This isn't finished, I don't think! Every Johnlock I write deserves a bit of smut (or at least cuddling). Stay tuned for another chapter, and please review!

"John," Sherlock murmured, looking up from his anatomy textbook. He blinked, startled, when John wasn't sitting across the table from him anymore. His coffee cup was still there, as well as his newspaper (he had been reading it when Sherlock dragged him to the library and refused to leave without it) and his jacket, hanging off the back of the chair.

"John," Sherlock said a bit louder. He was beginning to panic—however unlikely it was (however impossible it was), it was still possible that someone had taken him. Moriarty was still at large, with a vendetta and goal to burn Sherlock's heart. They were both very aware where Sherlock's heart lie.

There was a quiet laugh from behind him, then soft, quick footsteps. Sherlock turned to look behind him, but didn't see anyone; however, that had definitely been John's laugh. "This isn't funny," Sherlock whispered, stalking past shelves and keeping an eye out for librarians. "Come out, now."

Another laugh led him to the biography section, which was much smaller than that of the reference books, where they'd been sitting. He stopped and thought for a moment. John wasn't particularly fond of dark places in the library (he said the faces on books were taunting him or something; Sherlock had quickly and spitefully deleted it when he said it, annoyed already with a case) and wouldn't be anywhere that he had to sit on the wooden floor for a long period of time.

That left the very back section of the library, where the wing-back chairs sat around a large mahogany table. Sherlock grinned, caught up in the chase now, and walked quickly to his (undoubtedly correct) location, his coat billowing out behind him. "John!" he hissed, turning the closest chair.

Which was empty.

Odd.

He sat down, folding his arms across his chest, stared up at the open ceiling. If he wasn't with the chairs, he had to be back at the front of the library. But that would involve him going past Sherlock when he got up, which Sherlock obviously would have noticed. "I should pay more attention to him," he noted to himself, closing his eyes.

"You should," John whispered from beside him, and a hand was suddenly over his closed eyes. "How could Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective, lose track of poor, idiotic John Watson?"

"Not poor," Sherlock said in his monotone, "Nor idiotic. Silly, a bit, but nothing more."

He could practically feel John's smile next to him. "Silly, eh?" He sat in Sherlock's lap, keeping his hand gently over his eyes, and kissed him soundly. "I'll show you silly…"

Sherlock held him around the waist, smiling against his lips. "Maybe it's time to head home." He sat up straighter, leaning John against the edge of the table. "And demonstrate to you the difference."