JOHN WATSON

Some months later…

"Where are they John! Damn it, I need them, god I'm so bored…" He nearly upends the couch as I sit calmly in my chair reading the paper, waiting for a coherent thought to flow through the man's mind. He is in the bottomless pit of a 'bored' fugue. We have been a great deal more than friends for several months but really, nothing has changed besides an increased amount of attentiveness on his part and a lack of girlfriends in favor of something much more interesting on mine. "I can't think, it's maddening, I need to think or…" He knocks a box of papers off the table, which slide to the floor in a jumbled avalanche.

"Sherlock…"

"Oh shut up John. Damn this! You must have hid them somewhere, I had two left… DAMN!" He practically flounces into his chair, curls up into a ball and literally vibrates, a mass of irritable nerves.

I sigh. So much for the fantasies of domestic bliss I had several years ago. If I am ever able to calm this man down by suggesting we cuddle on the couch, I will deserve a more than a medal, perhaps a parade and a knighthood.

After about 20 minutes (his average cool down time; yes, I have these timed) he slowly begins to uncurl himself, stretching himself out over the chair. His head is on one arm, his legs are slung over the other, and his positively moronic blue silk dressing gown is falling off his shoulders.

"John, I'm bored." He presses his palms against his face, groaning.

"Well, yes. Believe it or not, I noticed."

"I need a case."

"Probably. Been… what? Two days since the last one."

"John, do something for me."

Spoilt nutter. I roll my eyes. "Tea?"

He groans in a mildly offended manner, and pointedly stretches out a little more on the chair. I lick my lips a little at that; his neck arches nicely, his eyes, god I love when he stares up at me with those mad eyes, when he's like this it's like staring at broken glass…

I sigh. If my sexuality was a code, Sherlock's got it cracked. "Oh come on Sherlock, I was at the hospital all day, and I come home to you destroying the flat. I'm tired and a bit fed up with you, you overgrown child. And besides, we're not teenagers anymore!"

"You're also not gay, yet here you are…" He murmurs smugly. "Plus, you like it better when I'm in a snit. You enjoy "Giving me something to be bored about" and hope to eventually cure my addiction to nicotine by replacing it with "an oral fixation". While you usually allow me to be dominating after a case because I'm on a high and usually overly possessive of you after being out in public with you all day, you like dominating me when I'm acting like a "mad git" because you feel protective of me when I'm in this state and it does tend to relax me. Plus there's no use fighting it too much John, you're already licking your lips and staring at my neck. I'm not sure why you like my neck so much, it's disconcerting, you'd think you were a vampire the way you carry on about it."

I blink at him. "Sherlock, are you attempting to seduce me by deducing the power structure of our relationship?"

"Is it working?"

"Not really, no."

He slumps into a very determined sulk and I eventually get up to put a frozen dinner in the oven.

"Woo hoo!"

There's a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson pokes her head in. "I hadn't seen Sherlock in a couple days, and heard he was a little off, so I thought I'd pop round with some biscuits."

The World's Only Consulting Detective grunts inarticulately and waves his hand in Mrs. Hudson's general direction.

"Now Sherlock, that won't do. It must be very nice to be a kept man. Your Doctor here works very hard for you." She pats my arm kindly and I positively beam and raise both my eyebrows in Sherlock's direction. The back of his neck turns very red and he starts mumbling something irately into his chair. I'm trying very hard to keep myself from laughing as I give Mrs. Hudson a hug, thank her for the biscuits, and send her on her way.

I lock the door, and walk casually over to his chair. "You know, she wouldn't say that if you let me set minimum consulting fees for you."

He huffs in frustration. "But then the interesting cases might not come to me. I might be bored all the time and what would I be?"

"You're more than just brains, Sherlock. They're fantastic, they really are, but they don't have to be on display every second of the day for me to love you."

He grimaces, still irritated at the word 'love' (perhaps he always will be), and pulls away from me.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

It's late, or early, 3am when he crawls into bed, and he is still agitated and greasy from being awake too long without a shower. At first I think he's going to initiate something rough and hopefully not too painful just to get some validation that he is still functioning, but instead he tumbles in close to me so his hair is brushing under my chin.

"All I am is brain," he declares.

I'm not fully awake, and I almost miss the existential crisis by mumbling 'okay' and rolling over back into sleep, but I drag in a breath instead and manage to nuzzle into his curls and slur, "dunno bout that, but then 'parently I'm an idiot".

"Only in comparison", he states with only moderate disdain. He hesitates though, and it's the sort of hesitation I can feel in his muscles through both our nightclothes. "John, what am I when I'm not being clever?"

I crack my eyes open, and manage to make out the curve of his shoulders in the dim light of the room and his hands steepled against my chest as he waits for my answer. Sherlock Holmes can see through everything and everyone, but over the past few months it has become painfully obvious that he needs my input when he tries to deduce the simplest things about himself. I suppose I could make an extremely short list of all of his glowing attributes that don't have anything to do with his intellectual prowess (Attractive? Yes, but he's already aware of it. Kind? Occasionally under great duress. Helpful? Doubtful.), but all that I am conscious enough to do at this moment is whisper "mine".

I doze, briefly, then shake myself awake as the possible importance of the conversation seeps into my sleep addled brain. But his breath is finally rhythmic, his eyes are closed, and he's moving his lips against my t-shirt; some of that brilliant mind of his seeping out in his dreams.

I suppose 'mine' is enough.

End

(I have a short story "Interrupted Visit" up that is a little fluffy bit from Mycroft's perspective; I am also currently writing "Playing with Fire" which is a fic about these two facing Moriarty while in an established relationship. "Playing with Fire" is going to explore Sherlock's sociopathy and attraction to Moriarty a little more, but it's always Johnlock in the end XD.)