Sherlock sat, meditatively, contemplating a problem. Valentine's Day was rapidly approaching, if the garish (and overly commercial) displays of cupids, and cheap chocolate, in the shops were reliable indicators. The detective hadn't given this particular date, 14th February, much thought before this year.

Celebration of this particular day, which originally celebrated a Christian saint martyred by the Romans, was for sentimental idiots. Not for a high functioning sociopath, a 'consulting detective', no less, and his flat mate. So, how was Sherlock to go about asking John to be his 'Valentine' without sacrificing too much of his own dignity?

He'd never had this problem before. Then again, he had never lived with his romantic interest before, either. 'Sentiment' was a symptom of a chemical defect found in 'the losing side', in Sherlock's opinion, and he'd blocked it fairly well for most of his life. It was a common misconception that the detective was a virgin, and that he was without need for sexual fulfillment, like other humans. That he was a robot…

Holmes' was as human as the next person, however, despite his upbringing and family philosophy, like other humans, he required companionship of some sort.

Doctor John Hamish Watson had walked, innocuously, into Sherlock's life that day in the lab at St Bart's. The seeds of Holmes' interest had been planted during the taxi ride to that very first crime scene; when John had found Sherlock's deductive skills 'amazing', instead of 'annoying'. It had been a brief glimpse into how superficially dull and, yet, rather exciting one apparently insignificant person could be perceived as, simultaneously.

John got up at the same time, every morning that he had a shift at the surgery, and had breakfast before leaving the flat: bacon, two fried eggs and toast. He drank tea, with milk and one spoonful of sugar, in the mornings, but two spoonsful of sugar at every other time throughout the day. There was no variation, on his days off, unless they were on a case, in which instance John slept when he could, and got up earlier than normal, all so that he could provide the most assistance possible, to Sherlock.

Sometimes, John went on dates with women he met through his work at the surgery; at nights in the pub with his old army buddies or, on their cases. He suspected Watson kept to the same daily routine, at the homes of these women, and at those of the occasional male 'one night stand'.

John thought Sherlock believed him, when he insisted he wasn't gay, but he had clearly been checking out the new waiter at Angelo's, last week, during their normal visit to the restaurant. They ate there fairly often, when John got sick of takeaways but wanted to sit and enjoy a meal he didn't have to prepare himself. He'd leaned towards the waiter, as he spoke, and his voice had deepened marginally. Sherlock had seen him take a phone number, from the man, when he thought Sherlock hadn't been looking. The attraction between John and the young man had been very clear to the dedicated observer…

Why John maintained his charade, Sherlock didn't know. It was a mystery. John was clearly attracted to men, as well as to women, and his body language said he was comfortable with that. Maybe it was a hangover from his Army days? The Military, as a rule, wasn't fond of people who engaged in same-sex relationships.

Sherlock, by contrast, had no set daily routine. He slept, and ate, erratically and often solely at John's insistence; sometimes even having to be bribed, into eating, before he would comply. John had gone so far as to refuse to give Sherlock new information, during their most recent murder case, in an effort to get him to eat; he then watched smugly as the detective sullenly ate a ham sandwich.

Sherlock was interrupted in his musings, then, and the detective looked up as John entered the flat, his cheeks tinged red from the chill of the February air. Sherlock stood and placed 'Gladstone' on the coffee table, idly nudging the skull into position. Looking closely, at John, he catalogued the differences now from his appearance as he left the flat, this morning; a small stain on the cuff of his right sleeve, from a child's vomit. The child couldn't have been more than two or three years of age.

"You had a case of flu today; a child, no older than three years of age. I expect you will see more in the next few days."

"How is it that you can deduce so much from a case of flu, but don't know the name of the Prime Minister, or the layout of the solar system?" John sighed, and shook his head, smiling fondly at the younger man.

Sherlock chose to ignore that, "The mother of the ailing child gave you her telephone number."

John grinned, "Maybe..."

This wouldn't do at all, thought Sherlock; he'd have to get rid of it when John wasn't looking. He refused to allow a vulture near his flat mate whilst he was trying to decide upon a way to woo him. He was currently testing the reaction, in different chemical solutions, to ink on paper: if he pleaded innocence, the doctor would never realize that his actions were deliberate. Sherlock did little things like that all the time, that drove John mad, and the shorter man had come to accept it; for the most part.

John put his coat on the armchair and headed into the kitchen. "It's cold out there. You want a cuppa, Sherlock?"

"Yes, please, John." said Sherlock.

John examined the kettle suspiciously and, deeming it safe, filled it with water, setting it on the hob to boil. "I'm going to get changed. Keep an eye on the kettle, will you?"

Sherlock nodded, watching the blond man walk up the stairs to his room and shut the door. Once he was confident that John wouldn't see him, he grabbed the coat, looking for the slip of paper, frantically. When his hand closed around something he pulled it out of the pocket; paper from John's office. He smelled it, taking note of the trace of vomit. Looking at the name and number, on the slip of paper, he shoved it into his old cigarette hiding spot under Gladstone. 'Elaine' would NOT be hearing from John, if Sherlock had his way.

Taking care to place the coat precisely where it had been before, so John wouldn't notice, he took up his original position on the couch.