Summary: In which someone finally sees John Watson as more than Sherlock's tagalong or the Freak's pet. Drabble/snapshot-fic.

Author's Note: Hi, all. It's been a while since I've posted anything for you guys and I'm sure that if you're getting this update, you probably read my Update Notice from a while ago. I've had a bunch of ideas circulating through my head, but haven't been able to muster up the motivation to work on a full story. I decided to compromise and work on a drabble fic instead. Hopefully, this'll let me build back up to working on full-length stories (and allow me to update faster).

I hope you enjoy.

1. Welcome

John rubbed his face wearily as he unlocked the door to 221 Baker Street. Sighing, he stretched, his whole body aching from a long day at the surgery after running around London on another chase with Sherlock. He half-stumbled up the stairs to flat B, fumbling to unlock the door as his vision blurred with exhaustion. He finally got the damn key into the lock and tumbled into the flat as the door opened.

His vision went black.

John groaned as his eyes fluttered open. He was on the floor, half-inside the flat and half-out. Cursing, he struggled to push himself up – he must've passed out from lack of sleep. Sherlock, the bloody cock, seemed to never be touched by exhaustion after running around the city on harebrained chases.

Dimly, he registered the sound of a door opening and hurried but quiet footsteps rushing up the stairs towards him. He turned towards the person coming towards him – couldn't be Mrs. Hudson, it's too quiet and graceful for that, but not Sherlock either, he only ever rushes out of the flat for a case – and caught a glimpse of jet black curls and emerald green before he seemed to lose all strength.

"Are you alright?!" The face of a worried male appeared above him, a hand gently taking his pulse at his wrist as green eyes tracked the seconds with an odd pocketwatch.

John wanted to demand the man let his wrist go – to know who the bloody hell was in 221 Baker Street and why the hell had he come out of 221C; he had heard the man rushing up two flights of stairs and that could only happen if he was coming from flat C – but he could feel himself slackening as days without sleep caught up to him.

The last thing he saw before everything went black was green.

"This is an interesting welcome."