A/N: Hey there!

I had this story slowly building up on my phone notes and thought 'hey why not post it' so this is what I am doing.

PLEASE NOTE: I have awful, dirty, smelly grammar-if anything catches your eye feel free to let me know or just turn a blind eye, whatever floats your boat.

Enjoy! xo

Chapter 1

On John's computer, there is a file. And in that file is a word document. And in that word document is a list. A list that John admittedly reads more than he updates, but one he is very fond of nonetheless. Whether Sherlock knows about the list, John doesn't know as he has never mentioned it. But considering his flatmate's temperament of being a nosey little bastard, John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock has the list memorised.

The list contains a series of words and/or short sentences that wouldn't make sense to anyone but himself and probably Sherlock. The thing is, in the many months John has been living with Sherlock Holmes he has come to realise that the man in question has a strange, and very occasional, sweet side. And as there is no way John is going to risk his life by writing these rare moments in his blog, he has made a list instead which he looks at when Sherlock has particularly ticked him off. Mainly as a reminder that Sherlock is, in fact, a human being and would be seen as such in court if John murdered him in his sleep.

Even so, John is very fond of the list and sometimes looks back on it just because he can and because it makes him smile.

This time, however, John has opened the file with hands shaking in rage and aggressively types in his password, praying for Sherlock's sake that it works and the bastard hasn't changed it again. He hasn't. John stares at his computer as his home-screen loads, trying to get his breathing under control. He twitches as he hears Sherlock's bedroom door slamming down the hall and glares in that direction.

"Damn bloody childish, inconsiderate..." John's angry muttering trails off into incoherent nonsense as he quickly skims through his files.

They had very recently come back from a crime scene, in which Sherlock had proceeded to execute his routine of yelling aggressively at a victim in order to make them speak quickly. John is rather used to this, but it still makes him shake his head in disapproval or snap Sherlock's name in warning. This time, however, it was a very old lady whose deaf husband had been found dead with multiple stab wounds in their bathroom.

She had only found his body an hour ago and was still trembling from shock, and with her white curls and denim dungarees covered in soil, she had really really reminded John of his own late grandmother. So once Sherlock grabbed her thin shoulders and proceeded to yell into her stricken, tear streaked face, John had lost it. He had marched towards Sherlock, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and proceeded to forcibly drag him away while the man himself spluttered in indignation. As they passed Lestrade, the silver haired man had muttered; "Not on Sherlock. Keep a tighter leash on him will you John? Maybe a muzzle too."

When they had got home, the row had been spectacular. Sherlock screaming that he 'wasn't a fucking dog!' and John screaming that he 'shouldn't bloody well act like an animal then!' and so on and so forth until Sherlock had thrown an empty glass in Johns general direction and stormed away into the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the hinges creaked.

John stabs at the keys roughly as the file pops up on his screen. Trying to control his breathing, John skims through the document, trying to find something that he hadn't read in a while as those seem to have the highest success rates in calm him down after a fight with Sherlock. John assumes this is because he can trick himself into believing he has almost forgotten the memory and the small pang of pleasant surprise is a welcome relief to the blinding rage.

As John skims, he comes across a bullet point he genuinely had actually forgotten about and almost, almost, smiles.

Dennis The Fish

"Dennis!"

John jumped at the sudden proclaim that pierced through the silence. They had been on a case somewhere in Devon, something about a priceless jewel and a vengeful uncle. As was his luck, the only room available to them in the little town had one double bed, which they shared the first night before Sherlock got really into the case and stopped sleeping altogether.

"What?"

He felt Sherlock roll over to face his turned back.

"The fish," said Sherlock, as if that were obvious.

John let out a low groan and reluctantly rolled over to face him. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock blinked at John from within a cocoon of blankets. "The fish. Dennis."

"What fish?" John yawned.

"In the kitchen."

John raised his eyebrows and purses his lips. He really wanted to be asleep right now.

"On top of the microwave," Sherlock explained impatiently.

John frowned, vaguely remembering seeing a, what he had thought empty, fish bowl indeed on top of the microwave before they had left that morning but had actively disregarded it. "There was a fish in that?" He backtracked. "You called it Dennis?"

Sherlock huffed. "No. The owner called him Dennis."

"Why do you have someone else's fish?" John narrowed his eyes at him.

"Well I couldn't very well just leave him there." The blanket cocoon shifted with what John guessed was a shrug.

John felt like he had missed a large chunk of the conversation. His face must have shown this as Sherlock let out an all-suffering sigh and rolled onto his back, pulling his arms free from the many layers of wool and gesturing at the ceiling as he spoke. "His owner was a murderer. You know, the builder...baker...banker? I don't know, the one who killed his wife. He was sentenced to life, remember? There was no one to look after him," he glanced back at John.

John recalled the case from the week before. It had been short, only lasting a couple of days, and he couldn't remember ever going to the victim/murderer's house. "So you took it?"

"Yes."

John stared. "You have really strange priorities."

"I never told Mrs Hudson to feed him," Sherlock said miserably, staring up into the darkness.

John's lips twitched. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

Sherlock rolled back onto his side to face him. "No, he has to eat three times a day John. I did research," he said petulantly.

"Well what do you expect me to do about it? We're in Devon. And Mrs Hudson is at her sister's anyway."

"Nothing. I was just telling you." Sherlock yawned and slid is hand under his cheek, closing his eyes.

There was a pause where John simply watched him. "Right," he said eventually. John rolled over, giving Sherlock his back and closed his own eyes, done with the conversation and desperate for sleep knowing full well he wouldn't be getting any easy shut-eye until the case was over.

"You always get funny when you come home and there are dead things in the kitchen," Sherlock muttered sleepily.

"For fuck's sake."

Dennis The Fish was, unsurprisingly, deceased when they arrived home four days later. They held a little funeral for him in the bathroom and then Sherlock proceeded to sulk in silence on the sofa for the rest of the day. He later blamed his mood on the fact he had lost his watch in the lake he had dived into when retrieving the family's jewelled heirloom, but John had noticed Sherlock staring at the empty fishbowl on the unit miserably when he thought John couldn't see him. John smiled sympathetically and then put the empty bowl in the back of the cupboard under the sink when Sherlock wasn't looking.

John realises that he has lost, and is in fact smiling slightly. He forces himself to scowl and closes his laptop with a lot less force than he had opened it with. It's a complicated emotion, wanting to stay angry at someone but also actively trying to smother it. Suddenly tired, John sighs and stretches, thinking longingly of his bed. Just as he moves to stand, he hears a creak behind him and spins around, startled. His racing heart slows as he watches Sherlock pad more into the room, eyes on his bare feet and looking a bit miserable.

"I don't want to fight with you, John." He mutters.

There's a pause as John watches Sherlock and Sherlock watches the floor. "I don't want to fight with you either." John replies quietly, his anger having completely disappeared watching Sherlock mumble his odd version of an apology.

Sherlock's eyes come up and rest on John's face, flickering across it. He offers a small smile that is more a grimace than anything. John huffs out a tired laugh and rubs his eyes.

"You're a bloody pain in the arse, you know that?"

Sherlock nods.

Smiling, John walks up to him and pats him on the shoulder. "Goodnight Sherlock." John moves around him and makes his way up the stairs, hearing Sherlock mutter a goodnight back.

Once John is settled in bed he hears Sherlock's bedroom door closing, soft and gentle in the darkness.