John's P.O.V

John hated mornings when he could feel, in every bone in his body, that his subconscious was waking him at a much too early hour. Even his elbows were telling him that nothing good could come from prying apart his eyelids, but John did it anyway. Day light had only just started to claw its way through the window, a still dim greyish light that illuminated a room that was most decidedly not John's. From the periodic table of elements poster on the wall to the meticulously organized closet full of more suits than he'd known one person could even own.

Perhaps that was when the panic set in.

The silk sheets were definitely not his- too impractical, too expensive. The pillow was certainly not his – too soft, too fluffy from the down feathers John suspected it was filled with. The bed was without any trace of doubt not his – too large, too full of mad scientist.

No, perhaps this was when the panic set in.

He turned his head only a fraction, careful to keep from moving too much to avoid waking Sherlock up beside him. The great, apparently green today, eyes that were pointedly staring at him were quick to let him know how stupid that idea had been. Even if it were barely past dawn, John had slept for the better part of the past day to that point where it might have been a bit indecent of him. For Sherlock to have done the same thing it would have meant the detective was trying to get his full years' worth of sleep in one go. In reality, Sherlock didn't even have the decency to blink.

Panic, this had to be it now.

John thought that the other man must have slept for at least a little while, judging by his appearance. There were several different parts to the man that was Sherlock Holmes. The public image- the one that was all crisp suits to match the unforgiving angles of his posture and the smoothness of expression on his face. Then there was in-between-cases Sherlock. The one who wore loose tee shirts made for a body twice his size with soft pants and a ridiculous dressing gown that would be waved about like a cape. The Sherlock in front of him now looked like post-case Sherlock, the one who finally gave into that pesky urge to sleep that his body couldn't seem to shake despite his best efforts. The curls on the detective's head went in every direction as if they were each trying to follow one of the many ideas popping into the skull they were attached to. The bright eyes were less red-rimmed than they had been the previous day having finally been allowed to close for more than a millisecond. All sure signs that Sherlock had cracked the case and another criminal had been apprehended. Except there hadn't been a case. There had only been John. Plain, old, nothing-ever-happens-to-me John.

He'd slept with Sherlock Holmes.

Ah. He hadn't known what panic felt like. That explains it.

Christ

"You're still here then," John whispered, though he wasn't sure why, finally meeting Sherlock's gaze with his own wide-eyed one.

"A perfectly sound deduction."

John was going to punch that smirk off the detective's face. At least that feeling was familiar.

"And while I'm thrilled to be reassured that stupidity is not in fact contagious, do try not to be so obvious John," Sherlock told him the oddly fond condescending tone that John had come to realize was only used in his presence.

"Let's hold out hope that being an arrogant git isn't either," John said, hitting Sherlock's arm lightly while his brain took that moment to remember the even more painfully obvious lack of clothes between them. John then had to actively not think about it. Had to ignore the fresh memories of smooth alabaster skin, sharp hip bones that he'd wondered the bruising capabilities of, plush lips whose talents were not left to the imagination.

Sherlock, on his part, looked as if John had just told him that he was simultaneously worthy of being carved into Greek statues and infinitely more clever than Mycroft in the same breath.

John sighed loudly. A sigh of the long suffering. A John Watson sigh. He ought to patent it if the rest of the world had that funny idea that they were worthy of a sigh such as this.

"Alright, you've got questions," Sherlock replied after scowling briefly at the John Watson sigh, pulling himself up against his headboard.

"A few. Mostly along the lines of 'what the hell are we doing?," John grumbled, trying to sound only half as exasperated as he felt.

"I would have thought that Three Continents Watson could have figured that one out on his own,"

To hell with Sherlock Holmes and that smirk.

"You know as well as I do, better even probably, that old army nicknames which I don't even want to know how you figured out don't make any… relationship I have last more than a few dates," he told the detective in what he decided was definitely a suitably patient tone, choosing to ignore the word he had hesitated over even when Sherlock's eyebrows quirked up at it.

"You've conveniently forgotten enough women's names to know that. So I repeat, what the hell are we doing Sherlock?," no longer sounding half of anything. This was John Watson at the end of his rope.

"Is that what you'd like John?." The too –seeing green orbs asked him, looking up from a curtain of thick lashes.

"Is what what I'd like?"

"Don't be obtuse John, do you wish for me to be one of those names you can't remember either?"

"What! Of course I d-,"

"Should I make myself busy so you can gather your things and get out, promise to call won't you?,"

"Sherlock, don't be ri-,"

"Another conquest of the great Three Continents Watson, a brilliant story to tell all those army friends on pub night. Bet they won't ever believe it."

"That is not what I think and you know it. How can you say such horrible things, always so horrible. I'd never, I can't believe you'd think that," John snapped with a huff, moving to pull as far away as the ridiculously large bed would allow but was stopped when a hand belonging to the world's only consulting detective latched itself onto his hip.

"Of course I don't think that John, last night wouldn't have happened if I did. I just wanted you to speak quickly," Sherlock told him with a lopsided grin, letting go of John as he gracefully leapt from the bed to pull on that ridiculous blue dressing gown(not a bathrobe John) and the soft cotton pants.

"No need for that tedious conversation where I have no doubt that you would have been as eloquent as any Shakespearean play in trying to explain us, though you would have ultimately failed. It's simple John, really, even for you. You're an ex-army doctor, a crack shot, and the blogger I'd be lost without. You're my John. That's enough to be going on with – don't you think?"

John had just enough time to gap stupidly like a fish out of water before Sherlock gave him that arrogant wink as he bounded out of the room.

"Sherlock Holmes – you are the greatest sodding prat I've ever met," he yelled back once words sounded like words again in his head, and John swore he heard a deep chuckle before the sounds of violin strings being played. With a sigh, he followed Sherlock's example of getting dressed quickly before heading into the sitting room. He was tempted to wear a jumper, regardless of the heat. See how Sherlock likes that.

"You're eating breakfast – no arguing since I know for a fact you didn't eat anything yesterday," John said to the lean expanse of thinly veiled spine staring back at him from the window frame. He took the silence as a Yes John, please whip something up before I keel over from malnutrition and you're forced to have another long talk with a social worker about my eating habits. No problem Sherlock, happy to help.

Scowling to himself, John set about making hardboiled eggs regardless of the lack of any wave of gratitude coming his way. It figures that these were the kind of things that weren't likely to change at 221B Baker Street. At least watching the water boil was a little more peaceful from the unusually cheery notes being played under Sherlock's finger tips.

"Come. Sit. Eat.," the doctor told the detective once John had been certain the single egg he wanted to shove down Sherlock's throat was cooked exactly the same way it had been the last time he'd managed to get the other man to eat one. Still, John had to forcibly move the tall body away from the window and onto a chair in the kitchen, carefully taking the violin to put it in Sherlock's favourite chair despite the glare this earned him.

"I don't like hardboiled eggs," Sherlock eventually sniffed, looking down his nose at the offending morsel of food as if it had jumped up on the table and started yelling about how thick the detective was.

"You did last week," he informed the detective with a sigh. A John Watson sigh. He really would be rich if he started charging people for them. He honestly expects there are some people who just assume that's the way he breathes all the time. Lungs constantly pulling in more oxygen in the hopes his brain will be better able to handle the hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes.

"That was last week. I obviously deleted how disgusting they were. I happen to remember now," John is informed by the detective who also crossed his arms tightly around his dressing grown and half exposed chest while saying it, looking every bit six years old. Sadly, not for the first time.

"You've haven't even tried it. So, even if you did delete it, you probably still like them and don't know it you great annoying git."

"I'm certain I don't John, how could anyone eat something so fowl smelling. Besides, I'm not even hungry"

"That's a shame, really truly is. I seem to remember Mrs. Hudson saying something about making fresh scones over the weekend but I'll have to let her know you aren't interested if she brings any up later," John says airily, returning his focus to his own breakfast while fighting off the urging to call his mother and apologize for ever doubting her methods.

"Mrs. Hudson made scones?," Sherlock questioned him, perking up only the slightest bit at the mention of Mrs. Hudson and baking. Only half a moment later visibly scolding himself internally for showing his hand so quickly when he realized the smile on John's face must have meant the good doctor had noticed. John did of course. Despite Sherlock's furiously argued stance that he did not require something as plebeian as food to maintain his transport, John knew that when the detective allowed himself there was a sweet tooth there. Even John had noticed the rate at which they went through custard crèmes and those poncy chocolate biscuits. He'd even been there to witness the first time the detective had had candy floss after a case outside a fairground. John had smiled the whole way home watching a sugar filled Sherlock, it had even made the rant about how blue raspberry may be the most ludicrous flavour ever invented by mankind as even Anderson knew raspberries weren't blue tolerable.

John was certainly not surprised when Sherlock began breaking his egg apart into bite sized pieces. The detective knew a checkmate when he saw one.

It was simply a combination of bad timing and piss poor luck that Sherlock's mobile phone went off after he'd only eaten three of what John imagined were the smallest excuses for bites a grown man could claim. Sherlock had the damn thing opened and pressed to his ear before John could even begin to protest that once again breakfast was being ignored as though it wasn't the most important meal of the day.

"Yes, what is it?...Lestrade I shouldn't have to tell you that that is not my division, surely you know this…yes that's not unusual in cases like this, again obvious, did you call simply to try my patience?...Oh….alright, okay we'll arrive in about an hour, maybe a bit longer. Whose on forensics?...Perhaps my first deduction for the purpose behind this conversation was right then," Sherlock seethes into the phone before ending the call, having clearly grown more irritated by whatever the D.I on the other end was saying with each word. Though the detective did seem to be sticking to his word, as far as John could tell as he watched Sherlock head for the bathroom to shower.

"What was that? Is there a case?," he called down the hall, once again ignoring that he had once again been ignored when it came to the details of where on earth it was Sherlock thought they were going.

"A case, John. No puzzle in it though," Sherlock tell him, having paused at the door of the bathroom with the corners of his mouth turned downwards.

"Why are we going to a case if it's not exceptional enough for Sherlock Holmes?," John questioned, trying not to sound too annoyed by this idea lest Sherlock begin to think that John had started to consider the less interesting cases beneath him as well. He hadn't, he was just very put off by the idea of missing a meal when it wasn't absolutely necessary.

"Lestrade seems to think it might be worth taking a closer look at. Suicide. Shot himself in the head, right angles and everything apparently but Lestrade seems to think the note is a bit off. I'm not sure he's much of an expert on suicide notes but best to go just to be sure."

John chose not to point out the Might be interesting floating through the air, or any of the thoughts about how his feelings on Sherlock's boredom might have changed since the day before.

"You might as well finish your food though, no rush. I do hate to listen to your digestive system argue with me all day," the detective said with what might have been a smirk if the man wasn't so concentrated on looking offended by the idea of being called out for something so dull (despite having nothing else on)before finally shutting the door to the bathroom.

John decided to skip the lecture about how a grumbling stomach ought to be answered, not chastised. It hardly seemed worth it when he knew Sherlock wouldn't listen. Besides, some toast might go nicely with those eggs after all.

They made it to the crime scene only a few minutes past the hour Sherlock had told Lestrade, thought John figured that the surprised look on the D.I's face meant that the man hadn't expected this to actually happen. It was an upscale building, split into four flats that were all significantly larger than the one at Baker Street and John had to force himself to refrain from making a joke about posh blokes always getting themselves into trouble for something to do. He may or may not have been accompanying the man who was the walking punch line to that particular bit of humour.

"It's the third one up, top floor. Sally will let you up, I've got to go tell Hopkins to get those people back," Greg told them as Sherlock stalked past and John paused to actually listen, nodding before he watched the tired detective head over to the crowded police tape marking off the scene.

Looking back to Sherlock, the doctor had to stop himself from releasing a string of curses that even the mad detective might have found creative. It was simply John's biological response whenever he found that Sally Donovan had stopped Sherlock at the entrance to any crime scene.

"They don't even have to get themselves killed anymore? The Freak just turns up and hopes things go his way, is that it?," Sally said with an ugly sneer once John was in ear shot, watching the woman glare at Sherlock was had drawn himself up to an impressive height. John was violently reminded of a cat bristling it's fur before hissing at you for getting too close.

"Lestrade called us in Donovan. Surely if you're finally clever enough to take your own deodorant to Anderson's, you could have figured that much out." The eyes which had been the delighted shade of bright green in the cab had returned to a steely grey as they pinned Sally in place as well as chains might have.

"A good call on that one Sergeant, Anderson was getting tired of my pointing out what you do on your off hours to everyone at the Yard. Bet he even thought I might not know -what a relief for him. Tell me, what is it like for someone as insignificant and rat faced as Anderson to be embarrassed to be dating you?," Sherlock pressed, each word dripping with an acid which John had never experienced himself which was a fact he silently thanked a god he wasn't even sure he believed in for.

"That's rich coming from you Holmes, who in their right mind would be caught dead with you," Donovan finally shot back, looking as though she might cry and strangle Sherlock in the same breath.

"For your information, I ha-,"

"Have to be going, isn't that right Sherlock? The crime scene Sally, let's wrap this up," John said quickly, pushing past the Sergeant himself for perhaps the first time ahead of Sherlock, who was busy eyeing John curiously for a moment before the detective's face became a study in composure again without another word. Which John was instantly grateful for.

The room was basically what John had expected. Expensive looking furniture but decorated in that new minimalist style all the new buildings seemed to have. Impressive but trend setting, merely following them instead. In fact, the only thing in the room that would look out of place in a housekeeping magazine was the body sprawled across the unmade bed.

"Oh," was the only response it got out of Sherlock before the detective started moving around with his tiny magnifying glass for several minutes until Lestrade came back up the stairs.

"Names Kingston Moran, 32 and been living here just over a year. Neighbour found him this morning, his car parked illegally and the neighbour was trying to help. Called as soon as he found the body," the D.I informed them, before giving John a stern look that let the doctor know what Lestrade would prefer if he could find a new way to stop Sherlock from trampling over every member of the squad.

"Old money then," Sherlock mumbled before John had a chance to figure out which facial expression could convey you-can't-put-a-piranha-on-a-leash accurately.

"What are you on about?," Lestrade ventured, already looking like he might regret the amount of paper work this question could be followed with.

"He's a police officer, isn't he Lestrade? Must have been that and the note that made you call, and I will need to actually see that note before we leave. Officers can make a decent living, maybe private work but doesn't seem likely. Keeps regular hours or the neighbour wouldn't have come in, can't do that with private work. Old money then, if he wants to keep a flat like this," Sherlock explained without ever looking up and John knew when to wait for the rest of it.

"Not unusual for a suicide then considering his line of work and it is rather difficult to come back from shooting one's self in the head isn't it? Granted Mr. Moran won't ever get the chance to find out. This man was definitely murdered. I suppose even you are bound to get lucky every once in a while," the mad genius said once his too seeing eyes had fixed on Lestrade with a slight tilt of his head. Which might have been a salute to good work but Sherlock would never admit it.