*BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH IS ONE SEXY BEAST.

**TOO BAD I DON'T OWN HIM. OR SHERLOCK.

Two chapters in one day! Don't faint from all this excitement! Oh, joy!

I've never seen that thing in my life. What is it?

John winced as a dark blue book fell on his foot. He was shifting a mess of papers, and the thing just had to head for his toes. He peered down at it. The book had fallen open, and the writing inside looked like Sherlock's elegant scrawl. Maybe they were notes on his experiment or something.

Stupid journal thing,

I don't know why people do this. Frankly, it's stupid. You're stupid, and I'm stupid for talking to a book. But I need to get my thoughts on paper, so that I can document them and empty out my mind palace a bit. So Anderson's trying to grow a beard. Don't know why. It makes him look like more of a barbarian than before. What an idiot. I can already feel my IQ dropping at the mere thought of the creature.

John laughed to himself. Oh, Sherlock. Never change.

I tried to drug John today. He managed to figure it out when I handed him that cup of tea. Must have remembered that case from a few months ago- The Hound of The Baskervilles- such a sensational title. Speaking of Watson, he's the whole reason I need to empty out the mind palace- he's filling up the whole place, for some odd reason-

John slammed the book shut, exhaling violently to clear the dust out of his nostrils.

He felt warm, and rather pleased. He meant that much to Sherlock?

There is sand in my unmentionable places, John. Sand.

If you took a walk on the beach that one fateful morning, you might wonder at the odd sight of two grown men frolicking in the sand on a gloomy Monday. If you knew who they were, well, maybe not so much.

John and Sherlock were running in circles on the sand. It was actually warm, for once, and their coats were tossed carelessly to the side along with their shoes and socks, shirtsleeves and trouser legs rolled up.

John had dropped a handful of sand down Sherlock's trousers earlier. Sherlock was trying to get him back.

"There is sand in my unmentionable places, John! Sand!"

John let out a rather unmanly giggle and attempted to escape the stranglehold.

Soup.

Sherlock watched John intently as he sipped at his soup.

The doctor ignored him, and concentrated on his food.

"Is it good?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess. "

Sherlock reached over, eased the spoon out of his hand, and took a bit of the soup.

Now John was the one watching as Sherlock put the spoon that was previously in his flatmate's mouth into his own.

End me now.

(you wanted a onesie, you've got a onesie)

John snorted, and stuffed a fist into his mouth to stop himself from cackling at Sherlock.

The world's only consulting detective was wearing a onesie, coloured blue, with the word sexy spelled out in sequins across his buttocks.

He took several pictures of the sleeping man, and locked himself into his room, in case Sherlock tried to strangle him with his shoelaces.

Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes.

John didn't know Sherlock's birthday. So he asked him.

"It's tomorrow. Please don't do something stupid, like plan a surprise party or take me out to the amusement park. I'd be able to deduct the surprise before you'd even begun to plan it."

John agreed not to do anything. He would, however, give Sherlock something.

Sherlock was ridiculously happy when he got the package of socks, even if it didn't show on his face. They were thick, and soft, and had that pleasant brand new smell. The socks came in little assorted colours, with dancing dragons and pirates.

He wore them that very day.

I seem to have misplaced my shoes, John.

Sherlock wiggled his toes. He ran a foot over John's face. Then he poked his big toe into the doctor's ear. Sherlock had sneaked into his room to watch him sleep. He wanted to catch him saying embarrassing things, but there was nothing so far. He got bored. Hence, the face inspection. With feet.

John opened his mouth, and started to snore softly.

A devious grin crept over the detective's face, invisible in the dark.

His foot inched closer and closer to John's lips.

The sudden introduction of Sherlock's toe into his mouth made John wake up with a start. Reacting instinctively, he bit down. Hard.

Sherlock yowled in pain, regretting his decision.

Don't touch that.

John watched warily as his flatmate cooed at the thing in his arms.

Sherlock was stroking a little hedgehog, smoothing his finger down its spines. John was feeling a bit nervous(and jealous, but we all know he doesn't want to share Sherlock with anyone.).

A squeal of pain and a soft thump told him his prediction came true.

The hedgehog trundled away, and Sherlock stared longingly after it, idly tugging a spike out of his arm.

No.

"No means no, Sherlock. Now go away."

"But- but- I want to touch it."

"Why? Go touch your own. I don't understand your sudden fascination with these, especially mine. Everyone's got one- well, everyone except for Voldemort."

"I don't know who Voldemort is, and I really, really want to squeeze your nose. It's all big and round. It's practically begging to be honked. Please?"

"Oh, Sherlock, don't- don't do that. Sherlock…"

"…"

"Alright, fine. Go ahead."

"Heehee. Honk."

Disgusting.

Sherlock pulled a face, and leaned over his plate.

"No. Sherlock, swallow."

He glared at John. An answering glare met his eyes from across the table. He obeyed.

Sherlock picked up his glass of water and gulped it down.

"Blech. Beans. I hate beans. Bad bad beans."

"Beans are good for you, Sherlock. Now eat your apple."

Sherlock viciously bit into the fruit. A speck of juice hit John in the eye.

"Apples are rubbish. I hate apples."

Then Sherlock choked on a chunk of the fruit. John pounded his back, the thing shooting out of his mouth and hitting the wall. Sherlock gulped for air, edging away from the apple.

I have abs.

Sherlock curls up beside John, laying his head on his stomach. He can feel the rise and fall of his abdomen as he breathes, and the slow pulsing of blood.

"You're soft, John. Your stomach is quite comfortable."

"Hey! I'm not soft! My stomach is actually very firm! I have muscles!"

Sherlock's lips pull into a smile, the left corner of his mouth rising higher than the right.

He falls asleep to the gentle tug of John's fingers running through his hair.

Yes, this is mine.

Sherlock didn't like the looks he and John were getting. So what if people stared at him? He didn't care. But they were looking at John. His John.

Sherlock didn't like that one bit.

So he took the shorter man's hand in his, ignoring the half-hearted hey as John protested weakly. That would show those old ladies that John was his.

But they weren't stopping.

He'd have to do it, then.

Oh well, for the sake of John's innocence.

Sherlock tipped his head down, and pecked John on his lips. He miscalculated a bit, and ended up pressing a chaste kiss onto the bottom lip. But that was okay. At least it didn't land on his ear.