His flatmate was stretched out full length on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands in the prayer position under his chin. It was Sherlock's thinking posture, John had been informed early on, never to be disturbed unless absolutely necessary, and preferably not even then. In the four and a half weeks since they had moved in to Baker Street, he had watched Sherlock spend hours in this state, and it was still vaguely unnerving. John had tried meditation himself at one point, largely to please an earnest young woman he'd been trying to impress, but he'd never seen anyone who could go quite as deeply into it as Sherlock seemed to do. His current session had started just over three hours ago, and he'd been utterly motionless ever since, although John was reasonably certain the man was still breathing. Occasionally. He should probably check, but at the moment, he was almost too angry to care.

It wasn't just anger. There was a healthy dose of resentment, too, and it had been building since day one. He had managed for the most part to keep it buried beneath the professional calm of a physician and Army officer, battle-hardened and schooled in maintaining control under the worst of circumstances. But nothing in his training or experience prepared him for the water-torture drip of daily assaults on his personal space, private property, and general sense of self worth. He had tried to tell himself that Sherlock wasn't intentionally trying to drive him crazy. It was just one of the hazards of living with a genius. The man wasn't used to having friends, and obviously had no experience with accommodating another human being in such continuous close proximity. It was bound to take time to adjust. But the rationalizations had recently stopped making sense to him, and the grievances had begun to accumulate. The past two days had brought it all to a head. The chip and pin machine had simply been standing in for the real target of his frustration. It was time to clear the air before he started taking out his frustrations on something other than inanimate objects.

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

No response.

John shifted in his chair by the fire so he was facing Sherlock's position. He cleared his throat and raised the volume a bit. "Sherlock, if you want me to keep living here, we need to talk. Now."

Sherlock opened his eyes. "What?" The whip-crack delivery was Sherlock's version of a rattlesnake shaking its tail.

"I said, we need to talk."

Sherlock turned his head to look in John's direction. "What now?"

Sherlock was peeved. Fine. John kept his voice even. "Do you want it alphabetically, or chronologically?"

A horizontal crease appeared just above the bridge of Sherlock's nose between those mesmerizing eyes which were now focused on him. Sherlock swung his legs to the floor and sat up. "What are you talking about?"

John sighed. "I wouldn't expect you to notice anything so mundane as me being royally pissed off at you, but I would like to discuss it, if you can spare a few minutes."

Sherlock gave him a narrow look and backed it up with a snort. "You spend most of your waking hours being annoyed with me to one degree or another. I assumed it was your default position." He stood up and walked straight across the coffee table, directly to his leather chair facing John and dropped into it. "Prioritize by degree of importance, in descending order." He began drumming the fingers of both hands on the arms of the chair.

John sat up straight, hands on his knees. "Okay. What do I have to do to stop being left behind while you go tearing off into dangerous situations alone?"

Sherlock's fingers stopped drumming. "I don't require a bodyguard. Do you think that's your function here?"

"I don't have a bloody clue what my function is. That's part of the problem. Leaving me outside a locked door not once but twice in a single day is rude even for you, not to mention dangerous. I need you to agree not to do it again, or you can do the whole thing on your own. I'm not tagging along just so you can ditch me like a bad date."

Sherlock studied him for a moment, and the fingers resumed tapping the arms of the chair. When he opened his mouth to reply, John rolled right over him.

"You seem to forget that I'm a medical doctor. You didn't fool me, you know. Someone tried to strangle you in Soo Lin's flat, and they did a pretty fair job of it, going by what was left of your voice when you came out. You barely got away with your life. That kind of injury can be life-threatening even if it doesn't kill you outright. Your throat could have started to swell shut while you were busy pretending nothing happened." John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing himself to calm down. This was the foreseeable result of holding his temper for too long, but letting it loose wasn't the solution, either. "I could have helped, if you had let me in." He winced at the unexpected change in his tone. It smacked of bruised feelings, which was true but not at all the message he wanted to convey.

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long moment. His elbows were resting on the arms of the chair, and his hands were back in the prayer position, fingertips resting at his lips. "I see."

"That's all you have to say?"

Sherlock waved a hand in John's direction. "Please continue."

"No, wait. I'm not going to go through all this if you're just going to brush me off."

"I'm not brushing you off, John. You implied that you have multiple concerns. I prefer to hear the entire list so I can evaluate them in context before I respond."

"Evaluate them in..." He shook his head. "So, even my complaints are going to be judged? That's pretty much the whole problem in a nutshell. I don't quite measure up, do I? As a friend, or a flatmate. I can barely pay my share, and when I do manage to find a job, you tell me it's dull, and then you keep me out all night so I'm so bloody exhausted that I fall asleep at my desk. I'll be lucky not to be sacked."

"Colleague." Sherlock said the word quietly, his eyes fixed on John's.

"What?"

"You corrected me when I introduced you as my friend." His expression was unreadable.

Oh. That damned distancing reflex. He had realized his mistake as soon as the word was out of his mouth. Of course, he couldn't have known the history between Sherlock and the banker, but he should have recognized the emphasis Sherlock had put on the word 'friend' as well as the disbelieving tone Wilkes had used to mock it. That, and the smirk on the man's face when John had immediately corrected Sherlock, spoke volumes. The conversation that followed had made John squirm, and the look on Sherlock's face when Wilkes talked about how much his classmates had hated him made John want to jump across the desk and throttle the smug bastard. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know what made me say that. It was-"

"The truth, obviously," Sherlock cut him off in an utterly neutral voice. "Don't apologize for being honest."

"But it wasn't the truth. I was still pissed off about the thing at the market, and having to borrow your card, and the stack of bills I can't pay. And you hacking into my laptop didn't help. You don't respect boundaries, Sherlock. Some things are personal, and not all of it is fair game." He blew out a breath, puffing his cheeks in frustration. "But none of that excuses what I said. I am sorry. I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

Sherlock dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand. "It's forgotten. You have nothing to apologize for."

"Wilkes is a smug jackass, and it galls me that I gave him something to gloat about." His anger was back, but with a new target.

Sherlock quirked one corner of his mouth in a brief smile. "He's juggling two mistresses, a wife, and a gambling addiction. He won't be gloating much longer."

John smiled. "I won't ask how you know that."

"It's that trick I do."

Sherlock's dry delivery made John smile, and it broke the tension. John cleared his throat. "I want you to know that I'm not overlooking what you've done for me. I never thanked you for curing my bum leg. Six months of sessions with a therapist did nothing. You diagnosed the problem and cured it in a single night. You're literally keeping the roof over my head, and the only thing you seem to need me for is to do your shopping, with your money. I'd like to think that I have more to offer."

Sherlock waited for him to continue, then asked neutrally, "Is that all of it?"

"You could give a little more consideration to my sex life." He said it with a straight face, but he couldn't entirely smother his smile at Sherlock's shocked reaction. "Relax, I'm talking about my dates. You seemed amazingly oblivious about why I wanted to be alone with Sarah."

It took Sherlock a moment to recover. Flustering the man was a rare feat, and John allowed himself to enjoy it.

"I was focused on the case, John. Forgive me for not taking your hormones into account." He paused. "Did you achieve your goal?"

John snorted. "That thing about being tied to a chair with a crossbow aimed at her chest seemed to kill the mood. I'm hoping for a return engagement." He hesitated. "Thank you for coming to our rescue. I can't say I wouldn't have preferred a more timely arrival, but better late than never."

"You rescued yourself. All I did was provide a distraction."

That was actually true, and John nodded. "We make a good team, Sherlock. Or, we would, if you'd let me in. Literally."

Sherlock responded with the first real smile he had allowed since they began talking. "I agree." His expression returned to neutral. "Is there anything else you'd like to bring up?"

John paused to consider. His anger had largely evaporated, but there was still the ASBO charge, the snide comments on his blogging efforts, and that infuriating assumption that everyone was an idiot, but he had covered the hot buttons. "That's pretty much it."

Sherlock got up and walked to the window. After a long pause, he turned to face John. "I should have unlocked the door to Van Coon's flat immediately. I was grandstanding, and I won't do that again. In Soo Lin's flat, I was actually talking to you the entire time. I thought you were still outside in the alley. When I realized you'd gone around to the front door, I was heading that way to let you in when the acrobat jumped me from behind. I realized too late that he must still be in the flat. If it helps, I was calling your name while he was strangling me. I just couldn't generate enough volume."

The thought of Sherlock being throttled and calling for help while John was having a temper tantrum on the front stoop made him feel ill. "I didn't hear you." His voice was rough. "I would have kicked the door down. You could have died."

"I didn't tell you at the time for exactly this reason. I knew you would take it personally, and I was fine."

"Why the hell wouldn't I take it personally?"

"Because it would not have been your fault if I'd been killed, it would have been my own. I failed to realize my assailant was in the flat despite all the evidence that clearly said he was."

John stared at him. "And you think that would have mattered? You think I would have just shrugged it off and moved on because you brought it on yourself?"

The crease between his eyes was back. "You're not responsible for me, John."

"Which brings us back to my point. Why am I here? What are you getting out of this?"

"You mean aside from the fact that you saved my life? An act for which I have yet to thank you, by the way." He took a breath. "Thank you."

John felt a rush of emotion that he couldn't classify, and he rolled his eyes to hide it. "That must have hurt to say." He tried to look stern. "You're welcome. I would appreciate it if you wouldn't make it quite so difficult the next time."

Sherlock seemed lost in thought for a long moment. Finally, he looked straight at John and asked in a voice that seemed too carefully neutral, "Does that mean you've decided to stay?"

John had forgotten that he'd resorted to that threat. "There is one more thing. I can live with being expected to dig the phone out of the jacket you're wearing when you can't be bothered to do it yourself, but there are limits. If you start carrying it in your trouser pocket, you're on your own."

Sherlock kept his expression serious, too, but there was a brief quirk of a smile that he smothered quickly. "I think I can agree to that."

John slapped his knees and stood up. "I'm in the mood for dim sum. I hear there's an excellent place at the end of Baker Street. Did you know you can tell a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of the door handle?"

Sherlock feigned surprise. "That's an interesting theory. I think we should test it out."

He pulled on his coat and scarf, then headed down the stairs. John waited where he was standing in the middle of the room. A moment later, the footsteps came back up and Sherlock appeared in the doorway. His smile was almost shy. "Dinner?"

John grabbed his coat. "Starving."

End of The Hazards of Living with a Genius

A/N - Yes, I know. The Blind Banker is at the top of a lot of 'least favorite episodes' lists. I like it for several nice scenes. One is that adorable smile Sherlock gives John when he tells him to 'take my card'. John is in such a nasty mood, and Sherlock is just so damned nice about it. Another is where they're at the circus, and the boys are standing almost back to back, trading looks over their shoulders. I know I have some company in that because I've noticed a lot of YouTube vids using it. The point of this story is to make John apologize for correcting Sherlock calling him his friend. That scene makes me cringe every time I watch it. He looked sorry immediately, but I wanted him to say so. I would love to hear what you thought. -GW