Archive of Our Own

He was just testing a theory, that's all.

It wasn't even much of a theory, as no previous study had ever been carried out. It was simply a thought, a romanticized thought spread by some imbecile and made into a mainstream popular culture. Not that Sherlock was romantic. He just wanted to prove the theory wrong is all.

If he went by the theory, the man sitting in the coffee shop right now, reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of tea, was no more than 5 connections away from meeting Sherlock.

He just had to figure out how they were connected, find the chain of introductions that would lead him to shaking the mysterious man's hand.

An obvious cheat was using Mycroft, but Sherlock was above that when it came to scientific enquiry.

He was going to meet this man on his own.

It was only after the first day of his experiment that Sherlock realized that he knew very few people indeed, and hardly any of them liked him. How was he supposed to meet the man in the coffee shop when he only knew a few people?

Sherlock sat miserably at the bus stop across the street from the coffee shop and watched the man drink his tea. He was always there at the same time, and he always had tea, and he always read the newspaper. He also always carried a cane with him, but the way that he held himself indicated no leg injury.

Psychosomatic limp.

Short cropped golden hair, military style. Tan on his face, hands and forearms, but not anywhere else. The way he sat up straight, shoulders square, always at the ready.

Soldier. Or, ex-soldier.

Now that he'd figured that out, it was very obvious that if he asked Mycroft, his brother would probably be able to connect him with the next link in the chain. He still wasn't going to ask him, however. He'd simply have to find another way.

"Do you know him?" Sherlock asked the lady who was waiting at the bus stop with him. "That man in the shop across the way?"

"I'm afraid I don't," the lady said. "Do you?"

"No," Sherock said contemplatively.

"Shame," the woman said. "He's certainly a good-looking fellow, isn't he?"

That was something Sherlock hadn't observed, actually. He had to admit, there was something very striking about his countenance. Not that it mattered. This was an experiment, obviously.

The man was getting up now, leaning on his cane. He was limping, and although his body spoke of no injury, he reacted in pain with every step. He looked a bit sad, that man from the coffee shop, like he was meant to be somewhere bright and intense, not in dreary London, with its rain and overcast skies.

Oh. He was coming out of the shop. He was crossing the road.

In a slight panic, Sherlock boarded the bus as it came to a halt in front of the stop, heart hammering, and only remembering to breath after the next stop. Sherlock berated himself as the streets swept away behind him. How had that strange man compelled Sherlock to instinctively choose the easiest method of escape?

He mulled it over, and decided that he couldn't just randomly meet the man. He had to find the connection, find a way to get an introduction. That's why he had escaped. He didn't want a random meeting to ruin his research.

Sherlock pondered this all the way till the end of the line, when he realized he was very far away from Baker Street and no one else was on the bus.

He got a taxi back.

"I don't suppose you know any ex-army soldiers discharged in the last month, do you?" Sherlock asked the cab driver.

"Nope," the cab driver said. "Why?"

"No reason," Sherlock said, sighing and staring out the window.

Just asking about ex-soldiers was not a very precise way of going about this. He had to get a picture of the man in the coffee shop. How was anybody to know if they knew him if they hadn't seen his picture? Then again, if he was at the other end of five people, then he really should start broader anyways.

Soldiers. He would start with soldiers and work his way in from there.

He still decided he needed a picture. Data. Obviously if he was to start this experiment, he needed a photo of the subject.

He stood outside the coffeeshop snapping pictures of the man through the glass. It was hardly ideal, but if he went inside, then someone might notice him.

Just as he was thinking this, he saw one of his homeless network nearby. A tenner and enough money to buy a coffee was enough incentive for a single picture from inside the shop. He made sure to give his contact thorough instructions, watching anxiously as his contact made his way through the crowd inside.

To Sherlock's horror, his contact went straight up to the man in the coffee shop, stood a few feet away, and very obviously began taking photos. And of course, because he wasn't an imbecile, the man in the coffee shop noticed. Sherlock was on the edge of outrage when his contact started pointing him out through the window.

Sherlock threw his coat up over his head and dashed off down the street.

The man in the coffee shop had nearly seen him.

Sherlock was sulking on the couch at home when he heard the noise of his letter box opening. Cautiously going down the stairs, he found that his contact had put his phone through it. It was still in perfect condition, and it had a note attatched to it.

All the note had was a phone number.

Whose phone number? Surely it wasn't... it couldn't be.

He put the number in his wallet and then went back upstairs, thinking. Did it count as cheating if he somehow acquired the number of the man in the coffee shop, and it wasn't his fault at all? And did it count as cheating if Sherlock contacted the phone number?

Sherlock solved this dilemma simply by not making the call himself.

"So, you want me to call this number," Lestrade said, squinting down at the paper. "And ask for who?"

"Um... ask for... John," Sherlock invented.

"John who?" Lestrade asked.

"John Doe," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

"Do we not know who he is?" Lestrade asked, eyebrows raised.

"Just call," Sherlock said impatiently, waving his hand.

Lestrade did, casually kicking his foot against the wall as he waited for someone to pick up. Sherlock waited nervously, unable to stop fidgeting. It might not be the man in the coffee shop's number at all. It could be a prank.

"Hello?" Sherlock jumped at Lestrade's voice.

"Yeah, I'm looking for John," Lestrade continued, absently looking out the window.

He paused as the person on the other end answered. Sherlock held his breath.

"No, this is not the man in the coat. Did you want to speak to him?"

Lestrade went to hand Sherlock his phone, but Sherlock was already down the hall and around the corner. He only stopped running once he could no longer hear Lestrade yelling after him. Sherlock slumped against the nearest wall, heart pounding.

"What are you up to, Freak?"

Sherlock glared at Sally as she stood there watching him, hip jutted out and hand propped up on it.

"Have you ever met anyone from the army?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Sally said flatly. "What's this about then?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said.

And then Lestrade caught up with him and handed him his phone.

"Interesting bloke you got yourself there," he commented.

"Sherlock's got a bloke?" Sally said incredulously.

Sherlock flushed. "He's not my bloke. It's an experiment!"

"He says you watch him from outside in the rain," Lestrade said dryly.

"That is not true," Sherlock protested.

Lestrade fixed him with an exasperated look and Sherlock mumbled, "It's not raining all the time."

And then Sherlock snatched up his phone and fled. This was not at all going as planned. Once he got home, Sherlock checked his phone over again, as he had been leaving it behind more often than not these days. At first, he thought there was nothing different.

And then he checked the text messages.

Last sent message was to "John," whom Lestrade had added onto his phone as a contact. Scowling, Sherlock opened the message.

His name is Sherlock. And no, he doesn't have a boyfriend.

Sherlock blushed and put the phone down quickly.

This was spiraling very quickly out of control. The parameters of the experiment were pretty much ruined at this point. He knew the man in the coffee shop was actually called "John" now. And this was before he'd actually met him. He might as well have used Mycroft to stalk him or run into him on the street.

He was in the kitchen, running an entirely different type of experiment when his phone chimed an incoming text. Sherlock froze, then slowly put down his microscope slide. His phone was at the other end of his lab bench (kitchen table) with the screen lit up. Sherlock stared at it in deep suspicion before approaching it cautiously.

Sherlock isn't really your name, is it?

Sherlock typed back hurriedly. You shouldn't be contacting me! SH

The reply came a few minutes later, all the while, Sherlock waited apprehensively.

Says the man who's been stalking me for the past week and a half.

It's an experiment! SH

What kind of experiment requires the scientist to stand outside forlornly in the rain?

Quite a few experiments that Sherlock could think of, actually, but that wasn't the point of this at all. The point was, he wasn't supposed to have contact with the man he was trying to meet yet. He was supposed to meet him by meeting other people who knew John. Damn, he knew his name! And his phone number! This was ruining everything.

Six degrees of separation, Sherlock texted frantically. It's a theory about human interrelations. SH

It's rubbish, you know.

I know. It's an experiment to see if there's any truth in it at all. SH

It doesn't work very well if I have your phone number, does it.

Afraid not. SH

Experiment over, then?

Not at all. Now that I have your number, you should be trying to find me from your end! SH

And what, meet in the middle?

Precisely.

Bit romantic, isn't it?

EXPERIMENT. SH

It's not going to work. I don't know anyone.

How can you not know anyone? You were a soldier weren't you? SH

How could you possibly know that?

Deduced it. Hair style says military. Tan lines says recent duty in a hot climate. Psychosomatic limp says wounded in action. Afghanistan or Iraq? SH

Afghanistan. Brilliant. That was amazing, did you know?

Of course it was. So? SH

It doesn't matter if I was in the army. Everyone I know is either dead or still in an active warzone.

I see. I'm sure there's a connection. Until then, you mustn't text me again, or tell me anything about yourself!

You know, I thought you were a weirdo. But it turns out, you're kind of cute.

Sherlock blushed and put the phone down abruptly. He sat there, stomach fluttering madly, and then picked up the phone again and looked at the message. It still said the same thing it had a minute ago. He put the phone down. Then he turned back to his previous experiment, glancing at the phone every few minutes or so. Then, he would pick up the phone again and check.

John still thought he was cute.

Kinda cute. Which was alright with Sherlock, because all the way cute seemed like the word for those funny baby-shaped cat dolls or animals with over-large eyes. Kinda cute left room for Sherlock to be himself. Which was really not cute at all. How had he managed to fool John? He hadn't even tried to act charming.

He wondered if John would really try to find him.

He was still going to try and find John.

He hadn't slept at all, but he checked his phone at around 8 am as if he had. John's message still said the same thing.

Have you found me yet? SH Sherlock texted.

Sorry, no.

I'll find you. I'm sure of it. SH

What, you mean if you hadn't stalked me outside a coffee shop, you think we would have met anyway?

No, I mean, there has to be a connection. SH

There IS a connection. We are currently texting each other.

But I wanted to find you through six degrees of separation. SH

I think you'll be disappointed to find out, we're not that far apart at all.

But this is an experiment. I need to find you in a precise way. SH

If it's just an experiment, then why did you choose me?

Sherlock put the phone down again and stared at it accusingly. John wasn't supposed to ask those types of questions. Not that John was really supposed to be talking to him. His experiment was in a shambles, and he should really just stop. Find a new subject. Start over again.

Why had he chosen John?

He thought it might have been one of those times in the rain. All he'd done was pass Sherlock in the middle of the street, hair damp because he hadn't an umbrella or a cap. He'd seen John, and had decided that he had to meet him. Somehow. For some reason.

Any reason.

That wasn't very logical reasoning.

Sherlock was suddenly very cross with himself, and with John, and with everybody in general, because none of this was working out the way that it was supposed to.

It doesn't matter! SH Sherlock finally texted back irritably.

It really didn't. At all.

There was no reply.

Sherlock tried valiantly not to feel abandoned and settled into a sulk on the sofa. An undetermined amount of time later, the door to his flat opened and someone started puttering around the flat, tidying up and putting dishes in the sink. She was humming "Tiptoe through the Tulips."

"Mrs. Hudson, would you stop!" Sherlock yelled, putting his pillow over his head.

"Now dear, what's gotten you all in a strop?" Mrs. Hudson asked, unperturbed by his outburst.

"My experiment's gone all wrong," Sherlock said, sighing.

"What kind of experiment, love?" Mrs. Hudson asked, turning the tap on to do the washing up.

"I was trying to meet this man –"

"That's not an experiment, that's getting a date!" Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Don't worry, dear, most people aren't very good at that."

"It's not a date!" Sherlock huffed, rolling over and picking up the newspaper.

"Look, another suicide. How terrible," Mrs. Hudson sighed, drying off her hands with a tea towel.

"It's not a suicide," Sherlock murmured, frowning. "I haven't figured out how yet, but it's got to be connected to the one last week."

A text to Lestrade. Why haven't you called me about the suicide case yet? SH

There isn't a case, Sherlock. They killed themselves.

It's definitely murder. SH

As you say.

Sherlock did another experiment and solved a very dull case involving the theft of a very expensive car. Sherlock didn't much care about cars. They got you where you were going, and why the world was obsessed with ones that looked fancy or went fast was beyond him. He only took the case because he was trying to take his mind off of John.

Also, he was trying not to text him, because he had the feeling the message would be Why haven't you found me yet? SH. Which was a bit needy and lonely sounding, which wasn't the impression Sherlock wanted John to have of him.

But why hadn't he?

It looked as if neither of them knew many people. Perhaps it was a dead end.

In the end, Sherlock texted John I'm sorry I can't find you. SH

And John texted back, But you did find me.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Sherlock had tried to arrange it so that it was spontaneous, their meeting together. A meeting where someone could say something about him and introduce him, because Sherlock was frankly quite terrible at meeting new people himself. No one liked him. Not him, nor his deductive reasoning skills.

Still sulking the next morning, Sherlock decided that he would take it out on a corpse in the morgue. It would also be good to be able to collect some data on bruising patterns, but mostly, he just wanted to hit something.

"Molly, do you know any ex-soldiers?" he asked, on the off-chance that Molly knew somebody that he didn't already know.

"Not as such, no," Molly said. "Why, do you want to meet one?"

"A particular one," Sherlock said.

At Molly's incredulous glance, Sherlock hurried to add, "It's an experiment!"

"If you say so," Molly said.

"I do say so," Sherlock said. "Fine then. We'll start with the riding crop."

As he was beating the dead corpse, someone else came in.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mike Stamford said. "Didn't know you were in here, Sherlock!"

Oh, Mike. He was forever the most predictable man. The only people he knew were other doctors, some of the other hospital staff, and Sherlock. Sherlock was his only anomaly. At least he was an amiable man, and one of the only people who would talk to Sherlock after his initial deduction of his person.

"Something wrong, mate?" Mike asked, hands folding behind his back.

"One of my experiments isn't going right," Sherlock said.

"Not the right riding crop?"

"Not this experiment. I'm trying to meet someone," Sherlock said.

"Well, you know what they say about dating –"

"I'm trying to meet somebody specific," Sherlock said. "A soldier."

"Oh, fancy that type, do you?" Mike said with a wink.

Sherlock flushed bright red. "That's not what I was trying to say. At all."

Mike just winked again and left.

Sherlock, feeling slightly ruffled, went back to hitting the corpse. He took some notes, because notes were his proof that this was science.

Maybe that's what was missing. He hadn't written down any data about John at all. Not about his experiment or anything to do with the case. No parameters. It wasn't much of an experiment, was it? At least not a scientific one.

His only notes were John's phone numbers and the text messages sent between them.

Sherlock got out his phone and looked at it.

But you did find me.

It was true, he had. He'd blundered into it unwittingly, and without a hint of elegance. He'd tried to watch from afar and gotten caught, that's what had happened. But he'd still found John at the other end of the line.

What an idiot he was.

Maybe it wasn't too late.

He tried to think up a plan while looking at a slide from the lab. E.coli cells. It didn't matter which ones, he just liked looking at things while he thought about this, something familiar to balance out all the things that were new and terrifying.

He still hadn't come up with a way to approach John when the door to the lab swung open. It was going to be either Mike or Molly – he'd sent Molly to get coffee just a moment ago, so it must be Mike.

"Bit different from my day," a voice said.

Mike had brought somebody with him. He hadn't actually brought Sherlock a soldier, had he? Sherlock looked up and froze.

It was John.

Mike had heard what he needed and somehow gone out, found John, and brought him to Sherlock.

John's eyes met his, and neither of them moved or even breathed for several long seconds.

Then, John's words hit him.

A doctor. John was...

"You're an army doctor," Sherlock said, voice sounding a bit strangled.

"Yeah," John said, sounding hoarse.

Missing data. Missing data that could have brought him to Sherlock so much sooner if he had known. He could see it now, there, in the nimbleness of his fingers, that John had been a surgeon. He could also see, now that he was close enough, and not staring through a rain-streaked window, that he would never be a surgeon again.

They stared at each other some more in shock.

Mike simply smiled and left the room.

"I found you," John burst out, then looked embarrassed.

"You did," Sherlock said, feeling a strange, swelling feeling in his chest.

John came forward hesitantly and extended his hand. "John Watson."

Sherlock reached out and clasped it, firmly at first, and then with a faint edge of desperation. "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock still hadn't come up with a plan, but now that John was in front of him, thoughts were flying through his head like fireworks.

"You need a flatshare," Sherlock said quickly.

"Yeah, I – how did you know?" John asked, but he looked like he was almost smiling.

"Just discharged from the army, on an army pension, living in London, doesn't know anybody – obviously you need a flatshare," Sherlock said.

"I know you," John said.

"Now you do," Sherlock agreed, fidgeting with the microscope slide.

"So... um. Dinner?" John asked hesitantly. "We can discuss the..."

"Yeah, of course. We can talk about..."

"Yes."

Sherlock smiled, feeling a bit of heat creep into his cheeks. "I know just the place."

Angelo was estatic.

"I will bring a candle," he said. "More romantic."

Sherlock blushed again, and hoped that the candlelight hid it. He had been very obvious about this, really, when he thought about it.

They didn't talk at all about the flatshare.

John asked him to deduce the couple at the next table over, and before John had even finished speaking, Sherlock was rattling off all the information he could wring out of his brain. Then he stopped and looked at John.

"Brilliant," John said, smiling.

Sherlock blinked.

Then, he deduced the waitress, and the group of friends hanging out in the back corner. He even told John that he'd figured out that John had a brother from his mobile.

With every finished deduction, he waited anxiously for John to rebuke him.

"Amazing," John said instead, watching him with shining eyes. "Simply incredible."

They lingered over a bottle of wine, but even Angelo had to close up eventually, as much as Sherlock knew he was letting them stay longer than he would any other customer. They wandered down the street in the direction of Sherlock's flat, and he dithered.

He didn't want to let John leave yet.

They got to Sherlock's doorstep. He had to decide now whether or not he wanted to invite John up. He did, he knew he did. But did John want to come up, or was it too fast?

"Er..." Sherlock said, fidgeting with the cuff of his coat. "Do you... want to see the flat?"

John grinned. "Lead the way."

Sherlock fumbled terribly with his keys, hands shaking. Mrs. Hudson was already asleep, thankfully, or she'd have made an awful fuss about all this.

It was only once they were at the top of the stairs that Sherlock remembered that he'd left an experiment spread out over his kitchen worktop.

"Sorry about the mess," Sherlock said hurriedly. "I can clean it up."

And then he realized that he didn't have anything to offer John. He didn't have coffee, and he'd used up the last of his tea the week previous and had yet to talk Mrs. Hudson into going to the shop for him. He didn't even have any biscuits. He was a terrible host.

He was about to apologize to John yet again, obviously looking like a twit as he floundered helplessly in the middle of his living room when John stepped up close to him.

Sherlock stopped talking immediately.

John hooked his fingers around Sherlock's belt loops and pulled him forward. Sherlock went, hands coming up automatically to John's shoulders.

"I hope you know what to do from here," John said, smiling.

"Not really," Sherlock said honestly, hanging on tighter around John's neck, in case he thought that meant Sherlock didn't want whatever was coming next.

He needn't have worried. John laughed and then tipped his head up. Getting the idea, Sherlock leaned forward hesitantly, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"That's it," John whispered against his lips just before they connected.

Soft, Sherlock's heart stuttered. So very soft, and warm.

John's hands moved around Sherlock's back, pulling him snug up against John. Sherlock sighed against his mouth and let himself relax into the embrace. He buried his hands in John's hair and deepened the kiss, daring to open his mouth to let John in.

John nipped his bottom lip and ran his tongue along it. Sherlock shuddered and helplessly let John plunder his mouth, barely remembering to breathe as John snogged him. And it was a proper snog, the kind of kiss that led to other things.

John started walking him backwards until his knees hit the back of the sofa. Understanding, Sherlock let himself fall onto the sofa, something hot and liquid twisting in his gut as John straddled his lap. From this angle, John was able to delve into Sherlock's mouth, taking advantage of the height difference suddenly reversed.

Sherlock's hands ran down John's back and flank as it was suddenly all in reach. His back was muscular and solid beneath Sherlock's hands, even his sides, which were so often soft on other people.

His arse was right there. It was encased in tight denim, curved, and looked like it would fit right in Sherlock's hands if he chose to put his hands on it. He really wanted to.

Trembling, he slid his hands down a bit further. As he did, John made a soft, encouraging sound in his throat, and Sherlock finally got his hands where he wanted them. It was so much better than he imagined, and he moaned into John's mouth, fingers exploring the interesting crevice through thick denim.

John broke his mouth away, and Sherlock gasped as he kissed his way wetly down Sherlock's neck, hurriedly undoing his shirt buttons at the same time. Sherlock quivered. John's mouth against his skin was sending sharp, pleasurable stings through his body.

And then, to his surprise, John slid off his lap and between his legs, Sherlock's knees bracketing his body. Sherlock blinked in surprise as John's hand stroked down his thighs and back up, meaning quite clear.

"John –" Sherlock said, voice unsteady.

"It's alright if you don't want to," John said quietly.

But Sherlock did. Now that he was paying attention, he felt his groin throbbing hot and heavy, trapped tightly by his trousers.

"Yes..." Sherlock whimpered, letting his head fall back against the sofa.

John undid his trouser buttons, and the feel of the zip coming down made his erection throb anew. John pulled his trousers and pants down around his ankles, effectively shackling him there as he moved back between his legs.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and took in deep, gulping breaths as he waited for John to touch him. He could feel John's hands smoothing over his now-bare legs, trailing his thumbs over the soft skin of his inner thigh. John moved the trailing ends of his unbuttoned shirt out of the way.

Sherlock was just about to open his eyes and find out if John was actually going to carry on or not when John's mouth closed over the head of his cock and sucked. Sherlock keened, and his hands scrabbled at John's shoulders and the back of his head. He felt John smile around him, bobbing up and down on his length.

Sherlock didn't realize he was making cut off little cries with every bob of John's head until John reached down and cupped his balls, and the little cries turned into huffing pants.

This wasn't going to last very long at all. He could already feel the tight, tugging sensation in his gut that spoke of impending orgasm.

"J-John –" Sherlock gasped, trying to warn him.

John moved his mouth faster and started pressing his thumb down on that sensitive spot right behind his balls in an increasingly intense rhythm.

Something deep in his belly throbbed, and he was coming hard.

"John!" he panted, feeling like this breath had been punched out of him with each pulsing crest of his orgasm.

John climbed back into his lap while he recovered, and Sherlock tilted his head back to meet the soft kisses John was pressing all over his face, Sherlock himself still too post-coitally uncoordinated to kiss back properly.

Sherlock unbuttoned John's jeans and shoved them down around his hips as John pulled his jumper off over his head. Still feeling light-headed from climax, Sherlock lazily stroked John, who shuddered and pushed his cock into the circle of Sherlock's fist until he came all over Sherlock's bare stomach.

The two of them kicked off their trousers and collapsed together on the sofa.

Still not entirely convinced he wasn't dreaming, Sherlock fell asleep tangled up in John Watson's warm, sleepy embrace.

OOooOO

"Yoo-hoo, Sherlock!"

Sherlock raised his head sleepily and realized abruptly that John's chest had been his pillow for the entire night. It was strangely comfortable, although the precarious and squashed position had no right to be. John smelled like him, and it was lovely.

Mrs. Hudson popped her head around the door.

"Got yourself a lad, have you Sherlock?" she asked with a wink. "About time, I say. You've been quite lonely living by yourself all this time, haven't you."

Sherlock blushed, although he could not very well deny it when he was still sticky with dried semen and his hair was very obviously sweaty and sex-mussed.

"You should come back later," Sherlock said, looking pointedly at John, who was still asleep at the moment, but was definitely starting to come around.

"I'll bring you some tea and scones," Mrs. Hudson said. "But only this once, dear, since it's a special occasion and all."

She bustled off, and John stirred against him.

"What's a special occasion?" he asked, yawning and stretching.

"Me getting a flatmate," Sherlock said.

"A flatmate?" John asked.

"Among other things," Sherlock said, cheeks going pink. "We had better get up and get dressed before Mrs. Hudson returns."

They shared a quick shower, although if Mrs. Hudson's imminent return wasn't immediate, Sherlock might have tried to make it into round two, no matter how much the internet told him shower sex wasn't as good as the movies made it out to be. It seemed like it would be good to Sherlock. John naked and wet was extremely tempting.

They were both clothed when Mrs. Hudson returned, even if their still-damp hair was still a giveaway that they had been up to less than innocent activities last night. Not that she needed any more proof of that.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is John Watson," Sherlock said. "He's moving in with me."

As he said this, his voice pitched up at the end, and he glanced at John.

"That's right," John said, grinning. "Just as soon as I can rouse myself to get up, I'll go and collect my things."

Sherlock slumped in relief.

"You know, we have two bedrooms," Mrs. Hudson said. "If you'll be needing two, that is."

John and Sherlock exchanged an inquiring look.

"That might not be necessary," John said, eyes not leaving Sherlock's face.

"We get all kinds around here, of course," Mrs. Hudson continued. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones!"

"Don't think we're there quite yet, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied dryly.

"Oh, I'm ever so pleased," Mrs. Hudson said as she bustled off.

He and John finished drinking their tea, and then John got himself together to go back to his bedsit and get his stuff. He said he didn't have much, and that it would probably fit itself around what Sherlock already had quite easily.

Just as John was going out the door, Sherlock said, "Oh, and John?"

"Yes?" John asked, pausing.

"If a man with an umbrella kidnaps you in a black car, don't be alarmed. It's just my brother being an overprotective prat."

Rather than looking scared as Sherlock had anticipated, John grinned.

"Living with you is going to be quite the adventure, isn't it?" John asked.

"I'm afraid so," Sherlock said, but he was smiling too.

And so it was.