John woke up with no alarm and stretched. It was one of his rare days off; Sherlock was caseless and the clinic didn't need a helping hand. He stretched out one leg, then the other, before rolling to his side and nearly falling of the bed when, to his surprise, he found Sherlock staring at him.

"What the he—"

"Good morning to you, too." Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and squinted. "It's eleven. Why did you sleep this late?"

"It's my day off, jerk." He threw a pillow and sat up. "Get out."

"I don't have any cases."

"That's why I'm sleeping."

Sherlock frowned and leaned back. "The day's nearly half over. I thought we could—"

"No." John shook his head and stretched his arms. "We're not phoning Lestrade, we're not going to the morgue, and we're not listening to the police radio. Take a day off. Learn to relax."

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down. "I just thought we could go to the park again."

"The park?" John tilted his head, wishing he had Sherlock's skillset—though, either way, he could tell that Sherlock was bashful. "Why?"

"Research must help, right?"

"Research? What are we—" John shook his head and laid himself back down. A week ago, they'd travelled to a park to find a couple hugging. Sherlock was disgusted by the act but, by the end of the day, he'd learned the trade. He hadn't brought it up since. "You want to research hugging. Sherlock, for the last time, you know how."

"No, I've been looking it up. I'm not doing it right."

John paused, thrown off by the bizarre situation. "Okay. We'll talk about this in a minute. Go wait in the living room." Sherlock began to protest but obeyed after John manifested the inner soldier's glare.

The soldier got dressed and sat at the edge of his bed for a moment before reluctantly heading to the living room. When he arrived, Sherlock was rummaging through his desk drawers.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock jumped and faced him. "Nothing."

"You're searching for cigarettes, you little—"

"I'm frustrated! Give me a break." Sherlock flung himself down on the couch and covered his face with his hands. "I don't get it, John. How could I not understand? People do it every day."

John almost brought up how most people could also cook, clean, swim, and play fetch, but he decided against it. "You do get it. Remember? We hugged just last week."

Sherlock shook his head and pulled out a magazine amidst the clutter of newspapers and case papers. He flipped it open and began reading. "The surefire way to know if you're doing it right is if it's reciprocated." He flung it shut and pushed it to the side.

Biting his tongue, John grabbed the magazine, an obscure preteen publication. He tried not to laugh. "This is your source?"

He glared. "There's more evidence than that. Either way, I'm doing it wrong."

John sat next to him and cleared his throat. "Sherlock. I haven't hugged you back because it's…well, it's awkward. Not because of you. Flat mates don't usually do that sort of thing. Your hug was…good." He cleared his throat once more and wiped his palms on his pants. "I don't get why it's a big deal."

Sherlock looked down and didn't say anything for a minute; then: "Anderson said it's because you don't like being around me."

John leaned back and crossed his eyes. "Excuse me? And why were you talking to Anderson?"

"I wasn't," Sherlock said defensively. "I talked to Lestrade about it. I don't know why, I was just confused, and I figured he'd be a good person to talk to about it. I didn't know Anderson was right behind us."

"And he said…"

"He said your lack of reciprocation was probably a sign that you were looking for a new flat mate."

John bit his lip and stood. Grabbing his coat and keys, he looked back at Sherlock and nodded. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you—"

"Wait here. I won't be long."

…

John returned home an hour later. He removed his coat and sat in his chair, reading his newspaper as though the day's events had never occurred. Sherlock said nothing about it, knowing better, but he was worried.

The next day—thank heavens—they were called out on a case. When they arrived, Lestrade greeted them and Anderson—with a black eye and a bandaged nose—hid in the background.

Sherlock, mouth agape, looked over at John, who was staring into space innocently. "You didn't—"

John shrugged and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, dragging him directly in front of the inspectors. "What do we have, Lestrade?"

"Triple murder. Think you guys could have a look?"

"Well, I'm sure Sherlock would be glad to." John smiled, turned to Sherlock and— with no hesitation—hugged his flat mate. "Let me know if you need any help, alright?" When he let go, it was hard to tell whether Sherlock or Anderson was redder. It was probably a tie, but only the consulting detective had a small, distinctive smile.