This was actually inspired by an experience of my best friends' - namely, the fact that what our possessions do sometimes reflects back on ourselves...
Written while listening to "Porcelain" by Lucy Schwartz.
Disclaimer: Hmm. I must own something. However, it really isn't this.
Warnings: Ummm, none? Just a random fan fiction that is not going to win the Pulitzer Prize. If you REALLY need to know, there's a snog. NOT SLASH (can't write slash) but sort of in the process of getting there, if that makes any sense...?

Unbeta'd and not Britpicked. I take responsibility for all my errors.

Sherlock has always been a very messy sort of person. He didn't consciously try to be messy – far from it, actually. He just did not care about the state of his living environment. It didn't directly impact him and, until he began losing his experiments amidst the towering piles of junk, he couldn't be bothered to clean it up. Which was why, before he met John Watson, numerous people on numerous occasions had asked him, "Sherlock, where are your shoes?"

It was quite a good question, really. Sherlock's shoes almost had a mind of their own. They seemed to travel around the flat on their own accord, stopping in ridiculously obscure places just for the sake of tormenting their owner when he went to go find them. On occasion, Sherlock would turn up ready to solve a case, dashing about like the arrogant blighter he was in his greatcoat and scarf but with no shoes or socks to speak of.

After slicing the sole of his foot open on a rusty nail outside a warehouse in Battersea, Sherlock made up his mind that he would at least attempt to keep his shoes under control and have them with him when he left the flat. He did not mind running around London barefoot, and he didn't even really mind that he had sliced his foot open. It was going to A&E and facing the idiot doctors and nurses that he couldn't stand. This new goal was easier said than done, of course, but eventually his shoes could either be found on his feet or within a five-foot radius of the door. This five-foot radius did not only extend to the ground ("Sherlock, I was upstairs in your flat and I found your shoes!" "Is that so, Mrs. Hudson?" "Yes, dear. In the dishwasher") but it was definitely an improvement.

Then John came along.

John and Sherlock's shoes were rather similar. The style, that is. Sherlock's were substantially more expensive, black, and polished within an inch of their life, where John's were the cheapest kind available, made of soft, worn brown leather. For the first few weeks that the pair became flatmates, neither of them took off their shoes when they came inside. They pulled them off when they went to bed, and only then, which meant that Sherlock sometimes ended up wearing his shoes for three days straight.

But sometime after the case John nicknamed The Blind Banker, their shoes started to come off once they came inside. Sherlock's could be found anywhere from the kitchen table to the bookcase, but John's were always lined up right next to the door. They wandered around the flat in their socks (or, in Sherlock's case, barefoot) and only pulled their shoes on when they were about to run out the door.

Over time, Sherlock's shoes began to gravitate back towards the stairs, where John's shoes were stationed. John's shoes were no longer lined up – instead, they were in a pile. Sherlock's shoes hovered at the kitchen doorframe, also in a pile.

Sarah and John were going on dates frequently now. Sometimes John's shoes were nowhere to be found in the flat. When this happened, Sherlock's shoes were the ones at the edge of the stairs. Sherlock's shoes waited anxiously for John's to return home.

Sherlock went to a masquerade ball for a case one day. John had the night shift at the surgery, and therefore was unable to come. But he did see Sherlock come downstairs in that black tuxedo, his skin positively glowing against his white shirt, his grey eyes sparkling with mischief and his long fingers playing with his bowtie. John quickly averted his eyes and ran upstairs before he would have a chance to embarrass himself. He missed the smug little smile on Sherlock's face.

That night, when Sherlock got home after having successfully apprehended the killer and caught two jewel thieves besides, he didn't bother to put his shoes back in the kitchen. Instead, he left his shoes in a pile on top of John's.

The pile became an almost regular occurrence. After running all over the city and dinner at Angelo's, they would tumble back upstairs, laughing and teasing each other about the married waitress who had been flirting with John or Sherlock's lackluster knowledge of the solar system. They just tugged their shoes off and left them there on top of each other as they went into the living room, Sherlock to play his violin or conduct a new experiment, John to update his blog.

Then the case known as The Great Game came along and everything changed. They didn't make it home for almost three weeks. Instead, the shoes stayed with their owners on different floors of St. Bart's as they recovered, looking very lonely underneath their respective chairs.

John recovered first. His shoes did not return to their normal spot at the top of the staircase. Instead, they stayed on his feet and his feet stayed in Sherlock's ward until Sherlock opened his eyes again and whispered in a voice cut with a thousand knives, "John."

When the shoes finally returned to Baker Street, they were separated again. Sherlock's hovered somewhere in the living room, while John's stayed in his bedroom. Gradually, though, after he broke it off with Sarah, the scuffed brown shoes tentatively emerged and settled back down near the bookcase. The black patent leather shoes retreated into the safety of the kitchen, amidst the failed experiments and expired cheese blocks and worn tea towels.

They eased their way back into solving cases for the Yard after that. Sherlock's shoes were kicked off at random intervals and left to lie wherever they fell, but John restarted the practice of pulling off his shoes at the top of the staircase. He did not bother to line them up.

One night after a particularly taxing and extremely random case, John and Sherlock stumbled out of a cab at two AM, both giggling from one too many wines from Angelo's. Sherlock caught the edge of his shoe on the curb and nearly tripped, catching himself on John who overbalanced and fell back against the door. They threw three times as much fare to the cabbie and eventually made their way inside.

They were at the very top of the stairs when Sherlock hiccupped and said in a voice two octaves higher than normal, "John, Johnny, John, I think I love you, John." John responded by grabbing the detective by his scarf and dragging Sherlock's lips down to his.

The very tips of their shoes were touching.