Hey there. A brief warning- this chapter= COMPLETE FLUFF. Very little plot goes on, just lots of Sherlock and John quality time and a teensie bit of character development. I'm sorry it's taken so long to get such a pointless chapter out, but I've had a whole lot of school work, plus a day paintballing against my will and the sudden and terrible realisation that I am hopelessly devoted to someone. Cue for lots of physical and emotional pain, so the chapter's a little crap, but I hope you can forgive me. Love you all!

December 8th

9:00am

When Sherlock awoke, he realised two things. Firstly, he had a feeling in his head that was rather like being shot. Secondly, he wasn't sure how, but he found himself a lot closer to John than he had been when he had fallen asleep. John's head was resting on his body, his lips almost but not quite touching the point where his neck met his shoulder. John's warm breath tickled his neck and sent jolts of something like pleasure down his spine. His own arm had snaked around John's waist, his hand settling just above the waistband of John's pyjama bottoms. For a few dazed moments, Sherlock sat in relative contentment, before his brain caught up with him. He jerked his hand away and sat up in the bed with a loud clunk as his head collided with the wall behind him. Silently cursing, he lifted his flatmate's head from his lap where it now lay- albeit reluctantly- and gently shifted John's body back into a more naturalistic position. Sherlock got out of bed and staggered to the bathroom, clutching at his head and moaning due to the lacerating quality of the morning light on his eyes. He emptied the wash bag that John had brought with him onto the surface, hands scrambling for the packet of paracetamol. Finally having found what he was looking for; Sherlock took two white pills and swallowed them desperately.

He heard a familiar groan from the room he had just left. Grabbing a bottle of water and the painkillers, he sat down on the edge of John's bed. He too seemed to be in pain, bringing the scratchy duvet up over his face and howling into his pillow.

"I drank too much," he lamented.

"So far, so obvious," Sherlock said dryly, pulling back the covers.

John cried out when the sunlight hit his face and screwed his eyes up tight. "Leave me alone," he whined. "I can't go out to day, I feel like crap."

"Well you'd best get better then. Here." Sherlock brought the bottle up to John's lips and he reluctantly took a sip. "You're hung-over because you're dehydrated. You need to drink." A trickle of water ran down John's chin, and Sherlock wiped it away with his thumb.

"Thanks," John said with a smile, but his face suddenly fell. "What did we do last night?"

Sherlock glanced around the room. Bottles littered the floor, which also contained evidence of the spaghetti they had ordered to eat the previous evening. From what Sherlock could gather, they must have had some sort of food fight, as the meal seemed to be everywhere. There were even strands of pasta hanging from the lampshade.

"Why the hell did we let them come in here?" said Sherlock weakly.

"Er, from what I can remember, it was us that did most of this," John replied. "I drew on the mirror. You started throwing food at Sally. Lestrade was unconscious for most of the night."

Inexplicably, Sherlock began to laugh. John joined in too, until they were both curled up on the carpet in fits of raucous laughter from the memory of their soon to be infamous evening.

9:30am

John and Sherlock arrived down in the dining room of the hotel just in time for breakfast. They were surprised to find Lestrade and Sally already down there, sitting at a table by the window. Lestrade beckoned them over cheerily, astonishingly coherent considering his previously fatigued state.

"Feeling alright?" he said convivially, giving them a cheery grin.

John stared open mouthed at him. "How- How can you- How are you-"

"What he means is," Sherlock interrupted, "how are you feeling this good? You passed out last night."

"Slept like an angel," Lestrade said with a smile, but then he frowned. "Oh, and by the way," he said sternly to Sherlock. "I'll ban you from the Yard if you draw on my face again."

John began to giggle. "Sorry Lestrade, that was my idea."

Lestrade gaped. "You bloody bastard! That took me ages to get off!"

Sherlock smirked and turned to Sally, who had not yet said anything. "Alright, Sally?"

She did not answer, instead choosing to scowl at Sherlock through dark sunglasses and taking a sip of her coffee.

"She's feeling a bit…" Lestrade searched for a phrase. "Under the weather."

"She looks it," said Sherlock coolly, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"Fuck off," said Sally bluntly.

"There was no need for that," Sherlock teased. "I was only observing-"

"I don't want to hear about your observations," she butted in, her tone acidic and biting. "I don't want to hear anything from you, you fucking freak."

"Correction Sally," John chimed in. "You beautiful fucking freak."

Sally choked on her coffee, and Sherlock once again began to shriek with hysterical laughter.

Lestrade looked confused. "Have I missed something?"

"Oh nothing," said Sherlock, wiping a tear from his eye. "Nothing at all." He gave Sally a somewhat smug look that seemed to say "I'm saving this one for later" and continued. "Back to business. We're seriously far behind, we have no idea who the next victim is, and John and I aren't allowed to question potential victims."

"Well, there's nothing we can do about that," said Lestrade apologetically. "But we'll give it our best shot. If it gets to four o'clock and we haven't had a lead, we'll meet you back at the hotel for an emergency meeting. Ok?"

Sherlock nodded curtly, still annoyed at the idea of not being allowed in on the case, and stood up. John too rose from his seat. "Right," he said cordially. "We've got more museums to visit."

Sherlock groaned. "Do we have to?"

"Yes. Now come on." John set off towards the lifts. Sherlock was about to follow before Lestrade stopped him.

"Can I have a word?"

"Sure." Lestrade took him aside, away from the table. "What's this about?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you alright?" He asked, looking concerned.

Sherlock had to laugh. "Yes!" he said genuinely. "I'm fine."

"How's John?"

"Er, fine I think," he replied, bewildered by Lestrade's odd behaviour. "What's up with you?"

"Oh nothing. I just checked on you two this morning, to see if you were ok…" Lestrade trailed off but gave Sherlock a meaningful look.

Sherlock froze. "How did you get in?" he said quietly.

"Spare room key. And you know what I saw."

"I don't know how it happened," he said truthfully.

"What? How you got into John's bed?" Lestrade glared at Sherlock, a little angrily. "Because if anything happened between you two, and it goes bad, it could compromise this whole investigation."

"Nothing happened!" Sherlock spluttered. "John and I… We just… We slept in the same bed, but nothing went on."

"Why were you in the same bed anyway?" he asked.

Sherlock forced himself to meet Lestrade's gaze. "I can't really tell you that."

Lestrade sighed. "You're going to a museum with him."

"Isn't that what tourists do?"

"You're hardly the average tourist, Sherlock, and you clearly don't want to go. For anyone else you wouldn't, but for him," Lestrade took a deep breath. "For him you'll do it. Why?"

"Surely it would be better for the sake of my home life to oblige in my flatmate's bizarre ideas of fun?" Sherlock mumbled evasively.

"You introduce John like he's your partner. It's always 'John and I need to question' of 'John and I are investigating'."

"He is my partner. Professionally."

"For the time being," said Lestrade flatly, giving Sherlock a stare so penetrating that it made his blood freeze. "But tell me this- how many people have you ever changed yourself for?"

Sherlock did not, could not, answer.

11:00am

The Van Gogh museum was large and grey, very angular and cold next to the period buildings that surrounded it. It was incredibly imposing, and it seemed to loom over Sherlock as they walked up the path towards it.

"So have you heard of Van Gogh?" said John, again a little patronisingly.

This time however, he had good reason to be. "Er…" Sherlock scratched his head. "I've seen his name on books in Mycroft's library."

"Well, this will be an experience for you," said John, beaming at the woman at reception and buying two tickets.

11:30am

Sherlock stared blankly at the painting of The Potato Eaters, trying to find some meaning in it. John stood in rapturous silence, gazing at the painting and admiring the brushwork.

"I never knew you liked art so much," Sherlock muttered.

"Well, to be honest, I don't. I more admire the man."

"Why? What was so special about him?"

John stared at Sherlock like he'd committed a particularly gruesome murder before his eyes. "What was so special about him? Sherlock, he's one of history's greatest painters. He was unbelievably talented, but never got the recognition he deserved in his lifetime. It drove him to insanity."

They began to move on to other paintings, one of which grabbed Sherlock's attention. He glanced at the card beside it. It was entitled "Paul Gauguin's Armchair." It seemed horribly melancholic. A lonely pile of paper and a candle sat upon the seat, illuminating the room. Whilst the colours were bright, they clashed morbidly, the green, purple, yellow and red creating a garish mood of depression. Yet the painting was, in its own way, quite beautiful. Sherlock was unsure why he was drawn to it, but it seemed to speak volumes to him.

"Who was Paul Gauguin?" he asked John as they moved onwards.

"A French post-impressionist artist. He was…, well, I wouldn't say good friends with Van Gogh, but they lived together for a short time. They liked each other but their relationship was stormy. Van Gogh believed Gauguin was about to desert him."

"Why?"

"It was his condition. Well, they're not exactly sure what it was- schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, epilepsy… Whatever it was, he wasn't well."

They reached a final, dark picture called "Wheat fields with Crows". The dark, murky sky again clashed beautifully with the ochre of the fields, alluringly tragic and stunningly tormented. Again the picture drew the eye easily, oddly hypnotising. Sherlock finally managed to break his gaze to read a large board. It was covered in quotes from Van Gogh.

"Love always brings difficulties, that is true, but the good side of it is that it gives energy."

"What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?"

"I put my heart and soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process."

"How can I be useful, of what service can I be? There is something inside me, what can it be?"

"You write in your letter something which I sometimes feel also: Sometimes I do not know how I shall pull through."

"I wish they would only take me as I am."

Sherlock was snapped out of his trance by the sound of John's voice.

"There was a guy who I was training to become a medic officer. His name was Danny." He was still staring transfixed at the painting, seemingly unable to wrench his eyes from it. His tone was dangerously quiet.

"He liked life. He was always the one who suggested going out and having a laugh- and he could play the guitar like a pro. I always thought he was going to become famous after his time in the army, and I used to tell him that he'd have to introduce me to a supermodel." John laughed coldly. "We all loved Danny. Danny Summers, his name was. We nicknamed him 'Flash' because he was such a fast runner. He used to run everyday."

Sherlock was unsure whether to speak. "Used to?"

"One day Danny was out on patrol with the regiment, one of the first times he'd been left as the most senior medic. A friend of his was shot. Shot badly. Danny tried to help, but there was… There was nothing he could do." John clenched his fists. "He was never the same. We all thought he was dealing with it, we thought he was handling it. He locked himself in his room during his free time; he rarely spoke to anyone else. He was numb. He started to do puzzles; I suppose he was trying to distract himself. But he preferred the puzzles to people. He only came out to get medication for his headaches. He got a lot of headaches, and he came to me. That was the only time I really saw him. I gave him the drugs. I gave him the drugs he took at the end. It turns out he was stockpiling all the paracetamol I gave him for months. Downed them all after drinking a bottle of whisky."

John had still not turned to face Sherlock, staring blankly at the picture. The most agonising thing for Sherlock was that he was not angry, nor upset. He was… exactly as he described Danny. Numb.

"John," he said hoarsely. "It wasn't your fault."

John turned to him and gave him a bright smile. "Do you want to go to the gift shop?"

Sherlock paused. "John…"

"I want to get a book on him. Such an interesting guy…" He began to wander towards the staircase.

4:00pm

Sherlock and John had eaten a nice lunch at a small café nearby, neither mentioning John's outburst but instead making polite conversation about the canals. John had dragged Sherlock round some gift shops, probing him as to whether Mrs Hudson would like this and if Harry would like that. In the end, John bought Mrs Hudson a bottle of Dutch wine and Harry a cashmere designer jumper. Though John never spent much on himself, he splashed out on others, and Sherlock admired this. Finally, John had decided there was one more thing he wanted to do.

"The Rijksmuseum?" Sherlock had moaned.

"Yes."

"More art?" he had protested.

"Yes. It's an education."

So there they were, Sherlock trailing around after John whilst he gazed at the paintings. Sherlock was thoroughly sick of art, he did not see its appeal. The works here, in his opinion, were far inferior to that of Van Gogh, and he hadn't enjoyed them greatly either. He sat, sulking in the centre of the gallery, watching John wait patiently to get his turn to see The Night Watch by Rembrandt. He wasn't getting very far- in his very polite, British way, he was allowing people to push in front of him.

Sherlock's hands were clamped around his phone, desperate not to miss the call that must be coming, it had to be. But there was still no shrill tinny tone from his mobile.

John emerged from the crowd, grinning. "I got there eventually. It's bigger than I thought it was going to be."

"Good," said Sherlock vaguely, before putting on a stern expression. "We need to go see Lestrade, we're out of time."

John looked crestfallen. "Crap. Ok, there's only one more room to see on the way out." They walked through to a large gallery with surprisingly few paintings in it. Sherlock stuck close behind John, silently willing him to hurry up.

Minutes passed. John was still browsing the art. "John, we have to go," Sherlock said abruptly. "Now."

"One more painting!" John cried, and moved to the final piece.

Sherlock scowled. "John! How the hell do you expect me to solve this damn case if we're stuck in an art gallery-"

"Sherlock-"

"I mean, you're the one who's always telling me to think about the people-"

"Sherlock-"

"Someone will die if I don't get out of here-"

"Sherlock, look at the damn painting!"

Sherlock turned. He saw a large painting of a woman by a window. "What about it?"

"Look at the name. Look at the artist."

Sherlock squinted at the small card beside it. Johannes Vermeer, The Milkmaid. Sherlock inhaled sharply. "No…" he gasped.

"It looks like Moriarty's a fan. Vermeer? The Milkmaid? It fits Sherlock, this has to be it!" John beamed at him. "This painting will lead us to the next victim."