Hello to you. This is my first fanfiction. I would say 'please be nice' but I'd rather you were honest - I think! It is intended to end up as a Johnlock piece so if this doesn't float your boat then you have been warned. Reviews are lovely and, although I have a good idea of where this is going, I fully intend to take reviews on board and they will shape the future chapters.

I don't have much else to say so please continue reading and I hope you enjoy.

A sigh. Temporary silence. Then:

"John, I-"

"Look, just forget it, alright?" John closed the paper with a flourish and placed it not-to-gently on the coffee table in front of him. "Just... don't worry about it."

Sherlock paused, and bit his lip. "I've offended you."

"No, no you haven't," John said exasperatedly, running a hand through his short blond hair, the other resting on the arm of his chair while his fingers tapped an agitated rhythm. "I know the drill. Don't be upset, most people are stupid, you're actually one of the cleverer stupid ones, etc etc..."

"Well you are," was the retort. "So why the hurt look?"

John rolled his eyes before staring up at the ceiling. "I'm sorry Sherlock. I'm sorry that I can't control my knee-jerk reaction to something horribly offensive that you've said. You'd think after several years I'd be used to it by now."

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly. "So you are offended!"

"NO!" John stood up angrily, trying to keep his emotion in check, very aware that his annoyingly calm flatmate was watching and recording every reaction, every flicker of eyelid, every flush of upset, anger, every tone of voice used. It wasn't enough to keep himself a closed book though. That man was so bloody aggravating.

"Forgive me for thinking otherwise," Sherlock muttered coolly. "Anyway, what does it really matter what I think?"

That threw John a little. He stared at the detective, confused, his anger dissipating for now. "Excuse me? Why does it matter what my friend thinks of me? Oh, I couldn't possibly imagine..." He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, waiting for a verbal response, but was met with a stare. A deducing stare. He should have been used to that by now too, and normally he was fine with it. Well, possibly 'fine' was too strong a term. He had accepted it as part of Sherlock, part of his way of working, a part of him. It didn't normally unnerve him when he realised that Sherlock was trying to read him. He kept very few secrets from Sherlock, if any at all. He was 'okay' with it.

But for some reason, at that moment, he felt odd. He felt vulnerable, naked under Sherlock's gaze, and he couldn't put his finger on why. Maybe it was because Sherlock was reading him mid-argument. No, it couldn't be that. It often happened that way, and sometimes John almost welcomed it, saving him from having to explain how he was feeling or why he was annoyed with his friend. It could often be quite the time-saver.

"Stop it," he mumbled, stepping subconsciously away from Sherlock. As if that was going to help.

The detective's head shook ever so slightly, in a blink-and-you'd-miss-it way, but John hadn't missed it. He wasn't sure what that shake meant. Had Sherlock deduced something? Was John unreadable? Either way, Sherlock looked confused. His grey-blue eyes bore into John, in a rather alarming manner, and his mouth twitched. Amusement? John wasn't sure, but it was starting to freak him out a little.

"I'm going upstairs," he said eventually. "I've had enough of your stupid mind games. I'm not offended, but please, just leave me alone for a bit."

No response. There was barely an acknowledgement that Sherlock had even heard him, but John continued to move away from him, towards the doorway, before turning around and heading up to his room.

The next morning, John awoke suddenly at 6.30. Sunlight was starting to stream through the window, being the beginning of summer, and he observed the beams lined across his room in a daze. Glancing at the clock, and then remembering it was the weekend, he groaned audibly and turned over, trying to grasp another hour or so of sleep, but after tossing and turning for the next forty minutes to no avail, he eventually conceded defeat and got up. Stretching slightly, he suddenly remembered the events of the previous evening, and felt his stomach cringe as he recollected the way that Sherlock had stared at him. He still had no idea why he had felt so strange, even after having slept on it, which was normally a great help for him. That man could unnerve anyone though, he thought grimly, and set about locating his dressing gown, having his usual morning craving for a mug of tea.

He pattered down the stairs and entered the living room, and was shocked to see Sherlock was already up, sitting in his armchair. Despite needing hardly any sleep while on a case, he was normally a very late riser when they were quieter, and John was amazed that the detective was also dressed for the day. No... Sherlock was still wearing what he wore yesterday. And he was sitting in the exact same way that John had left him last night. Sherlock hadn't been to bed, and by the looks of things, hadn't even moved.

"Mind Palace," John breathed, understanding, and his words seemed to stir Sherlock out of his reverie.

"Attraction!"

John stared at Sherlock, who had jolted forward in his chair, suddenly looking right up at John, eyes slightly glazed over. He shook his head, quite vigorously, as if to knock away from cobwebs, and then gazed up at John properly.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John asked, eyebrows raised.

"Hmm? Err, nothing. Don't worry about it. I erm... are you going to bed? It's still sunny. Wait, it wasn't sunny just now, it was dark, John, what's going on, what time is it?"

A garble of words, not unusual when Sherlock had 'come round' from his Mind Palace, and as he spoke he rose from his chair and started moving around slightly anxiously, not looking at John anymore. He gazed across at his beloved violin, before turning back towards John but still not quite looking at him.

"Sherlock, it's nearly half seven... I think you've been out of it all night."

"Fine, fine," Sherlock muttered, pacing around the room again. "It's all fine, John, I have a case!"

"Oh," said John, relaxing slightly. Maybe Lestrade had contacted Sherlock after he had disappeared upstairs last night. Maybe that's what Sherlock was talking about. He moved into the kitchen to put the kettle on before retrieving some milk from the fridge and two large mugs from the cupboard. "Anything I can help with?" he asked, glancing up at his excitable friend.

The pacing stopped, and suddenly Sherlock was looking across at John again, the eyes boring into him, flashing with amusement, the flickers of a smile forming at the edges of his thinly pressed lips.

"Absolutely, John. Absolutely."