/In front of restaurant - after the dinner/

"I do not think it was inappropriate."

"Well, to say about our waiter he's gay, it wouldn't be the worst," I admitted. "...even you didn't have to shout it out allover the restaurant. However, to point it out to his boss, and as a bonus, tell him that certain waiter goes out with his son, when that young man found himself right next to his father, it was not really appropriate. All the more so that of his son's orientation he had no idea and you just had to comment on, saying: God, look at him! It is absolutely clear. And now you want me to believe you had no idea and still don't think it could have been inappropriate, therefore, you did it all purely from the goodness of your heart?! Sherlock, how can you not understand this? And if you truly don't understand what is appropriate and what is not, at least, do not say anything. Me, Mrs. Hudson, the entire Scotland Yard and now probably everyone in this restaurant, we all know how awesome your skills are, but it really wasn't necessary and even useful."

"I would say there was some benefit. That boy would never tell his father that he's gay. And no, John, not because papa would perhaps disown him - he just didn't have the courage. With my action I helped him to get over an important point in his life."

"Oh, so from the goodness of your heart after all," I sneered. "Next time, please, let them solve their issues by their own. And by them, I mean everyone."

Sherlock, in protest against my words, opened his mouth, but I quickly stopped him (I do not want to argue with him about his social awareness; he has his opinion so do I - they are different, thus it would not make sense to present them endlessly to each other): "Stop it at once... Let's go home; it's starting to snow."

"You go, John. I have to arrange something else," he said and gave me a conspiratorial winkle, which I considered as he is again on to something and does not require my presence there.

I turned my head from the sky, from which the snow was folling, and wanted to ask detective something, but I saw only a tip of his coat, disappearing around the corner.

"Well," I sighted, "what can I do?" and went home.

/221B Baker Street - John's bedroom/

"Psst, John."

"Ughmm..." I mumbled sleepily out of bed.

"John,"

"S-Sherlock?" I rubbed my eyes to wake up, but I was so terribly sleepy it did not help. "Um – something's wrong?" I yawned and buried my head into pillow, "It's 4 in the morning..."

"I know. It's could outside. May I get into your bed?"

"Why?" I murmured.

"That man's killed three people already, and if I get cold and be not able to chase him, this wa–"

"Eh, I don't care. Feel free to get in," I morosely interrupt Sherlock's speech. "Just don't say anything – silence – so I can sleep."

The detective nodded and got to me, pressed his cold back against mine, saying quietly: "John, If y–"

"Shush," I hissed at him, hoping I could still fall asleep.

/Morning/

I managed to sleep for five more hours and when I woke up I was honestly surprised to find that Sherlock was still in bed. Looking at him, how he's tranquilly sleeping, I decided to not woke him up. He is an astonishing person - no doubt - but his ability to deny sleep whenever he pleases I do not like indeed so I was immensely pleased with his current state.

So I cared to not rose Holmes from his slumber that I did not even get up myself, just drew the duvet (which my flatmate was still stealing from me during the night) a little and rested my head on pillow. Perhaps I'll fall asleep once again. Closed my eyes and in that very moment I heard a gentle tone of Sherlock's voice: "Thank you, John."

"You should be thankful." So he is not sleeping?! Actually it was not that astonishing (certainly less than the fact that he had stayed in bed). "You know, this bed may be large, but the duvet is made for one."

"You said, you don't care, so -"

"Just teasing you... Everything's all right," I smiled.

Holmes raised his left eyebrow in disbelief, but then he smiled back.

"What time is it?" he asked, completely awoken now.

"Nine."

"Hm, I should go then. You can fully enjoy your duvet," he said and got out of bed.

I must confess that I could not help to not looking at Sherlock's bare back and beautifully white-glowing nape, hidden under those messy curls of his dark hair which were all dishevelled in the morning and perfectly contrasted with the snow-white skin. Carefully I watched him; I like how thin he is. (...) I glared at a couple of blue-violet bruises under his right shoulder blade and found myself how I ardently bit my lower lip when he bent down for his jacket.

"Should I bring the milk when I get back?" He turned, and I quickly looked away.

"Well, it depends. Bring it anyway. But if you'll come back at four in the morning again, don't come to my bedroom to present it to me. Just put it into the fridge, ok?

"Sure. And don't worry; cause of these bruises will very soon be behind bars."

"What? But I - um... fine." Damn. For how long does he know that I've watched him?

"I have been worse," he laughed. "Fortunately, my bones have adapted and grow together fast."

"Good for you then, I think, to have a doctor as a flatmate."

"Good think to have you as a flatmate, John," he reaplied immediately. In that very moment he stopped when he realized the possible hidden meaning of this sentence, and with words: "I'll bring the milk," he darted out of the room.

/next day/

"Sherlock?" I called from kitchen.

"Hmm?"

I was not in the best mood. Holmes had not come at four a.m., but only about two hours longer - with an irrepressible desire to play the violin. I got out from the bed accompanied by the sound of Paganini's Capriccio n°1 and all I wanted was a glass of milk. But from that one in the fridge I could only make a milkshake; "Why is that milk half frozen?"

"Probably because the last few hours it has been exposed to temperatures lower than the freezing point is.

"Eh. And how-"

"I've bought it around eleven o'clock in the evening, but there was no time to bring it home and so it became a witness to many interesting things from London's underworld... so please let the milk recover in our fridge."

"Well," I sighted, "still better than heads."

(...) "How is that possible," I said after a moment, when Sherlock was giving himself a break from playing, "that Mrs. Hudson stands for this? I don't think she would be so hard of hearing."

"It's because she likes Paganini. Play her Bruch's Scottish Fantasy; she would be here at the very moment, ripping your strings... German has no rights to compose anything about Scotland whatsoever! she cried out once..." he laughed a bit.

I was amused about the idea of how that good woman is breaking detective's Stradivarius into pieces and it slightly improved my mood. "So, how's your most-night-stalking-case going?"

"Done."

"And some other crime act took your mind?"

"Not really. These times are so rushed and people so lazy that I almost wonder why don't they just stay next to the victim and wait until the police come to arrest them. It even evolved into such extremes of simplicity that Lestrade managed to reveal, tracked down and arrested two people without my help... and to top it all: the right ones."

"You just underestimate him too much."

"Anderson had cracked the main track."

"Oh, I do understand now."

The Detective - mentally so dependent on his work - looked at me sadly: "It seems that I will be home for some time."

"Your body deserves a little holiday; the bruises, skinned knuckles and a lack of sleep and food make no good to you."

"Pff," he snorted. "Promise me at last that you'll let me smoke."

"Sherlock -"

"Please."

"You know damn good well it's a bad habit -"

"And you know, John, that I am a grown man and I can manage."

"Gah, fine. Why do you even ask when you're obviously stubborn about this?"

"Yes. Why indeed..."

. . .

The detective smiled brightly and asked me if I want him to play Mendelssohn – he probably wanted to reward me for giving him a permission to smoke (more less). I accepted and sat down into my chair, listening to Sherlock's thanks with closed eyes.

"How long have you been playing?" It honestly interested me, because he played and even composed very well... not well - excellent. And it is generally known that the violin is one of the most difficult instruments, although it has only four strings.

"Since five."

"Hm."

"At first it wasn't so enjoyable, but when I found out how much it gets on Mycroft's nerves, I've became seriously interested in violin and even develop a certain addiction on it. It is almost unbelievable what you can do with such a few of strings. I know nearly eight playing techniques and each of them has several possible versions... Mycroft loves pizzicato the most - it's when I strum the violin with right hand. Once I had forced him to go with me to Benjamin Britten's Simple Symphony – that was fun. Imagine that there's even a technique when you play by the wooden side of bow - with that certainly came up some poor musician who had no strings. However, the sensational thing about violin is Colophonium."

"And that is...?"

"Rosin, also called colophony or Greek pitch. It's a distillation residue from pine resin."

"Oh. What is it for?"

"By its application on the horse hair of bow you increase the frictional resistance... From chemical point of view it's also a lovely thing. Basically a mixture of weak organic acids. One of my first experiments was with it - that's where I got my finger acid burned from," he said, looking at his hand. Then his right mouth corner twitched with a tiny smile indicating that he remembered something (most likely about his children's experiments) and suddenly his fingers trembled slightly. Holmes, as he could not bear it that his body - unlike his mind - was acting spontaneously, quickly clenched his fist and pulled it back to his side.

Several times I had noticed that his fingers were shaking, but I was not quite sure why. Maybe an idiopathic tremor. Or a –

"I need a cigarette." Aha. So just a withdrawal syndrome.

"Okay," I sighed, "The bookcase. Top shelf. Behind your Monograph on polyphonic motets of Lassus."

"Have you read it?" he asked without looking at me, and went to the bookcase.

"No. I don't think I'd be interested."

He reached for the cigarette pack: "Pity. I think I've quite succeeded."

"Sherlock, I doubt I can change my mind. It is certainly good that you are busying yourself with other things than corpses and chemicals, but to me a book about musician from 16th century is not interesting at all. And it doesn't matter how much you've succeeded with it." I did not want my answer to sound rude, but I had managed the exact opposite. Flatmate turned back at me with hurt look.

Oh gosh, I know it was my fault now, but I hope he does not expect me to read that thing?! With my field and hobbies it had nothing to do and I doubt I would even understand it when I realized how Sherlock expresses and writes about certain things - musical terminology is totally unknown to me.

"You also do not read my notes about your cases. They're very... embellished? With stupid titles? Or how do you say it?"

"I do read all of your notes," the detective said coldly.

"Really?" I wondered hopefully. "But I've thought..."

"I read it," he continued still with the same tone, "because they are written by you."

"Oh," I paused in surprise. "Um... thanks then." (...) "Damn," I added after a while of pure silence, "how is it possible that you know how to make person feel guilty? - Now I'll have to read it..."

Flatmate removed a cigarette from the packet and put it in his mouth. "You don't have to," he smiled gently.

Oh I was grateful: "Thanks. But please, could you smoke outside?"

"Of course," he answered. Put on his coat. And left.

Once he was gone I got up and walked boldly to the bookcase, looking straight at the mentioned monograph. "No, I can't, not even if I want to," I thought resignedly and walked to the window. Outside I saw a dark figure of Holmes, leaning back against the street light, as he was blowing small puffs of cigarette smoke out off his weary lungs. I know it's bad for him but if I was an artist, I'd just seized my sketchbook immediately.

I stepped closer, drew aside the curtain to get a better view and kept watching my flatmate as I had nothing else to do.

Holmes finished his cigarette after a while and I thought he would go back, but he pull out and lit another one. No way! I almost cried out. Until today, he could perfectly manage with only nicotine patches and now he was about to smoke the entire pack just like that? From such a sudden intake of nicotine he could have a poisoning...

Well, yeah, but: call after him from the window I can not, it would be too loud for the first and for second (and more importantly) there would be no doubt that I was watching him. So what - ha! Mobile! I took my phone and wrote a message: The packet will be the only one for you when you'll be at home. You won't get more. And I'm telling you as your doctor.

In no time there came a response: Ah, so as my doctor? And shouldn't be by any chance the doctor doing something more useful than watching an unemployed detective how he's smoking his cigarette? At this one I naturally did not answer.

Suddenly I heard footsteps on the stairs – Sherlock. I quickly jumped away from the window, grabbed the first book which was nearer to my hand and sat down in armchair with it, pretending like I was there all the time.

"Habit is habit and not to be flung out of the window by any man," came detective's voice from hallway, "but coaxed downstairs a step at a time... You know who said it?"

"Mark Twain, I guess."

"Good for you, John," he praised me and came closer to my seat. Then he bent over from behind and muttered: "Hmm... so when you'll go hunting?"

"What?" Where did he get this idea?

"Forest animals, page 73: how to track and hunt a deer."

"What?"

"The book, John."

"Eh-"

"Or perhaps you want to tell me that once I pointed out that I know you're watching me through the window, you grabbed the first book which came your way, and began to pretend that you were reading it the whole time I was out?"

"I... it's because-" I awkwardly began to form an excuse, but Sherlock raised his eyebrows in disapproval. "John," he said calmly, "from the two of us you are not the one who knows how to lie well."

I pursed my lips and humbly went to give that bloody book back in its place.

Even though I could raise a lot of objections about the fact that I maybe can't lie, but Sherlock can not unravel the complexity of human relationships and that is, I think, much worse. Not that he was completely isolated from the manifestations of humanity (in this respect my company is very helpful to him), but sometimes I really wondered what all was this mechanical creature not able to understand. On the other hand, there were some moments when he showed so much politeness that I had absolutely no idea where it came from. And then it awakes in me the feeling that under his gray, logical mask is genuinely quite normal, sincerely beating human heart. Although with that normal I must not overdo it... The main thing, however, was that Sherlock Holmes was more human than he seemed to be at first sight. And that he was fully aware of the meaning of certain things. Probably just did not want the others to know about it, for what - in my opinion - he had no cogent reason.

I put the book back on the shelf and when I turned back the detective was standing right behind me. Before I could say anything he reached out over me and took another book from the top shelf.

"Here," he said without stepping away, "try this."

"Lies and half-thrust in human communication," I read the title. "And you-" my voice cracked a little when I realized how close together we were standing. I cleared my throat. "You've read it?"

"Eww, no," he smirked and shook his head, "It was a present from Mycroft."

"Hm. And have you ever read anything about sociology? I think you need it."

"Well, something definitely: Comte, Weber, Spencer and a few others..."

"Right. But I'm not sure that Weber's ideal type or Spencer's comparison of society to a biological organism would be somehow useful. They are already dead for 150 years at least and I'm afraid that the general view of society and human behaviour has been changed nowadays."

"It doesn't really matter anyway... Every social theory eventually fails me."

"Really? Why's that?"

"For instance," he said in a low voice, leaning to my ear, "I assumed that when I gave you this book we would kiss. But nothing happened. Don't know why."

"Maybe," I said quietly, "because you haven't done this," and pressed my lips to his.

It was a wonderful feeling. I would not even think that those sculpturesque lips of his would be so soft, pliable and tender. Sherlock did not flinch in any way; he grasped me around the waist and pulled me to him. Incited by his touch and overpowered by those gorgeous lips I flung my arms around his neck and buried the left hand in his curly hair. He was apparently flattered by my interest and to show me that he had more to offer, his tongue started its delicate way into my yearning mouth. Desperate I was to touch him, to feel him, to take more and everything of him until we dissolve in each other, and he knew it well. Those long, thin white fingers were leaving a burning path on my skin, shaking from their touch as he slipped his hand under my t-shirt. "Sherlock," A little desirous moan escaped out from my mouth into his lips as I grabbed down at that gorgeos arse. He embraced me even tightly and broke the kiss to let me draw some air into my lungs which I so urgently needed. But breathing was still not that simple because of the breathtaking caress of Sherlock's tongue running up and down my neck which was driving me mad and making me gasping for much more. Oh god, wasn't this a dream?

"S-See now?" I breathed out, afraid of losing my mind if Sherlock will be continuing. "Every theory... nghh... has its – its practical side which you have to... fulfil."

"Yes," he slightly pulled away and cleaned his throat, "absolutely."

"Clink- clink," came a ring from my pocket.

"Shit," I sighted, fished out the phone with no pleasure and drew away from Sherlock; "I have to go."

"Now?" he complained disappointedly.

"Now. Work, Sherlock."

"Do not go there," he protested, grabbing my arm.

"No," I slipped out of his grip, "I must."