Sherlock sat in 221B, idly looking over the newspaper. It was rather boring, save for the enormous headline Net Detective and Mysterious Stranger Overthrow SOPA and PIPA Legislation. John was making tea in the kitchen, blissfully aware of Sherlock's presence.

It had taken longer than expected, three weeks to resolve the issue in America. Payment hadn't been from one person, in fact, it seemed more and more envelopes arrived in the post every day. Curiously, the only return addresses given were websites ending in dot tumblr dot com and every postage stamp had the words #beliveinsherlock on them in yellow lettering. The packages held everything from several quid to hundreds of pounds. John had been going to the currency exchange kiosk often as well, as American dollars also kept making appearances.

Sherlock hadn't the slightest interest in his pricey fan mail and had gone about business as normal. The only sign he acknowledged the change in their bank accounts was that a day after he arrived back from America, a chair arrived for John. It was covered in the same hideous fabric that Sherlock had skinned off of the bare piece of furniture that had since been thrown out.

"It was the only one they had left out of the original set of three." The detective had said curtly the following morning, sipping his tea.

Even though Sherlock wouldn't admit it, John knew that he had missed him just as much as he had missed him, the first night he had come back, the doctor had been so overjoyed that he had promptly tackled the man when he came through the door.

"JOHN WATSON!" the man had boomed, his suitcases scattered every which way. "Do you have any idea how many different bits of anatomy are in these bags?" the context of the statement had made John start to laugh, great shoulder heaving laughs and Sherlock's expression went from fury, to bewilderment, and finally to bemusement as he picked himself up off the floor and retrieved his odds and ends that had gone flying. "I'm so thrilled that you've lost your mind while I was away." He snapped as John took a seat on the couch, still laughing.

"I'm…sorry." The man gasped for air.

That night both had been uneasy about heading off to their respective rooms for the night and so John had brought quilts from Mrs. Hudson's linen cabinet and they had bundled up on the sofa and watched crap telly until they dozed off.

Their landlady found them in the morning, John's head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. The dark haired man was awake, but hadn't moved, for fear of waking his flatmate. Mrs. Hudson had come up the stairs and Sherlock looked surprised to see her but he only stared at her until she felt that she was intruding on a private moment between the boys and had left, simply shutting the door behind her.

Since then, the boys had been even more inseparable then usual and they had developed a deep disliking to sleeping in beds, rather the sofa became a sort of resting place for them. The sleeping positions varied, but somehow or another, Sherlock always made sure he woke up first so that he could look at John sleeping before the other man woke up.

Their lives essentially remained the same however and both preferred it this way.

Sherlock hadn't checked his blog in a while and the thought crossed his mind as he was contemplating spray painting a dart board above the sofa and throwing knives at it. John was typing furiously at his computer, not bothering to look up at the detective and thus was quite surprised when the first hunting utensil found its way into the dry wall.

"Stoppit!" John hollered, still not tearing his eyes away from the screen. Sherlock sulked, pulling the knife free and looking over his flatmate's shoulder, throwing the weapon onto his chair so he could rest his palms on the man's shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

"Updating the blog."

"I thought you did that while I was away."

"You hardly told me anything over the phone; we were too busy talking about other stuff or not talking at all." John replied, not oblivious to the fact that Sherlock's thumbs were rubbing small circles into the base of his neck. What he said had been true however, when he had got on the phone with Sherlock, it was far from business related. Sometimes they talked about nothing, other times they were just content to hear each other on the other end, breathing.

Often, Sherlock would just set up a video chat and the pair would put their laptops in a corner so it would be like they were in the same room, then they would go about their business.

The detective leaned closer, his breath tickling John's ear as he read the words that were frantically being typed onto the screen. "'SOPA Opera'? Is that the title you chose for it? I would've just titled it Stupid Americans." Sniffed Sherlock, removing his hands from John's shoulders and going back to lobbing the knife at the wall.

"I can't write that Sherlock," the doctor said, exasperated by his flatmate's lack of emotional awareness.

"I see no problem with that." He retorted, throwing his hunting utensil again and letting loose a satisfying grunt of approval as it stuck firmly where the eye of the smiley face was. "You never told me why I was on vibrate?"

"I beg your pardon?" John said, his train of thought disrupted by his words. He stopped typing and looked up at the dark-haired man.

"When I call you, it's on vibrate. Why?" Sherlock repeated, slower as if he was a retard.

"Oh, that… it's nothing."

"Jaaaaaaaaawwwwn." The detective whined, plopping down on the couch.

"It's nothing!"

"Tell me."

There was a very loud pause in the room as John sighed and began typing again, Sherlock raised his head from his spot on the sofa and awaited a reply. "So I can… feel you. Y'know, when you call."

"Feel me?"

"I dunno… It's comforting."

The smug expression worn by the consulting detective stayed firmly in place for the next week.