Huge apologies for the delay and the lack of replying to reviews - the new school is amazing (eek!) but I'm being overloaded with work - schemes of work, lessons plans (which is fab but doesn't leave a lot of time for this at the moment). With any luck it should settle down a bit but please don't expect this fic to be updated as frequently as it was in the Easter Holidays.

For those of you keeping track, this is the weekend before "Changing Rooms" in Paved with Love.

28th January

There was a delicious cocoon of warmth when he woke; the covers at that rarely achieved perfect temperature, the body next to him warm, solid and lulling with every relaxed breath.

Sherlock buried his head further into John's shoulder, nuzzling at the web of scar tissue lazily, testing to see if he could conjure the perfect replica in his mind.

It was satisfactory he mused, tracing the physical scar with his lips and reworking the version in his mind as he did so. In his arms John stirred, his back stretching against Sherlock's chest and then relaxing again as John settled back into sleep.

Not quite ready to move, which would mean disturbing the delightful balance he'd woken to, Sherlock shifted to ensure his legs followed the same lines as John's and trailed his free hand along the muscle of his upper arm, tracing the thin scar from a drunken night out when John had been at Uni and the slight difference where he'd broken his arm at the age of nine. He was just about able to find them by memory alone, although his ability to locate these markers wasn't quite as exact as he would ideally like.

It was always better doing this when John was awake.

"Wake up," he murmured in John's ear, voice thick with sleep. "Look,"

John scrunched up a little as if curling in on himself to escape the summons.

"John,"

"Mmm?"

"I stayed." Sherlock announced into his ear.

"k," John shifted his head on the pillow.

That was not a fitting response from John.

"I didn't leave-"

John clamped a hand over his ear, "G'way," he muttered, snuggling into the pillow as if to bury himself in it.

Sherlock sat up, fascinated.

John never had a problem waking up. He was always instantly alert, either from natural ability, medical training or army training. Whichever it was, he was always awake in seconds and coherent.

Except, apparently, when there was no need.

Delighted at this sudden exposure of a completely unseen and unsuspected side of John, Sherlock leaned over him, watching the reactive twitch of John's eyelids and the forming sulky frown.

It was utterly mesmerising and needed far more attention paid to it.

He stroked a line down John's nose and watched as it crinkled and the sulk became more pronounced. Not bothering to hide the resulting grin, Sherlock let his touch become feather light and ticklish.

And his army doctor batted at his hand with all the coordination of a seven month old. "Tickles," John complained, almost missing Sherlock entirely.

Sitting up and leaning was using far too much energy. Instead Sherlock attempted to turn John over, expecting him to be as pliable as he was after an orgasm.

Instead John resisted and seemed to somehow magnetise himself into position firmly. "Sod off," he murmured clearly trying to shift back into sleep.

So Sherlock climbed over him and settled down on the other side of the bed, noting that there was just enough space for him without falling off the bed.

"You moved, "John muttered yawning, "Made it cold."

An odd, protective wave surged and Sherlock reached over to make sure the covers enveloped John properly, "better?"

John patted out until his hand found Sherlock's knee. "'k."

Resisting the amused chuckle Sherlock studied John, his mind racing on all the data he could gather from this.

Slowly he reached down, skimming his hand across John's belly-

"Not awake, go'way," John complained, shifting so Sherlock's hand was no longer touching him, but still keeping his hand on Sherlock's knee.

Interesting.

Soothingly, Sherlock stretched out a hand and ran it through John's hair, frowning as the length prevented him from really dragging his hand through it properly. But John seemed to settle, the resentful frown fading away until he almost looked like a content cat.

It was impossible not to press a kiss to his nose and then watch the flash of disapproval that evened out again as Sherlock kept stoking. He moved, intending to gather John up but once again got a frown, though not for any other reason than the fact John was slowly starting to become aware.

"You stayed," John said, suddenly sounding much more awake as he drew a circle on Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock couldn't hold back the gleeful grin. "You're belligerent when you wake up early without a reason to."

John blinked at him and yawned, "Am I?"

"Very,"

John smiled, "You're oddly happy this morning."

"I woke to a puzzle," Sherlock flopped onto his back and tried to spread out, causing John to shift finally. "What could be better than that?"

"You want a diagram?" John asked, looking half amused and half resigned as he shifted to give Sherlock room.

"I offered that. You turned it down," Sherlock stared up at the ceiling.

"Really?" John asked curling up on his side again facing Sherlock. "Huh," he tapped his fingers in thought for a moment. "What's the time?"

"Six."

John muttered something uncomplimentary into the pillow.

When Sherlock finally managed to roll himself out of bed and into the kitchen he was faced with a very curious five year old.

"Where's Daddy?" Ava asked, clutching her bear to her and tilting her head to one side inquisitively.

"He…" Sherlock paused, unsure what the protocol for this was. "He's in my room."

Ava peered past him and at his closed bedroom door. "Why?"

"Because…" What was he meant to say? "He's still waking up."

Ava seemed to ponder this for a moment and then looked at the television. "But Horrid Henry's on." She explained. "He should be awake."

It was appalling that children kept time by cartoon programs. "You watch too much TV." Sherlock settled for saying, glad to be off the topic.

"Can I have poptarts?" Ava asked.

Poptarts…the terrifyingly pink and bright coloured things at the back of the cupboard that Ava had snuck into John's shopping when he wasn't looking.

Sherlock wasn't convinced they were breakfast material.

"No."

Ava seemed to accept that her request had been a hopeless cause from the start but followed him, duckling like, as he moved around the kitchen. "Are you going to have a fight now that Daddy's been in your room?"

Sherlock paused as he studied the kidneys through the blue plastic wrapper trying to work out when he'd last had them out and tried to follow the logic. "Why would we?"

Ava shrugged, "Polly Foster's Mum had a fight with one of her Uncles when another Uncle stayed over. And Fred Holloway's dad had a huge row with his mum when he had a sleepover at his friend's house. And-"

Sherlock closed the fridge. "Do any of the parents at your school remain in the correct bed?"

Ava frowned in confusion, "I don't know. Should I ask?"

John probably wouldn't appreciate that. "No. However in all those scenarios there were more than two people involved."

"I'm here." Ava said stubbornly, "That's three. And daddy's usually in my room."

It was foolish that his mind went blank as to how he was meant to explain the difference. "Do you want to have a fight with me?"

Ava's eyes darted to the cupboard. "I want poptarts."

"No." He would not be blackmailed by a child. It was undignified. Sherlock allowed himself a momentary flash of self-congratulation for not giving in to her.

"What does scenario mean?"

"John." Sherlock called, loudly. "Deal with your offspring."

By midday John was sitting in the living area with a newspaper, cup of tea and clearly enjoying his hour of peace before braving a children's party.

It seemed as good a time as any.

"I want us to go to a gay club tonight." Sherlock announced.

John paused, looked at Sherlock over the top of the paper and promptly ignored him.

"I know you heard me."

"No." John said calmly. "Anything you need picked up while I'm out?"

"Why?"

John folded up the newspaper with a long sigh and sat himself back. "Do you want a list?"

Sherlock watched him closely. John didn't seem annoyed or offended or even embarrassed. He simply seemed stubborn.

"It's for a case." Sherlock explained.

"And you need me to come with you to a gay club?"

"Yes.

John tossed the paper on the table, "No you don't. "

Sherlock tilted his head in some acknowledgment. "I want you to come with me." He amended.

John tutted to himself for a second thoughtfully, "You have no cases. We're still working on that little problem that is the psycho that's obsessed with you."

"Yes." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and huffed at the lack of comprehension in John's face. "It's owned by Katy Roberts."

Some dawning realisation crept in, but not enough to make Sherlock feel anything other than annoyance at the way the conversation was going.

"And I have to go because?" John asked looking far too wary.

"I'm not unattractive."

John stared at him a moment, then closed his eyes, even as his mouth twitched. "I'm aware of that," he replied, his shoulders relaxing as he seemed to finally work out where the discussion was heading. "But I have trouble believing you want me as your security for the night."

Bristling at the idea Sherlock glared, "No, but I would like a rather obvious reason as to why there is a limit on what I can do."

John didn't look convinced, "There isn't a person on the planet that can make you do what you don't want to do. And I've yet to see a situation where you didn't deliberately manipulate every bloody reaction."

"Clearly you haven't paid much attention to the conversations that have taken place in this room over the past month." Sherlock muttered sullenly and then waited, watching the way that John's expression slid from outright guardedness to contemplative amusement. The way his mouth pulled up from the firm straight line and made his eyes twinkle.

He could watch the shifting expressions all day.

Even if the entire exchange had proved John had a point about Sherlock's abilities.

"What do I get out of it?" John asked eventually and Sherlock just about resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the attempt to negotiate this.

"I'll pay," Sherlock offered.

"You never pay." John muttered, digging around the sofa for the remote. "For anything. I'm not being chased down the street again by someone who hasn't been fooled by one of your tricks or by some grateful client who won't shut up about how wonderful you are."

"As my partner you should be agreeing with them," Sherlock pointed out, deliberately not telling John that the remote was upstairs with Ava for some strange reason.

John flashed him a glare, "As your partner I'm not that thick."

"Well what do you want then?" Sherlock huffed.

John paused in his attempt to pull out the cushions, then carefully put them back in their rightful place and turned to Sherlock. "I will go with you as long as you agree I can leave whenever I want to and you can't complain about it."

"We're working a case, you cannot just swan off when the mood hits." Sherlock flung himself onto his chair angrily.

John watched him with narrowed eyes, "Then I suggest you don't do anything embarrassing."

"Like?"

John raised his hands as if he wished to throttle something. "I don't know, I'm sure you'd manage something. You'll ask some inappropriate question or announce the sexual history of someone I'm talking to."

"Why? What possible relevance would that have?" Sherlock asked, twisting about in the chair to face John who was watching him with bemusement.

"I…you usually manage." John huffed.

"It's a ridiculous request."

John stood and bent to the tv, evidently giving up on his fruitless search. "Ok, you choose. It's either that or you take Ava to the party and stay the afternoon." John flicked through the television channels. "Either way, I can only deal with one childish scene today."

"Fine. You may leave when you wish." Sherlock glared at the kitchen.

The minute John and Ava left the flat. Sherlock bounded upstairs to their room and pulled out all of John's clothes.

There were a few options, he decided approvingly and set them aside pointedly. The rest he was about to dump back in the wardrobe when a sudden thought occurred.

What was the point? John stayed in his room now.

It would be far more useful if the clothes were in Sherlock's room.

Dumping the clothes on the bed seemed like a bad idea. If for no other reason that it might interfere when they got back tonight.

And dumping them in the wardrobe was out too because he had the store of acids to one side and the different aged gum on the other.

God, he was going to have to hang it all up.

Dull.

He was almost finished when he came across the beige jumper that John had worn many times over the years. The first instinct he had when originally faced with the woollen item was to accidently spill some stainable item on it – the bloody toes had been at the top of the list – but now he just dug his fingers into it and stared at the pattern.

Foolish, he thought, shaking the sentimentality away. Bloody foolish.

But it looked strangely right next to his shirts.

"And it was this big," Ava said, showing Sherlock the size of the balloon animal with her hands. "And it had ears and a nose and a tail and legs and-"

"Have this," Sherlock shoved a poptart at her.

Ava stared down at it, "I had a million party rings," she told him sounding very earnest about the matter as she pushed the poptart away, "I don't need breakfast."

Sherlock had caught a glimpse of these "party rings". He honestly had no idea what the difference was in taste but at least she had stopped her list.

"And then Tommy went really green and-"

"WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?" John bellowed from upstairs.

Sherlock frowned and looked at Ava who looked suddenly very contemplative.

"If I put the wrappers in the bin you'd know I ate the sweets," she called back and then shrugged as Sherlock looked at her. "What? He would." She muttered defensively.

John came storming through the door, bypassing Ava and glared at Sherlock, standing utterly straight as if poised for battle.

"I haven't eaten sweets," Sherlock frowned.

John took a deep breath, "What have you done with my clothes? I swear if you put them in the bin I will put you in the bin."

Ava's face scrunched up, "His legs are too long to fit," she complained.

"They're in my room." Sherlock ignored her. "It seemed foolish to have you running upstairs in the morning."

John stared at him for a long moment, but the anger snapped away from him and he looked as if Sherlock had just started to speak in broken English and he had half understood the meaning.

"Ava…watch TV" John ordered and grabbed Sherlock, dragging him into his room and shutting the door.

"Do you understand what you just did?" John asked patiently stepping back.

"It was hardly difficult to move your clothes-"

"You moved us in together." John rephrased pointedly.

"From upstairs." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't be so…cliché."

John sighed, "Is this your room or our room?" he asked after a moment, the smallest hint of nerves wavering his voice.

That sounded a little…advanced.

Sherlock looked around, at the wardrobe, the full shelves and the poster on the wall. The books on the table next to his bed and his organisation of the important objects he had collected over the years.

"It's…a work in progress."

John shook his head with a huff of irritation. "You are moving my clothes back," he said backing up slightly.

"No."

The Watson glare was turned on him. "You moved them, you move them back." John hissed with a flash of temper.

"No." Sherlock folded his arms stubbornly as he stood against the door.

There was a long moment when he thought John might attempt to throttle him. Then John just turned on his heel and stormed towards the wardrobe.

"I wasn't saying I wouldn't do it, I was saying they weren't moving back." Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes.

"But you want to keep this as your room. That's not how this works-"

"I want you in it more than I want laughing gas in it." Sherlock huffed staring at the ceiling in distaste.

There was a pause.

"You have laughing gas in here?"

"You're missing the point," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the stain on the ceiling, sure that it hadn't been that big last time he'd looked properly.

"You don't need to force this," John started to say.

"Would you just bloody well leave the clothes in there and get changed." Sherlock exploded. "I have no wish to whine about this. It is happening and that is that."

"That is that?" John repeated incredulously.

"Yes."

"Ok." John said and let his hand drop away from the wardrobe. "But you left the clothes upstairs." He added, gesturing at Sherlock blocking the doorway, sounding vaguely peeved.

"And I assume you have some issue with that too?" Sherlock snapped.

"Yes. But…" John sighed, "I can drop it."

Sherlock glared at the opposite wall until John broke his fixed gaze with a kiss.

"You're sure-"

"For God's sakes." Sherlock muttered against John's lips. "Enough."

John just chuckled against his mouth and swept his tongue in.

The club wasn't the most popular place, but it was half filled and had relatively quiet areas in which it was just about possible to hold a conversation.

John had set himself up at the bar with a sigh and a beer order which had received a speculatively amused look from the bartender who seemed to be lingering on the misapprehension that John was trying to look straight.

"You aren't being very helpful," Sherlock complained as he wandered back to John after getting all the information he could from Tony who had been a bouncer for years at the club.

John sent him a sidelong look, "I really can't follow your logic with this," he admitted, putting his beer down. "You'd get far more information here on your-"

Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand, spotting another target and wandered over.

When he looked back half an hour later it was to see the bartender and John in deep conversation.

The bartender was leaning rather close but he was also relaxed, chatting eagerly to John.

It was annoying that John never seemed to realise how brilliant his natural gift was to get people to talk to him, to trust him quickly.

Sherlock waited until the bartender moved down, away from John to serve another customer.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Well what?" John asked calmly.

The club was getting busy; it was unlikely that the bar tender, who had once worked directly under Katy Roberts at her favourite club before he fell from grace, was going to have time to spare lavishing attention (and information) on John again.

Sherlock tugged at John who suddenly looked panicked.

"What are you doing?" he yelped.

"Dance." Sherlock ordered imperiously.

"Ah…no," John squirmed firmly into his seat as if determined to grow roots and anchor himself permanently to safety. "No. You just go and collect your information-"

"You're getting far more than I." Sherlock replied calmly, "But that seems to have dried up at the moment."

Curiosity flared and John glanced around and then down the bar. "Wait…but you've been flitting about with all these sources-"

"I may as well be useful." Sherlock tried pulling again but John resisted easily. "He would never have told me as much as he's told you."

"But…" John shifted, "I wasn't asking him anything-"

"I'll translate what he said. Observe from what you tell me." Sherlock scowled at John. "Later. But now I want to dance."

"I don't," John reached back for his beer and held it between them like a shield. "Go dance with…him," he said, vaguely gesturing in a way that could be directed at anyone.

"John," Sherlock pressed up against him, placing his mouth to John's ear. "Why not?" he purred delighting in the way that John stifled a groan at the sound of his voice.

"I…" John took a swig of beer, causing Sherlock to shift out of the way a little. "I can't dance." He muttered eventually.

Sherlock pulled at him again, "Please."

And then grinned when John's shoulders dipped in defeat and he downed the rest of his pint. "So help me if you laugh," John muttered with a sigh as he let Sherlock pull him up, as if about to be led to a public hanging. There was an unhappy slump in his shoulders that didn't seem to be fading away as they moved closer to the dancing bodies. So, taking pity on the man and changing his mind, Sherlock dragged him to a shadowed corner, slightly apart from the crowd and almost hidden from general view.

Then dipped his head a little to brush his mouth against John's. Over and over again until John gasped into his mouth as Sherlock pushed him against the wall.

"This is not dancing." John groaned as Sherlock let his hands roam.

"It's the oldest dance in the book," Sherlock replied, slipping one hand underneath John's shirt as the other reached for the handle to the closet he'd found.

They stumbled backwards inside and Sherlock quickly shut the door behind them, locking it with a flick of his hand. Then, as John blinked in sudden confusion, twisted them and dropped to his knees.

"Oh this is classy," John breathed, stroking a hand through Sherlock's hair.

"Problem?" Sherlock didn't bother to look up as he quickly opened John's trousers.

"No. Just amused it took until my late thirties for my teenage fantasy to come true."

Something unfurled in Sherlock and he ran his hands up John's thighs possessively. "He wanted you." He said, thinking back to the bar man and the way he'd leaned close to listen attentively to John while dragging his eyes over Sherlock's doctor's frame.

"Did he?" John almost turned as if he would be able to see through the door and Sherlock was torn between snorting with laughter and pinching him in annoyance.

Instead he brushed his nose gently against John's very interested cock and looked up to see John's attention suddenly utterly focussed on him.

"No more noise," Sherlock told him, "For all you know there's someone pressed up against the other side of the door right now."

John's jaw dropped a little as he let out a rather shaken gasp and swallowed deeply.

Then Sherlock did the same.

Next Chapter: Sherlock decides to drag John along to Robert' more frequented clubs and they bump into a face from John's past. Meanwhile Ava seems oddly quiet...