it from me, just get his facts checked. I fell for it!

Dinner was a silent affair. Sherlock ate without being coaxed.