A/N: Okay, so on the day I introduced myself to the show on Netflix, I began to notice how Sherlock Holmes could not seem to keep those hands of his off of Dr. Watson. Thus, I was inspired to create this chapter, which consists almost entirely of him touching John for little to no reason. I like to think that he is socially awkward and therefore doesn't know the difference between touching a friend and, say, a romantic partner. Hee hee. ;-)

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

It had been a little more than a week since John moved in with Sherlock and he already began to notice that he had no personal boundaries. ...At all. ...Ever. He had to share a bed with the man and while he slept like a baby by doing so, he was mildly disturbed by what went on.

Most times, Sherlock would kick his foot and John would kick back absent-mindedly before they began their own version of "Footsies". Other times, Sherlock would purr like a cat in his sleep and stroke John's hair whilst smiling dopily. Sometimes, he would cling to John as if he were his own personal teddy bear and tighten his grip every time he tried to leave. A few times, Sherlock would jolt in his sleep and sissy-fight poor John before waking up and apologizing profusely. One time, John and Sherlock were on the opposite side of the bed after a silly little fight and they woke up in each other's arms. Every time, John wondered at these.

In the morning, they went through the usual routine. John would sip some of his coffee and Sherlock would get bored, wrap his legs around his torso, and rest one arm around his neck and the other around his head. John would roll his eyes.

"Good morning, Sherlock. ...Get off my body, Sherlock," John would sigh after sipping what was left of his black coffee. Sherlock would oblige, though with a very reluctant look on his face.

"Good morning, John," he replied one morning, a "bored-out-of-my-mind" look stretched across his face. Then he got a new idea while John started talking.

"So, I'll probably have to go to the grocery store today and get some more milk and jam since we're almost always out of both, and - Sherlock? Sherlock, could you get your arms off my head, please?" he asked, suddenly. Sure enough, Sherlock had placed his arms on John's head and rested his chin on them. He took them off again, though very hesitantly. Then, he got a newer, better idea to solve his boredom problem.

"Like I said, I'll be getting some more milk and jam, I'll probably have to water the plants since you've been busier lately, I'll be filling in a few job application forms to get us more mo - Sherlock!" John reached for his newspaper and thwacked his friend upon the head.

"Ow," Sherlock whimpered, covering it with his arms.

"No! Bad! Very bad! Time out!" John scolded, as if Sherlock were a dog or a toddler of some sort. Sherlock pouted out his lower lip and moped in the corner for a bit. After all, he had crossed the line when he resorted to touching his butt.

"Hello?" Sherlock interrupted his train of thought by answering his cell phone. "...Oh, really? Brilliant! Bloody brilliant! I'll take it! Yeah, alright, good-bye." He hung up and rushed up to his friend. "JOOOOOOOHN!" he shouted, taking ahold of his hands and spinning in circles with him.

"What? What's so exciting?" John asked, laughing.

"We've got a new case and it's amazing~! Lots of blood and dead bodies and suspects, and, and - " Sherlock babbled on, still spinning with poor John.

"Sounds like it's a good one, alright," John agreed, knowing that those things were right up Sherlock's alley. They continued to spin when all of a sudden, Sherlock kissed him hard on the cheek. John blushed and touched the warm wet spot gingerly.

"Woah. Heh heh, um...that's a new one," he chuckled nervously. Sherlock waved it off.

"I'm just so happy!" he cried, traipsing around the flat like a wild horse. Eventually, he stopped galloping all over the place and he took John's hand to drag him to the crime scene. Everybody stared as they ran through the streets of London and John groaned inwardly. He wasn't gay, for Pete's sake!

When they got to the crime scene, there were many bloody bodies lying across a railroad track that led to Liverpool and brought exported goods to it. Sherlock acted colder than usual when he was working, John noticed. He didn't pay any attention to anybody and his forehead wrinkled in frustration whenever somebody talked. He actually yelled at someone for breathing through his nose. John didn't like this. Normally, Sherlock was so giddy and cheerful when it was just the two of them, but when he was around other people, he just wasn't the same.

"Hmm...their breath! Their breath smells like chocolate! All of them do! (Sniff, sniff!) Hey! Somebody thinks they're being funny! It smells like chocolate, but that person is not dead!" Sherlock proclaimed. Then he walked up to John grabbed his arms and sniffed his breath.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?!" John shouted, his face resembling a radish. Sherlock looked him dead in the eye.

"John, it is requested that you do not eat any sweets during this investigation, as it might screw up the results," he said coldly before letting go and getting back to work. John rubbed his arms, remembering how icy cold and blank his friend's eyes seemed at the moment. It was as if they went back a season, changing from a jovial spring to an atrocious winter. What the hell?! he thought, upset by all this helter-skelter.

Lestrade and Mycroft shrugged, while Molly began to carry the bodies back to the hospital. Sherlock's brilliant mind kept its gears running.

"Hang on! I smell something else! Wait! I got it! It's cyanide! I know that smell anywhere! The killer placed cyanide in a box of chocolates, these idiot people ate them, they died, the victim dragged them over here, he cut them with knives to make it look like they died there, and he ran away! Clever...clever indeed! But not enough!" he exclaimed zealously. Just then, he found an even bigger clue. It was laying on the ground nearby and it was called a wallet.

"Oh! What's this jewel?" he inquired, picking it up and opening it. He gasped and pulled a funny face when he saw who the killer was.

"Of course! I ought to have known! Why, it's that bastard ex-boyfriend of mine, Moriarty! The box of chocolates was meant to be sent to me, but these morons took it out of their own selfishness! Come, John! We must go after him!" Sherlock ran up to John, picked him up bridal-style, and ran in the direction of Moriarty's lair. John's face burnt up in embarrassment.

"Sherlock! Put me down! Christ, man, I can walk and - HEY! Don't put your hand there!" he shouted, referring to the hand Sherlock had placed on his butt purposefully or non-purposefully. When people looked their way, he hid his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. This way, nobody would be able to see who he was and jump to conclusions about his sexuality.

As soon as they got to Moriarty's lair, Sherlock walked up to the voice-activated passcode and said in a high-pitched voice similar to Moriarty's,

"Unicorn." The passcode marked it as correct and they walked inside. Moriarty turned around in his evil throne.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Shitelock!" he sneered.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Moriarsehole!" Sherlock spat right back. Clearly, they did not like each other that much. "Look, I know it was you who committed the crime of killing all those people with your poisoned chocolates! So let's make this quick and easy or I will cross the line into a very uncomfortable area for you and no matter how much you beg and cry to stop, I will stay in that area until you are writhing in pain."

This Sherlock was a hell of a lot more intimidating than the pussy cat that climbed all over him that morning, John decided. Moriarty moved his head to look at the body hiding behind. Sherlock.

"Ah! Who's this?" he queried, as if John were a toddler. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John in a hug and replied gruffly,

"This is John...my boyfriend."

John blushed so brightly that he thought a vein had bursted in his cheeks. Moriarty scoffed at the sight.

"Trifle with your new boyfriend all you want, Holmes, but you will never elicit a response from me!" he proclaimed. Sherlock began to stroke John's hair.

"Oh my. Do I detect jealousy in that voice of yours, Jim?" he purred nonchalantly, pulling a Cheshire Cat face. In the next few minutes that followed, Moriarty ripped Sherlock off of John and they began an intensified fist fight. John was getting tired of all of this nonsense, so he did the only thing he could think of: he pulled out his pistol.

"Hey!" he shouted, causing both men to look at him. He breathed heavily and pointed the pistol in Moriarty's direction. "If you throw another punch, I will shoot you! And I am a dead-eye shooter!" There was a pause between all three men. Then, Moriarty ran off.

"That's right, Moriarty! Run away, like you do with all of your problems! You may be evil, but you're a coward right to the bone!" Sherlock shouted after him before picking up John and departing back home. This time, John didn't bother arguing. Even though he left his cane a week ago, it still hurt to walk sometimes. As long as he was getting free transportation now, why should he complain?

Once they got home, John cornered him about his strange behavior.

"What the bloody hell was that?!" he demanded.

"What?" Sherlock asked, shrugging.

"You know very well what! Why did you act so cold and distant at the crime scene today instead of like you usually do?!"

"Actually, John, that is how I usually act," Sherlock interrupted, his voice coarse and shaking. John's face became solemn immediately and he sat up in his seat. "You see, nobody else has seen the side of me that you see. I build up this reputation as being a rude and unloving bastard so that nobody else dares to venture near me. I don't think I mean to, it just happens, you know? As a genius, it gets a little obnoxious when nobody else is on my level, so I just... I freak out. I have terrible people skills since everybody has that little...thing that irritates me. But you're different, John. You see me not for who I am not, such as a nice, caring, sweet person like you. You see me as a lost little boy who just wants a hand to hold that will lead him out of the dark."

Sherlock's eyes became a tinge of light pink and a tear rolled down his cheek. Guilt washed over John like a burdened tidal wave. He wanted to say he was sorry, but he felt that it wasn't a strong enough action to take. He looked at the distressed face a little longer before making his decision. Screw personal boundaries, he thought, as he walked forward to comfort his friend. As soon as he enveloped Sherlock in his embrace, the taller man drew in a sharp inhale and exhaled a quaking sob. He dug his fingernails into his shoulder plates and buried his face in the side of his neck. John tilted his chin upward to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, closed his eyes, and rubbed his back.

They stayed like that for at least an hour until Sherlock was reduced to nothing but sniffles and hiccups. That night, when they were in bed, Sherlock wrapped his arms possessively around John's body and mumbled childishly,

"No, Mycroft! My teddy bear! Get your own!" John laughed at the five-year-old tone of voice before succumbing to the strong hold and getting as comfortable as he could. If there was anything he learnt that day, it was that Sherlock had been strong for far too long and that he needed all the help he could get from his friend. ...Even if that meant allowing him to touch him unnecessarily.

A/N: Is anybody else starting to think that they should've called this show "Unnecessary Touching?" By the way, sorry this chapter was extra long.