Sherlock dashed up the stairs eagerly, pausing only to tiptoe quietly past Hamish's room in case the boy was asleep, as it was growing late. Ideas and questions and analyses were running through his mind at a profound speed, almost tumbling over one another in an attempt to gain his attention for a moment. Brow wrinkling, he decided to focus on the easiest one: that the punk man from Brixton was obviously gay, and even more obviously attracted to him. But Sherlock didn't understand why. Did he really have an erotic voice, or eyes, or…and this one seemed absurd to him, cheekbones? An addition, the man had gazed for quite some time at his arse as he exited. It wasn't that strange for people to find him attractive, but this man seemed to be enthralled. It disturbed him greatly.

He stepped into their room, careful to avoid stepping on the fifth, eleventh, and twenty-sixth floorboards in the dark, as they squeaked when pressure was applied to them, which he knew disrupted John's sleeping patterns. He could make out his husband now, tucked into their bed with nothing but a ratty throw blanket half-heartedly covering the jumper and jeans he had not bothered to change out of. Sherlock wet his lips anxiously, and then cleared his throat as silently as possible. John's moods still made him nervous sometimes, even though as he had come to understand emotions in greater detail, his lover's had become as easy to read as Calculus on a maths exam.

"Love, are you awake?" He said, his low voice shattering the fragile silence in the room. He flinched, waiting for John's reply. He knew the doctor was awake, stewing over something that was bothering him. Sherlock asked anyway; on the off chance that John wished to feign sleep as he often did when he wanted to be alone, but not wanting to hurt Sherlock's feelings.

"Mm." John replied, almost inaudibly, which the Detective took as a sign to step forward to the bed and sit down on the edge of it, folding his legs, clad in tailored slacks, beneath his lanky frame.

"You seemed…upset…tonight." Sherlock began, and in response he felt John's shoulder brush against his knee as the smaller man turned over with a groan. Agitation. Sherlock's mind raced. But over what?

"Mrs. Hudson has decided to let the people who arrived today stay with her downstairs."

Silence.

"I take it you do not like our new guests, Dr. Watson." He heard an affronted noise, and John's head whipped around so fast Sherlock saw two of the man.

"Dr. Watson? Why on earth would you call me that," He yelped, and Sherlock peered down his nose and smirked at him. It had worked. "And I'm a blooming idiot for falling for that, aren't I?" John said, smiling a tad.

Sherlock pretended to mull it over. "Hm, only a little bit." John laughed and pulled him closer by the waist, so that he could tuck his head under the younger man's arm, haphazardly tossing the blanket over both their legs. Sherlock's tight purple shirt smelled faintly of spicy, yet airy, cologne. John inhaled. "Well, no…I'm not too fond of that Goth-punk pretty boy making goo-goo eyes at your arse. Or, should I say my arse?" He huffed. "But, the girl and the woman seemed to be alright enough." Oh, yes…her. In his haste to reassure himself that John was no longer upset, he had forgotten to finish analyzing the data he had obtained. Alright, start with the girl. She was his son's age, born in North America…but the mother was from Brixton…so the father must have lived somewhere near Toronto, the city they had come from. She had injuries that hinted at severe trauma resulting from a car accident that seemingly should have killed her, as Hamish had pointed out, which annoyed John. Apparently, "that was rude." Ah, Hamish had made him proud today, deducing everything about the younger girl and—NO. Do not get distract in praising your exceptional son! Well, Hamish pointed out everything he could deduce at the moment, and though the car accident was intriguing, it could most likely be explained due to a genetic mutation, or abnormality stemming from Sarah's…origins. That was the trickiest part. Not the fact that she was a clone, which he knew would one day be possible, but the means by which she was created. How had they done it? How could HE do it? No, no…distractions again. Besides, John would never approve of him creating life in the makeshift chemistry lab in their kitchen. John! John was still there next to him, providing pleasant warmth at his side.

"John, Sarah told me something very interesting just before I returned to the flat." Sherlock said, urgently. John looked up at him, eyes widening as Sherlock's tone roused him from his half-sleep. "She-she told me that she was a clone. And that her clone-sister was sick and she was worried about that, well, actually, that was merely a deduction on my part." Sherlock rambled on, his quick words tripping out of his mouth as he got excited. "But, Oh God, John, she's a clone! That's incredible, and we must study—I mean help her. I can see that she is desperate. Perhaps we could offer her our services?" He tacked on hopefully.

"Oh, yea…because perhaps we can save this woman's life with some deductions and an updated blog post." John scoffed. Sherlock frowned, as this did not bode well. If John was being sarcastic, he was hiding his fear.

"John, I need to know your honest answer if we are to aid Sarah and her family," Sherlock put extra emphasis on the word family, to sway his husband. "And that you believe me. This is what she told me, and I did not deduce that she was lying, or untrustworthy."

The blogger sighed. "Good God…Let me sleep on it, alright? Who knows what strange government organizations could be involved with this girl, or her daughter, or brother."

Sherlock nodded. John was cracking, and he would get to study Sarah in more depth tomorrow, he could feel it. John slowly stood, tugging his jumper and tee-shirt beneath over his head, folding them both neatly and putting them back in the drawer with a sigh. He unbuttoned his jeans, pulling out one leg, and then the other, as Sherlock watched with quiet eyes and a silent disposition. John put on his pajamas, and then crawled back to the bed.

"Are you going to sleep?" He asked his husband.

"Of course not."

John sighed, that was Sherlock. "Well, at least stay for a little while…and hold me."