"I'm back!" John shouted as he entered the flat after another long day at work. Not seeing Sherlock upon arrival, John wandered through the flat looking for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. "Sherlock?" he called, spinning on his heel, searching for him.

He left the flat and bounded back downstairs, checking first the cafe, but he wasn't there either. He ascended further and knocked loudly on Nina's door, which swung open at his touch to reveal Nina and Sherlock in the centre of the room, staring at the great easel, which bore a perfect representation of John and Sherlock, walking together through Trafalgar Square… With their fingers entwined.

John stared at it in horrified wonder for a while as he comprehended what he saw, his jaw hanging loose as he failed to believe his own eyes. "Nina," he said warily. "What the hell is that?"

She turned around and looked him guiltlessly in the face. "A painting."

John shook his head. "Yes, but why are we holding hands?"

"That's what you were doing yesterday."

John scowled, thinking he hadn't heard her right. "What?"

"Whilst you were out walking yesterday, you were holding hands. I went out to get a small canvas, and I saw you in the square like this. Holding hands."

John's expressions froze. "We were not holding hands."

"Actually John," Sherlock cut in. "We were."

John just looked at him. "And you didn't say anything because…"

Sherlock didn't flinch. "Because I didn't mind it."

John took a deep breath to steady himself. "Right."

"And neither did you."

"I didn't even notice!" John shouted.

"Keep your voice down, John."

He looked between Nina and Sherlock, absolutely struck, with his mouth wide open and his brows pulled together in a frown. Unable to do anything else, John turned and left with only one last glimpse at the painting that lay on the easel. He collapsed upon the sofa in 221B and clutched his head, wondering what on Earth had just happened.

Nina, meanwhile, glanced at Sherlock and said "Shall I get rid of it?"

Sherlock moved towards the canvas pensively, and gently touched the place where their hands met and linked, careful not to scratch the paint. "No," he said as he caressed the brushwork. He then moved back away, swept out of 221C without another word, and sat himself down upon the stairs, head in hands, leaving Nina with her decorated canvas that had caused so much strife.

On the sofa, John's head span dizzily. How could this have happened? How could he not have even realised that he'd been holding Sherlock's hand? No wonder people had been looking at them so strangely. Two grown men holding hands as they ambled around London like a couple of twenty year-olds. Of course there'd been people who wouldn't have recognised Sherlock, and John felt stupid as he thought about how almost everyone had given them looks. He scanned back through his memories, trying to find the moment when his and Sherlock's hands had met, but in failing, frustration beat at his chest. What did it mean? What did this say about Sherlock's feelings for him? Absolutely nothing at all. Sherlock was probably just being kind in letting John hold on to him, knowing that he wanted to touch him, to make sure that he really was there. And it probably helped Sherlock keep him safe, like a mother holding her child's hand in a crowded place. Because Sherlock would have known he was there without having to look at him. Convenience, once again. No emotion there, not that any was ever expected. John curled up in a foetal position on the sofa, and clasped a cushion under his chin as he let his mind wander into an unexpected sleep.

When he woke, very little time had passed. So little, in fact, that he didn't even have lines on his face from where the cushion's patterning had pressed into him. It was still light outside, even. But John had had enough. He wanted to go to bed, sleep and recover in preparation for the next day at work.

After brushing his teeth quickly, John made his way up to his bedroom once again. John undressed and clambered under the cold duvet, shivering until they were as warm as he was. He snuggled into the depression in the bed where he usually slept, and closed his eyes.

All of a sudden, there was a creaking as the mattress changed shape to accommodate the person who had just crawled in next to the half-asleep John. John opened his eyes in alarm to see Sherlock's hair poking out from the covers, resting his head upon the other pillow, his back turned to John. "Sherlock," John said. "What are you doing in my bed?"

Sherlock rolled over so that he could see John's face and talk to him properly. "I've been sleeping here since I came back. I thought you didn't mind."

John spoke through gritted teeth. "I didn't mind… Until it became a regular thing."

"Where else am I supposed to sleep? My bedroom's a mess," explained Sherlock as he drew more of the duvet around himself, but leaving enough for John not to care.

"Then tidy it up," John suggested.

"I can't now, can I?" said Sherlock pointedly.

John saw that he couldn't win. "Fine, sleep here if you want. But you're clearing out your room in the morning."

"Why have you got a problem with this?" asked Sherlock after a pause.

John raised his eyebrows, wondering whether it was a serious question. When Sherlock waited for a reply, he gave one. "It's like we're a couple, Sherlock. First we hold hands, and then we sleep together," John sighed. "It's not… Something that should happen. At all. Ever."

"Why not?"

"Because we're not a couple!" John shouted.

Sherlock remained composed, unaffected by John's evident infuriation. "I know, John. And I understand that you are in a relationship that you are very happy to be in. And you know that I consider myself married to my work. Any emotions that you feel for me are irrelevant. I am aware that you see this as a complication in your life, and I don't want that for you, but I have nowhere else to sleep, and I like sleeping here, with you, knowing that you are safe, and you are beside me. Is that too much to ask for?"

John was transfixed by his flat-mate and his words. The way his face had adopted the glory of angels as easily and naturally as the wind blew through the leaves of the trees. John had thought it had been only him who craved to be next to someone else, and yet Sherlock was expressing all of these feelings exactly as they should be, innocent and pure, with no fancy lyrics. Just speaking, with truth and integrity. He could no more deny his love's request than he could re-open the scars on his wrists.

"No," John's voice cracked as he stared into those trusting green eyes that blinked slowly with contentment as they glimmered with a grateful smile.

They fell asleep that way, gazing at each other until their eyelids could no longer stay open.