No one could ever say that life with Sherlock Holmes was boring. In the past three weeks, they'd wrapped up a case (which John had typed up in the blog and titled "The Coding Lodger" – named so because the young woman, a web developer who had been in danger and was seeking refuge, had been sending and receiving via imbedded html code on various websites), had been visited by Mycroft (one of his regular updates about Eurus, who Sherlock still visits relatively uneventfully every month or so), and John had chanced a visit down to the basement flat that Sherlock was renting for his messier experiments (a decision he immediately regretted as he tried not to think too deeply about why in the world Sherlock needed that much camphor oil, something horrific about preserving and embalming, he's sure). So there was all of that…and then there was the fact that occasionally he and Sherlock just so happened to share a bed.

It's become something of a ritual that when Sherlock goes to bed – if he goes to bed – it's next to John. John's not even entirely sure how or why or when it happened, just that one night not long after the night he'd found out about Serbia, he'd been just about to drift off and had heard the unmistakable creak of a floorboard near the top of the stairs outside the room he and Rosie shared. His door had been ajar – perhaps an unconscious invitation – and he could see a shadow floating hesitantly beyond the threshold.

"Sherlock?" he'd said in a loud whisper, not wanting to wake his slumbering daughter. "Is that you?"

"Yes, John, I thought I heard-"

"Get in here, you great big git."

And that had been that. John supposed that any arrangement that encourages Sherlock to sleep through a solid chunk of the night in a proper bed had to be a good thing. But a larger part of him enjoys it for purely selfish reasons: that warm sense of comfort and contentment that he experiences when he's close to Sherlock, the fact that his usual nightmares have been haunting him less, and when they do they're less intense. Neither of them have verbalised their new arrangement and there seems to be an understanding between them that any mention would mark the end of it…and John senses that neither one of them wants that. So they go on pretending that it's perfectly normal for two friends, who are now living and working together as well as raising a child under the same roof, to share a bed some of the time despite having no real reason to do so. But in a strange way, it's working for them, so John tries not to question it too extensively. It is what it is.

He has bigger things to worry about anyway, including trying to manage a very active toddler who is going through a phase of resisting sleep even when very tired. Her lack of naps and delayed bedtime means that she spends most of the afternoons and evenings cranky, and by the time she finally settles John is feeling a bit that way himself, along with frazzled and exhausted. To add insult to injury, since solving the previous case Sherlock hasn't had a new one in a week and is currently only slightly better behaved then Rosie. It's all but driven John mad watching him pace and stalk around the flat, akin to a caged tiger, trying to expend some of that nervous energy as he hurls insults at John whenever he tries to help. On top of all that, work at the clinic has been ghastly, with a stomach bug that's been going around resulting in patients heaving in his office on the regular. All in all, it's been a bloody nightmare of a week and part of him wishes he'd taken Lestrade up on his offer of Friday night beers at the local pub.

At the moment though, there's a brief respite and things are relatively quiet, despite the lingering discord. Rosie is occupied with a new set of building blocks that John had bought her in an obvious bribe so that he can have some time to himself, Sherlock is researching for an experiment and has spent the last forty five minutes curled up in his chair, entirely engrossed in his laptop and not uttering a word, and John is seizing the blissful peace and finally starting a new book that's been at the top of his reading list for months. If only there could be more moments like this, he thinks wistfully, like the one early this morning in which he'd awoken when the light in the room was stronger than moonlight but paler than sunlight, the day still fresh and new. When he'd opened his eyes he'd been face to face with Sherlock, both of them on their sides and facing towards each other, their hands mere centimetres apart. He'd observed Sherlock openly, revelling in this rare opportunity to watch him without being judged or deduced, seeing his features just as they were, relaxed and free from the emotionless mask Sherlock often wears or the scorn that had been present this past week in the midst of one of his Dark Moods. Beautiful, John had thought, once again unable to stop the word from entering his mind. He'd forced himself to roll away, lie on his back, and not think about the fact that watching his best friend sleep was a bit not good.

John is deep within this little daydream when he hears it. The unmistakable sound of a breathy moan, erotic to the point of being obscene and more than a little exaggerated. John's head snaps up and he feels himself bristle immediately, a reaction dazzling in its predictability. Sherlock refuses to meet John's eyes, but his cheeks have coloured slightly as he silently reaches into his robe for his phone. John clears his throat but looks back down at his book, willing himself to say nothing. That lasts for approximately five seconds.

"You two are still in contact then?"

John forces his voice to remain casual, but inside he feels anything but. He tries not to analyse why that one little sound and those two words – The Woman – can so easily spark up a blazing fire within him. Sherlock gives a noncommittal hum as his eyes rapidly sweep over the screen of his mobile.

"How often?"

Sherlock looks up now, eyes narrowing as he surveys John, deducing him with practiced ease.

"Don't do that, Sherlock, you know I hate it when you do that."

John's tone is sharp now and the air is suddenly rife with tension that had not been there a moment ago.

"As I told you last time, I very rarely reply."

Sherlock's words sound considered, deliberately chosen, and as though he wants nothing more than to change the topic. But far from placating John, this only seems to make the tension more palpable. His glare bores into Sherlock and he notices Sherlock shift, as though slightly uncomfortable under the weight of it.

"It's really not important, whatever was between us is in the past."

Sherlock stands, depositing his laptop on the couch, and sweeps past John, phone still in hand. He gets as far as the kitchen before John's next words stop him.

"Did you sleep with her?"

John hears the words come out of his mouth but can't quite believe he's said them. Of course, he's been desperately curious since their initial encounter all those years ago, but he never meant to actually ask in such a blunt fashion. Worse still, his tone is cold and accusatory and even he can't miss that it's all but dripping with jealousy. He doesn't remember getting to his feet but now he's in the kitchen too, standing a few feet away from Sherlock, who has turned to face him, looking baffled. He quickly recovers and responds.

"Don't be obtuse, John," he says, his voice laced with derision.

"Surely even you are able to surmise from all the available information that I've never done that."

The silence following his words hangs heavy and thick in the air of the flat. Sherlock looks as though he hadn't meant to say the last part, and John knows he shouldn't push it, knows he should leave it be, but he's on a roll now and suddenly he has to know more, he needs to.

"With her or ever?" he blurts out.

His head is spinning. He must be out of his damn mind.

Sherlock looks like he's been slapped, not managing to hide his surprise at the deeply personal question. He attempts to force his features back into something neutral, but there's anger licking at the edges of the expressionless mask.

"Ever," he grits out, then "god, this is so pointless."

Sherlock slams his phone down on the table in front of them with more force than necessary.

"Why do you even care? You're the one who encouraged me to text her back."

Sherlock's frustration is growing and John registers that he did do that – though it seems a lifetime ago in some ways – not long after Mary had died and before his confession about his own text affair and subsequent breakdown.

"Yeah, well…things were…different then," is all John manages to get out.

There's a loaded pause, the friction in the air all but crackling. Sherlock is looking at John in that way again, and John grits his teeth. It's Sherlock who speaks first.

"Is this about our recently formed habit of sharing a bed?"

John huffs out a humourless laugh, running his hand through his hair and behind his neck at the uncomfortable direction their conversation has taken. Now that their new arrangement has finally been put into words, it sounds even more absurd than it did in his head.

"What does it matter if we share a bed? No, really. We're already sharing a flat, a child, every other aspect of our damn lives."

He doesn't mean for his words to sound like an accusation, but they do. And he knows he's not being fair, but he's tired and his head is a mess and he feels confused as hell right now. Sherlock doesn't back down, meeting his glare and staring him down. They both ignore Rosie's soft whinging from her playpen in the corner of the lounge room, the threat of an impending tantrum. Sherlock's eyes are electric, his cheeks slightly flushed, his hair sticking up at odd angles. Finally, Sherlock addresses him in a tone that sounds calmer than he looks.

"Problem?"

It's a simple question but John reads it for what it really is – a challenge.

"No, there's no problem. Why would there be a problem? It's not like everyone doesn't already think we're-"

"We're what?" Sherlock cuts in abruptly.

John ignores him, unable as always to verbalise what it is people think they are. He knows Sherlock will be reading all kinds of things into that, including analysing why it is that John cares so much about what others think. The thought only serves to make him angrier.

"This isn't normal, Sherlock, don't you see that? Nothing about our lives is."

God, what is he even saying? He's happy with their living situation. This isn't what he meant to say.

Sherlock lets out a growl of frustration, raking his hands through his hair.

"Who wants normal? It's frightfully dull, it's predictable, it's-"

"You know what, I can't do this right now," John interrupts, snatching his keys up from the side table and pocketing them, but Sherlock's next words stop him in his tracks.

"Don't pretend you want normalcy, John, when you know as well as I do what happens when you try to seek that out."

John just stares at him and can only imagine the ferocity of his gaze because Sherlock's face goes from careful indifference to a sudden look of horror, as if he's only now realising how his words might be interpreted.

"John, I didn't mean…I only meant that-"

"Just stop, Sherlock," he all but shouts.

John walks back towards the lounge room, closes his eyes and forces himself to heave in a deep breath and collect himself before scooping up Rosie from her playpen. She protests bitterly as John perches her on his hip and grabs her nappy bag on the way towards the exit. He gives Sherlock one final glance.

"I'll…I'll see you later, okay."

And with that he leaves the flat, ignoring Sherlock's pained expression, slamming the door behind him.