A/N sorry for the long delay.

No warnings except for fluff and nonsense.

Chapter 20

John woke up completely disoriented. He was in a strange room, a strangely barren room although the bed was supplied with two thick, warm comforters.

Oddly, John wore only an exotic silk robe; it was not his usual sleeping attire. This all reminded him of that week when he was on leave in Kyoto. He lay back, smiling. Lovely city, Kyoto. Lovely people. And that lovely doctor, Doctor Sato. He had spent several lovely nights with her after they met in the A and E. ('course it wasn't called an A and E in Japan, it had a name he couldn't quite remember, but no matter) The very lovely, very friendly and very capable Dr. Sato had sutured the lac on his jaw. The cut being the result of a fist fight with some Yanks became his friends, lovely blokes, in fact, John still exchanged cards with Peter. Pity that John had broken Peter's arm in the brawl but…

Right. This clearly wasn't Kyoto. This was London. But he wasn't in his wretched bed-sit either, with its lumpy mattress and pitiful thin blankets.

Oh. Ohhh. This was the flat at Baker Street, 221b Baker Street. Right. John rubbed his rough, unshaven jaw and cudgelled his groggy, mind trying to make it come back on-line. OHHH. Right. last night John shot a man (bit not good, had to be done, no choice really) and then spent the night with…

"Sherlock!" John shouted involuntarily. John slapped his hand over his mouth. Oh my God, it all came back in a rush; Sherlock had...and then he and Sherlock had...well...suffice it to say it had been fantastic, bloody fantastic. Hell last night had been brilliant and… "Ker-chooo!" John sneezed and then sneezed again and again.

Sherlock. Where the devil is Sherlock? John pulled the slightly crumpled silk robe shut and ran down the stairs. The main room was empty, so he turned towards the kitchen. The tall brunet was impeccably groomed and wore an elegant, dark, bespoke suit. He bent over a microscope, and his ebony curls drooped enticingly over his pale forehead. He wasn't unshaven. He wasn't rumpled. He didn't have bed-head. Hell, he probably didn't have morning breath either. Sherlock Holmes studied the slide as if it held one of the secrets of the universe.

Even though he was groggy, John noticed the cool temperature emanating from his flatmate, and he refrained from placing a kiss on those dark curls. Perhaps John had placed too much importance on last nights...adventures.

"Um, good morning," offered John uncertainly.

"If you insist," replied Sherlock, sounding bored. Right. This was Awkward, with a capital A.

"Um," said John. "So, um, how are you?"

"John, may I call you John?" interrupted Sherlock sharply.

John swallowed, feeling like an idiot. He nodded, not that the brunet would have seen it, since he was glued to the objective…

"John, you will find, as my flatmate, that I disdain small talk, which I leave to the small-minded masses," said the consulting detective.

John sneezed and muttered a soft, " 'scuse me."

"No doubt the flatshare will be mutually beneficial to us both-once you learn to follow certain guidelines," continued Sherlock, not once looking up from his microscope. "In addition to avoiding mindless chatter, I will require you to leave all of my experiments untouched. No exceptions. I will require you to allow me to perform The Work, without interruption. Within these parameters, we will share all of the rooms of course; except we will have our own bedrooms, yes?" He looked up finally and met John's eyes with his cold, steely, gun-metal eyes.

Oh. Flatmates. Right. The plan that Sherlock came up with last night before...the other stuff. John recalled mention of cameras in the kitchen and sitting room and his eyes darted around. Of course he couldn't find them. Well, we can't let Jim, or Mycroft for that matter, know about…it, us…last night. John shifted in place and blushed furiously remembering his the final adventures of the evening.

Okay. Right. I'm supposed to not be gay. Sherlock and I are just flatmates. And I'm thinking in italics. Right.

"Yeah, right," said John meekly. John found he could also speak in italics, even without his morning tea. Right.

John opened the refrigerator and saw the infamous finger experiments, floating in all their macabre glory, and a plastic container that might be fudge. Now that looked promising.

The ex-soldier leaned in for a closer look. No…No, not fudge, almost certainly a liver. Right. There was no milk, no juice, nothing in fact that even remotely resembled food on the shelves. It was probably just as well, since John's appetite had mysteriously dwindled to almost nothing. He glanced back at the several bowls of fingers in the fridge (note to self, get some new china at a jumble sale, ASAP).

So small talk is out. Fine, John didn't like small talk anyway. The former RAMC officer, who was also a gentleman, decided to be polite in a different way. Maybe they could have a scientific discussion?

"And the finger experiment? What are your findings, so far? I expect the chlorine slows the rate of decay a bit, yeah?" John asked. He turned. The glacially silent detective was glued to his equipment. "Sorry. When you say no small tall, you meant no talk at all. Right," said John, in shorter, clipped tones.

Well, thought the doctor, clearing his throat and coughing once. He tightened the bloody robe's, bloody sash again and tried to fix his bearings. Well, some tea might be nice. He checked the cupboards and found more fingers immersed in water. These fingers were decaying rapidly at room temperature. Ah, clearly temperature influenced the rate of decay. That was only to be expected; hardly a new finding and the smell was...Horrid! Bloody God awful! John slammed the cupboard shut with a resounding retort.

The tall git jumped. John smirked. He spitefully hoped that the rude git had blacked his eye on his bloody microscope.

"Right!" said Captain Watson abruptly. He was feeling irritable. John always became a bit irritable when he suffered from tea withdrawal. "About the flatshare, I will provide my half of the rent tonight, pro-rated of course, since today is now the 14th of the month. I will require a clean shelf in the fridge to be reserved for food, and also a cupboard, this one I think," he said, selecting the cupboard that did not currently contain rotting flesh, "Yes, this cupboard, both shelves mind you, will be reserved for food and tea and clean dishes and nothing else. No exceptions. I shall also require all rotting, decaying, infectious, pathogenic or poisonous materials in this flat to be kept sealed and appropriately labeled." John sneezed and cleared his throat. The former army officer continued, "I cannot guarantee that unlabeled and unsealed experiments will remain untouched."

John removed several suspicious bottles from his newly commandeered cabinet, and he also took out a curious tin, which was labeled TEA. However, the tin's dubious contents sloshed about in a very un-tea-like fashion. He instantly decided that it was best to leave it unopened. "All specimens must be clearly and appropriately labeled," John reiterated, placing the objectionable containers next to the putrid fingers in Sherlock's cupboard.

Sherlock looked up with narrowed eyes but a parted mouth. Sherlock looked surprised; he was probably surprised that his little pet flatmate could bark, thought John. It was almost cute, in an annoying sort of way. John flashed his best and brightest smile at the consulting detective, while pulling his dressing gown shut, again.

"I'll just go to the market in a bit and buy us a some food then, shall I? I assume you'll pay for your share?" asked John.

"John, I require little food or drink. I do not indulge my transport…"

"But even you have eat sometimes, Sherlock. I may call you Sherlock, yes? Good. I will purchase some food, and you will reimburse me for half of the cost," John put back the strangely discolored bags of tea which he had discovered under the sink. He completely gave up on the idea of any refreshment.

The former soldier sneezed again and went into the bathroom to blow his nose. His throat was scratchy, and his eyes were watery. Possibly, I am allergic to decaying fingers, thought the former army surgeon grimly.

It was impossible to gain the upper hand when John looked like a scruffy, silk-robed boy-toy while his flatmate looked like a Paris fashion model. John stayed in the cluttered bathroom to shower and then to brush his teeth with toothpaste placed on his finger. At least, he thought to himself, I'm clean. Although some real clothes would be nice. John was forced to return to the kitchen still in his, actually in Sherlock's, silk dressing gown.

The consulting detective apparently hadn't moved from his chair. However, in the midst of the experiments, there was a tray containing a steaming teapot, cups, lemon wedges, milk and a little, cut-glass sugar bowl. John's mouth watered, but he hesitated. Unknown, potentially deadly chemicals surrounded the tray. A bowl containing some of the wretched fingers perched nearby, ominously. He licked his lip uncertainly.

Sherlock had sighed when his new flatmate left for the bathroom, sneezes echoing throughout the flat. Things were a bit more complicated than he had supposed. Sherlock's plan had seemed perfect last night. He would publicly adopt John as a flatmate, just a flatmate, at least until Moriarty was eliminated. This would help keep John out of harms way, and also keep John handy for convenient midnight shagging.

It should have been easy to turn off his emotions. It should have been easy to pretend to the cameras that John was of no real consequence to the World's Only Consulting Detective. It should be easy to pretend that John Watson was a barely useful assistant. And Sherlock looked forward to that part. He really needed an assistant, especially one that kept saying that he, Sherlock Holmes, was brilliant and amazing.

However, John had not yet complimented the consulting detective. It was, in fact not, easy to pretend that he felt nothing for John Watson. He wanted to touch the man, smell the man, taste him. It was confounding. The consulting detective had not anticipated that his body would ache for the little blond. He had not anticipated that he would have the nearly overwhelming desire to smile at the barefoot blond. Dear God, he wanted to kiss the man in front of all the cameras and then, perhaps to ravish him.

And John Watson had tortured him, as he flitted around about the kitchen looking in vain for sustenance. The blue silk dressing gown (which did, in fact, match John's eyes) constantly slipped to reveal a tasty bit of shoulder or a tantalizing bit of chest. God the man was adorable. Sherlock shuddered, shocked, that he, the World's Only Consulting Detective, was using words like adorable.

It was probably only a matter of time before his brain turned into mush from sentiment intoxication. He tried to feel anger or contempt, but failed miserably. With much effort, he schooled his face into its usual bland mask and cautiously raised his eyes again to look at John who returned, flushed pink from his shower. Oh God, his soft, blond hair was spiky when wet.

The adorable blond looked longingly at the tea and not at Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned. He, the master of logic and reason and deduction, was not jealous of a cup of tea.

"Oh for God's sake, John. The tea is perfectly safe," snapped Sherlock. He glared as John's dressing gown slipped, giving the detective a quick eyeful as the soldier's pink turned to carmine. Sherlock returned his eyes to the safety of his microscope.

"Mrs. Hudson brought it up a few minutes ago, with your clean clothes, which are in the sitting room," added Sherlock coolly. He glared at the ex-army doctor who sneezed again, then leaned down to reach for some tea. The robe gaped open, taunting Sherlock with a quick peak of tanned flesh and curly golden hair that gathered over John's toned pectorals and then led down in a soft line toward …

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Didn't you hear me? I asked you a question. I said, what's in the oven," asked the fetching blond. John risked burning his mouth on his tea and eyed the oven with undisguised lust mixed with a healthy dose of distrust.

"Scones. Mrs. Hudson," snapped Sherlock, jealous of the scones.

John Watson sneezed again, twice. Then he smiled and opened the oven.

"You have a cold," said Sherlock accusingly, as he tilted his head.

John shrugged. "Or an allergy," he mumbled around a mouthful of scone.

"Good God, Mrs. Hudson was right! She predicted that you would come down with a cold… and then pneumonia," added Sherlock slowly. John added some more tea to his cup. The doctor helped himself to a second scone and headed out to the sitting room, apparently unconcerned about his impending demise.

"John Watson, are you listening? You have a cold, and you must return to bed and rest, or else you will get pneumonia," announced Sherlock. The foolish soldier seemed more interested in his stomach than his own immanent death. In fact, John no longer seemed interested in consulting detectives either. "John, are you aware that pneumonia is a serious illness; that in fact, it can be fatal."

"Don't be daft; I'm the doctor, remember? Anyway," John paused to sneeze, "it's just an allergy or possibly a little cold. I'm fine. Best night's sleep I've had in ages..."

Sherlock flushed. He never blushed, perhaps it was a reaction to one of the chemicals. Then he worried, what if the foolish blond said too much blowing his cover? It was always possible that someone could read his lips.

John continued to natter on in between gorging on tea and scones, "...an' I don't feel like resting. 'Sides, I have lots things to do today…"

The little blond was an idiot. Between the twin threats of Moriarty and pneumonia, John could not be trusted on the streets of London. Sherlock bit his lip.

"What you have to do today is rest and, and stay warm" Sherlock pronounced. Then he paused, uncertain what would prevent the onset of pneumonia; this was not his area of expertise. "You will have to follow Mrs. Hudson's instructions. You will stay in the flat today. It is chilly and rainy, and even you admit that you already have a cold. Indeed, you are flushed; you look feverish," said the detective, looking askance. "You'll be safer in here,' he added raising his brows significantly.

"Sherlock, we need groceries. I have to get m' stuff, from m' flat. And I just took a hot shower; 'course I look flushed." said John leaning forward to sip his rapidly cooling tea and ignoring the warning entirely.

"John, do not be tedious. You may get your stuff," sniffed Sherlock with aristocratic disdain, "tomorrow or the next day. I will acquire some comestibles, after I return from my meeting at the MET. Indeed, I must leave at once."

"Wait, shouldn't I go too?" asked John, standing, and spilling bits of scone on the floor. He quickly knelt and gathered up the crumbs. He looked up furtively at Sherlock, as if the detective would give a damn about some stupid stains on the rug.

"Lestrade needs me, not you. You need to go back to bed." Sherlock ended the discussion decisively, while John was distracted by the dirty rug

The detective wrapped his blue scarf around his neck. He grabbed his coat and pulled it on dramatically. His coat swirled around him as he turned to the door. He checked out of the corner of his eye to make certain that he had the soldier's full attention (he did; the darling blond gaped in amazement). Then the detective flew out of 221b.

Sherlock flagged down a taxi, secure in the knowledge that hidden in his flat was his own sexy yet dangerous boyfriend, who actually seemed interested in The Work (John had shown genuine interest in the fingers. Sherlock would have to reward John by letting him help record the experimental data) Yes, it was a relief to know that said boyfriend would safely await Sherlock's return.

Well, really. Sherlock Holmes was a madman, decided John as he stood up from the carpet stiffly. The front door banged loudly behind the departing manic. A very handsome, very sexy and very, very bossy maniac.

John picked up his freshly laundered clothes, initially leaving the lavender monstrosity on the sofa. Then he remembered the cameras. A vision of Jim, his supposed, psycho-vampiric boyfriend, loomed unpleasantly in John's mind. With a deep sigh, John snatched up the ridiculous excuse for a jumper and took it up to his bedroom to change.

After dressing carefully, John finger combed his hair. Until he returned to the bed-sit for his belongings, John had no comb, no razor, no toothbrush and no deodorant. Well, lots of men walked about unshaven on purpose. It was fashionable, wasn't it? He stealthily borrowed Sherlock's deodorant, surely the man wouldn't notice. No, of course he wouldn't.

Still and all, John finished up looking pretty sharp in his new clothes, aside from the electric Easter-egg-purple jumper. But he had to wear it. It was cold outside; he was a bit under the weather, and Jim Moriarty, his ersatz boyfriend was scary, really scary. Nightmare on Elm Street scary.

John washed up the tea service and trotted downstairs to return them to Mrs. Hudson. He thanked her repeatedly for the laundered clothes and, more importantly, his breakfast. They chatted pleasantly, until he asked for his coat and shoes, and keys and wallet.

"Oh no, John dear, it's nasty out there," protested Mrs. Hudson, her fluffy hair bouncing as she shook her head."You'll catch your death of…"

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Orders," lied John glibly. The vague 'orders' excuse had almost always worked in the army.

"Oh dear, that man!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson. Naturally, she assumed that his orders came from higher up, i.e. Sherlock. She clearly assumed that John would just have to follow Sherlock's orders.

Well, fine. That worked for John. For the time being.

John trotted out the front door before she tried confirming these orders with the chain of command, or, God forbid, before she asked to see his paperwork.

In spite of his stuffy head and the intermittent drizzle. John felt pretty chuffed. He had only needed to ask four people for directions, and it only took thirty minutes to locate a Tesco.

John had plenty of money for once, thanks to Jim. Sherlock had scoffed at John's suggestion of saving the money for fingerprints. According to the consulting detective, the notes were undoubtedly were covered with the prints of tens if not hundreds of people. In addition, he had given John the, already familiar, 'You are an idiot' look. So John could spend it with a fairly clear conscience.

John Watson rounded the corner and saw it, Tesco-a shiny beacon of comfort and warmth, a source of tea, bread, jam and all that was good and wholesome in the British Isles. It gleamed its welcome in the chilly, grey mist.

And just when hope seemed the brightest, a van with tinted windows pulled up. But the soldier had been watching for this. John quickly backed into the nearest building so that the enemy couldn't flank him and prepared for a fight. He was not dealing with date number two today.

Maybe John could deal with Jim in a couple of days. Maybe-when John had a plan and some hope of coming out...intact. And he didn't mean just 'free of broken bones' intact. Nope. No kidnapping today. He held his hand in his pocket; he fingered the scalpel that he borrowed from Sherlock's table. Hopefully, thought the soldier, the blade had been contaminated, preferably with a deadly pathogen like flesh-eating bacteria.

The door slid open; Sebastian hopped out, lean and limber like a hungry jungle cat, and then Jim, the spawn of the devil, leaned forward to peer out the door.

"What's the matter, Johnny? Aren't you glad to see me?" chirped the psychotic boyfriend-from-hell. Meanwhile, Jim's big, feral sidekick approached John warily. The Colonel squinted his eyes, focused on John's pocket. Somehow, Moran knew that John had a weapon.

"Johnny-boy, Daddy is very, very disappointed. Daddy thinks you were very, very naughty last night," said the devil's spawn brightly; he was almost singing. "You interrupted my game last night, Johnny." His voice rang up and down in pitch, making John vaguely nauseous.

People scurried past, averting their eyes. They seemed suspicious of Moran, who loomed over the shorter blond, yet they were loath to get involved. John sneezed again, repeatedly, but tried to keep his eyes on his former commanding officer.

Sebastian suddenly lunged for John's arm and his hidden weapon. John twisted away, and The Colonel was only able to grab on to John's other arm. Grim lines of defiance etched themselves in between John's eyebrows; the ex-army doctor resolutely readied his scalpel. He sneezed and sniffed loudly, to keep his traitorous nose from running. The eyes of the two soldiers locked on to each other with grim determination.

"Sebby. Let him go!" shrieked Moriarty. "He sneezed and he's got…Oh God, look at his nose. It's disgusting. Give Johnny a hankie and get back in the van, hurry, hurry; he's contagious!" The madman's hands flapped in his agitation.

The two blonds looked incredulously at the criminal mastermind cringing into his seat. Jim covered his nose and mouth with his imported, red, silk tie. Jim uttered further instructions, which were incoherent, what with the tie effectively gagging him.

Hah! The enemy was on the run! Instantly on the offensive, John coughed without covering his mouth and then coughed directly on The Colonel.

"Sorry, my bad. Nasty cold, what?" apologized John viciously; then he coughed on The Colonel again. To hell with the Geneva Convention; John Watson was not above using germ warfare against this lot

The van door slid shut, attracting the attention of the two snipers. The driver opened his window, "Boss says t' gie 'im t hankie," he said, holding out a red, silk square; clearly it belonged to the criminal mastermind. It did match his blood red tie, after all. "An youm gits in t' front wi' me, Co'nel. Youm in quor-ran-tine now, says t' boss." The driver looked smug and uncontaminated. John wanted to cough on him too.

The tall blond flung John's leprous arm aside and reluctantly handed John the silk pocket-handkerchief. Moran growled menacingly and then quickly scrambled in the front of the van, before John could spew any more deadly germs his way.

The van sped off into the mist, leaving John surprised, sneezing but ultimately victorious.

TBC

A/N Well, just a bit of fluff to pass the time. I've been ridiculously busy and so haven't had much time to write and edit. My bad.

Many, many thanks go out to those who have remained interested and continue to read my stuff.

Extra-special big hugs and virtual cookies go to those of you who take the time to send reviews. (Sorry I can only send virtual cookies because real cookies leave crumbs on the keyboard, which is not so good for real lap tops). Anyway, THANK YOU SO MUCH to-consulting smartass, Wicked Winter, anyrei1, Quiet Time, InuChimera7410, power)girl, Guest, EJ 12212012, Guest, Sveltewise (I wish I were svelte-sorry, got distracted by this cool name) and SamuelE8688.

Disclaimer. I do not own SHERLOCK or any characters associated with Sherlock. Which is too bad, because I would certainly get some ships going on Season 3, if I did own the rights. The ships would not include Mary.

Wait, I already ranted about that in a previous chapter. My bad again. :D