A/n: Hello there! At this point, I'd like to thank all of my readers for sticking around through this whole thing. It's been great, and you guys are are awesome. I see you managed to stick around for the fluff! First off, I'd like to warn you all that not only is this not all that romantically involved (as I think the JohnLock relationship is best served rather light and is rather similar to their present relationship), so if you were expecting hardcore smex, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Anyhow, this should be short and sweet, and probably terribly out of character. But it's a post-fic fanservice, so why the hell not?

Disclaimer: I think...I think yeah, we got this down.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Bonus

Waking with a jolt, Sherlock gasped in the cold air that filled his room. As he thrashed in his blankets, fear consumed him. Was it just the dream? Was he still trapped somewhere in the dark? Was coming home to John really just a dream, his "dream" a barely-conscious reality? Writhing around, he managed to cast aside his covers, drenched in sweat. After tossing them to the ground, Sherlock smacked around his nightstand for his light; he had to confirm where he was. Finding the button of his lamp, he pushed it and the room filled with light, momentarily blinding him.

As the cool air settled around him, Sherlock's eyes begrudgingly readjusted to the light. Everything was as it should be: he was in his room, his freshly-laundered sheets littering the recently-vacuumed floor. Yes, that's right, he thought, recalling how John had helped him clean it as Mrs. Hudson did the laundry.

Hissing through clenched teeth, the detective's good hand migrated to his neck, the wound throbbing harshly, serving as another reminder that this was his present reality. He could feel his heart still beating rapidly, thudding in his ears, against his injury. Hand shaking, Sherlock settled it back down into his lap, unnerved. The dream was still all too real; he was trapped, chained to a wall. Couldn't move, couldn't sit, his only reprieve from slouching against the jagged bricks. They kept him alive on next to nothing, leaving him alone in the damp cold, shoeless and shirtless, blood from his injuries left sticky against his chest. It was always dark, pure darkness, until they opened the squealing metal door, blinding him with this bright light that was no more than a few meters away. So small a distance separated him from what could be freedom, and it killed them.

His chest giving a sympathetic twinge from the thought, Sherlock shuddered, another wave of fear overcoming him accompanied by a bout of nausea. He knew he was safe, that he was home, that these men were dead, but he couldn't shake the memory. Sucking back his breath, Sherlock staggered out of his bed, feet uncertainly wavering underneath him. He had to get out of here. Here wasn't safe.

Teetering over to his door, the detective threw it open and wobbled out of it, feeling along for the furniture to guide him. As he started up the stairs, he felt a chill course through him and his clothes dry a bit more. The further he ascended, the less the meager light from his room illuminated his path. He had to climb them all, but they seemed never-ending. When was climbing stairs supposed to be this hard? Misjudging the final step, Sherlock overextended and fell to his knees, landing with a thud against the wood.

Pushing himself up with his good arm, the detective was careful to not tilt backwards. Falling down the stairs was the last thing he needed. Swaying, Sherlock made his way to John's bedroom door, stopping as his hand fell over the doorknob, a moment of clarity washing over him.

As another fretful chill wracked his body, the darkness getting to him, Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. Here, he thought, here was safe. Closing the door to a crack, the detective crept inside until he reached the bed. If he recalled, John slept on the end that was closer to the window. Lifting the down comforter slightly, Sherlock's assertions were proven correct and he slid into the opposing side of the bed.

John's heat radiated from him despite the frigid December night. He was always warm, always safe. Settling himself in, he closed his eyes and inhaled, the doctor's scent immediately calming him down. Warmth enveloping him, Sherlock drifted off as he felt John shift over, subconsciously throwing an arm around his bedmate outside the covers.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Slowly emerging from a restful slumber, John smiled. He'd spent the night with someone, and that someone was currently buried into his chest. This was new, hadn't happened in a while. Maybe he was starting to feel better, get used to life again. Just maybe. Giving his bedmate's slender frame a squeeze, he hummed tunelessly, trying to remember the details of last night. Had he gotten a bit smashed at the pub last night? That hadn't happened in a while, either. Had his boss finally gotten him to go out? He was a bit hazy, but there were no signs of a hangover. What had he done? He hadn't been this happy in ages.

Eyes still closed, he ran his hand down the woman's back. Thin, tall too, he noted, feeling each backbone through a thin shirt as he trailed up her back (no bra, seemed promising). He could feel the slightest curl in each, and he had to smoother his grin. She was perfectly curled into him, and John could always go for the touchy type. Finding her hair, he scruffled it for a moment. Curls, he was fine with that, hair not too terribly long, but still by no means short.

Opening his eyes a peak, he allowed the morning light to rouse him, eyes focusing faster than they had in ages. For the first time in a long time, he felt well-rested. Yawning away the rest of his wear, John stretched, trying not to wake the woman sleeping next to him. Separating himself from her, he slid to the edge of the bed, extending his arms above his head to rax.

As he got up to examine the forgotten beauty he'd surely landed over the course of the night, John stopped for a moment dead in his tracks. What woman's feet hung off the bed? Were that large? Warily, he toed over to his partner's edge of the bed and gasped at the realisation, falling back slightly into his nightstand, using it to brace himself.

Sherlock. How could he have forgotten? Sherlock was back, that's why he was happy, and there was no way he had gone to bed with him. When did he even get in here? How did he not notice? And why on Earth were they...cuddling? Completely embarrassed, putting a ripe tomato to shame, he started down the stairs to make breakfast. He'd let Sherlock sleep a little longer, then they would have to talk.

The detective rolled over in discontent. His heat source, his comfort, was gone. Eyes snapping awake, Sherlock realised the gravity of the situation. I...I walked into John's room this morning...and crawled into his bed. Groaning at his own impulsive, half-awake stupidity, he turned on his side to ponder the situation. How could he possibly face John after this? He had surely stepped over the line this time. It's not like this could be written off as an accident. John's room was on the second floor, and unless snooping for something in particular (which was unbeknownst to the doctor), Sherlock never came up here. He had made the effort to come up and crawl into bed. Moaning, he gave himself a few more minutes, trying to prolong the time before the pending confrontation.

Waiting a good ten minutes, Sherlock finally pried himself of the comfort of John's bed and sauntered downstairs, where John had just finished eggs. He didn't quite know what to say, his inner child reverting to poor innuendos. And breakfast, too?, he thought to himself, trying to hide his immature, boyish grin.

As John set two plates of scrambled eggs with forks unceremoniously buried in the yellow, fluffy mass, he announced, "Food."

Sherlock obliged by sitting in his seat, immediately refocusing his attention onto the eggs. They were just the right consistency, not to watery, not too hard, sprinkled with just the proper amount of black pepper. Stabbing at one of the puffy mounds, he heard John pull the chair out as it scraped past the floor, and with a light plop he was sitting, another slide to sure him up against the table. The detective could feel the doctor's eyes on him, studying him, waiting for an iota of a response. Ogling his food, Sherlock waited for a sigh and a defeated fork scraping against the plate before stealing a quick peak at his friend, who seemed slightly confused, his eyebrows furrowed ever-so-slightly.

The aroma of toasted bread wafted into the room and a pop emerged from the kitchen. John slid out of his chair and retrieved the toast, gingerly tossing it onto a small plate before removing partial prints from fingertips. After unplugging the toaster, he fetched the strawberry jam from the fridge and a butter knife from the drawer. Walking back into the other room, John placed the toast in front of Sherlock. He'd have to look up now.

Sure enough, the detective glanced up long enough for the sake of warm toast, locking eyes with John. Retreating his gaze to the eggs, his nimble hand darted out to snag a piece and toss it back onto his plate. "Sherlock," John began with a serious tone.

Sherlock sheepishly looked up, unsure of what expression to put before the older man. It was embarrassing. This whole thing was embarrassing. Why couldn't he have been the first to wake up, the first to be shocked, to stammer out of bed, badgering himself about his own actions. Why did John have to know, too?

Clearing his throat, the doctor pressed, "Sherlock, why...Why were you in my bed this morning?"

The detective stared at his friend. He hadn't the slightest as to say. Why did he do it? "I don't know..." he admitted, knowing that this wouldn't land him anywhere nice.

John blinked hard, trying to understand the situation before him. "Were you...sleepwalking?"

"No..." Sherlock returned. "I was definitely awake. I just don't know why I thought to do that..." As much as he knew the sleepwalking excuse may or may not exonerate him from further questioning, the detective was troubled. Why on Earth would he do such a thing?

"Last time...Didn't you say that it was because your linens were dusty?"

Sherlock nodded, trying to jog his memory. He had, indeed, done that before. Yet somehow, it didn't seem right. It wasn't entirely because his linens were dusty. If that were simply the case, he'd have made his bed the couch like usual. But no, he remembered he wanted a bed, a proper bed in which to sleep that first afternoon. That he thought about things he hadn't wanted to...Like last night. Last night was a dream, nothing more than a bad dream. Somewhere safe. John was safe; he would protect him. That's why he did it. John made him feel safe.

Watching Sherlock's expressions as he spaced out into deep thought, John continued, "You thought of something, didn't you?"

"I just...had a bad dream s'all," Sherlock slurred, not entirely sure that the was the entirety of his story. He had wandered into John's bed the first time because it felt safe, it smelled safe; it smelled like John. Internally badgering himself, Sherlock thought he had moved past this. Apparently not.

"Oh," John breathed. "You can wake me up next time..."

Shaking his head, the detective vollied, "I didn't want to wake you up...That was enough. I fell back asleep, and I didn't have any more dreams...Did it bother you?"

"Not particularly..." John denied. The situation didn't bother him as much as it startled him. "It was just a bit of a shock waking up to your flatmate in your bed." He didn't want to admit their otherwise-compromising positioning this morning.

"Oh." Did that mean that John sort of liked him? At least enough as a friend.

Did that mean Sherlock would be sneaking into his bed more often? Did that bother him? He figured it should, cuddling with your best mate didn't particularly seem like behavior a perfectly straight man should be embracing, but he couldn't find much of a mind to let it bother him more. It was more embarrassing than anything; he had just 'slept' with Sherlock Holmes. "Why me?" he brought himself to ask. Just what did Sherlock think of him?

Debating whether or not to tell the truth, Sherlock mentally asked his eggs, hoping the now-cold breakfast could in some way help him. "I feel safer," he finally settled. "You won't hurt me."

"Oh." And awkward silence struck between the two, both suddenly fascinated by their cold food. Sighing, John managed, "Sherlock, do you like me?"

"Of course," the detective snapped sharply. "You're my only friend, of course I like you."

Shaking his head, he persisted, "No, do you like me?"

"What are we, five?" Sherlock scoffed, trying to avoid the topic.

"Yes, we are. If that means you'll answer my question..."

The detective froze, eyes widening. Face flushed, Sherlock let his shaggy hair droop as he stared at the table. My, the wood grains were certainly interesting today. What was he supposed to even say? "Yes," he mumbled in a low voice. No use in lying now; he'd already said everything else.

Did he hear that right? John stammered, "You like me...like that?" Sherlock nodded from the safety of his hair. "For how long?"

"I realised it a long while ago..." Sherlock trailed off, muddled in his own timeline. Just when did he notice? He remembered that he first noticed that John was special after their first case. They worked so well together, and before he knew it, Sherlock wanted the older man in his life. Now that was a first, he thought. He had a friend. Another first. Someone that he set aside from everyone else, someone that left him terribly confused. Not only had the anti-social detective never had a friend to his name, but he hadn't so much as given a thought to a potential lover. He was inexperienced in relationships, so painfully so that he didn't know how to define just what he felt for the kind doctor.

Sherlock had known since he was a teenager that his brother had a proclivity towards men, that there was nothing wrong with homosexuality. He wondered if he could feel the same; after all, no one had meant this much to him his entire life. After some research and deleted search history (on John's laptop – his was dead), Sherlock came to believe that he might regard his only friend as something more. He would allow himself to fantasise about the things that the fangirls (and in some instances, fanboys) left on the internet to be read by like-minded individuals, and he was one of them. If anyone, it would be John.

For a week or so, he recalled, he was trapped in this mindset where he fervently favored this idea, lapping up the stray comments or questions by others about their relationship. But that was when John noticed, the detective scoffed internally. Reality struck him as his doctor got yet another girl, some silly girl. What was so good about her that Sherlock didn't have? That's right, she was a female. John liked girls, and he wasn't a girl. It was impossible. He could never be anything more to his friend.

John was flabbergasted to say the least, finally managing, "Why didn't...you know, say anything?"

Sherlock shot up, brow furrowed. The explanation couldn't have been any simpler. "Why would I want to ruin what we already had? It's take that and be silent or say something and have nothing. I'd take the former thank you very much!" he snapped, slightly angry. Now that he had said it, wouldn't John just be uncomfortable? Would he still have nothing? Great.

"You think I would have dissolved our friendship over that...?" John trailed off, disappointed in the faith the detective put in him.

"No...but the thought had crossed my mind," Sherlock returned. "Why mess with something good? When I knew you would never consider it...You like girls, John, I've accepted that."

"'Why mess with something good?'" the doctor repeated as he rose from his chair, the answer was so easy. Walking over to Sherlock's side, John placed his left hand on the table for balance and leaned in close to the detective.

Sherlock froze for a moment, caught staring into John's eyes. He couldn't move, could scarcely breathe, excited for what was about to happen next.

"Because something good may come of it, that's why," John breathed with a boyish grin. Hovering in closer, the doctor paused before the detective's lips. Completely bewildered, Sherlock let out a shuddering sigh in anticipation. Eyes widening in realisation of his own actions, John couldn't do it. This was too soon for such things. Opting out, John swung up and gave Sherlock a brief peck on the tip of the nose instead.

Turning away, the doctor could feel a warm blush creep onto his face. Unsatisfied, Sherlock stared at the back of the flustered doctor, utterly confused. "What did that mean?" he asked.

"You're the smart one, figure it out!" John called as he fled for the kitchen. He was too embarrassed to properly function. First he wakes up with Sherlock Holmes in his arms, next minute he's kissing him. It's not like he hadn't thought about it despite the fact that he is heterosexual. It couldn't be any other man, no one else would do. If anyone, it had to be Sherlock, his only rule-breaker. He hadn't entirely realised it until it was too late, when Sherlock was dead, when he couldn't have possibly done anything more, but he loved Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock leaned back and smirked, recalling the redness of John's ears. It was mutual after all, a pleasant development.

"I'm taking a shower!" John announced as he stomped off to the bathroom. That was the only place he wouldn't have to face his friend.

"What about your food?" Sherlock asked, eyeballing both cold plates.

Before he slammed the door behind him, John cried, "Forget about it!"

Snickering, Sherlock jokingly inquired, "Can I join?" Ruffling John's feathers was fun.

"NO!" John shouted, turning the water on. He needed to calm down. Too much for an old man in the morning.

Laughing, Sherlock snorted and was startled by the noise. This was going to be fun.

THE END

A/n: Anyhow, that's it! Be sure to check out the other fics, and subscribe and favorite and things. Especially review! Please drop me a few-second note for the months of my life I poured into this. I'd appreciate it lots! 'Till next time!