'I'm going out.'

John Watson isn't expecting an answer; he's known his partner for far too long and knows that he only speaks when words are needed. He watches himself in the hall mirror as he puts his arms through the sleeves of his coat, checking that his tie isn't crooked.

'I probably wont be back for a couple of hours. I'm going for a drink with a nice young woman I met the other week,' he explains, even though he knows Sherlock won't really take in any of what he is saying, because his eyes are distant and he has his hands below his chin with the fingertips touching.

John rolls his eyes and turns back to the mirror, trying to both loosen and straighten his tie as he unconsciously delays his departing. 'Don't do anything stupid; I don't want to come back and find body parts in the fridge again. And don't stay up too late eithe-' John catches himself before he starts to sound too motherly, but still feels his face heating up.

He focuses all his attention on the piece of fabric tied around under his shirt collar, keeping his head down and his brow furrowed, because he knows that if he sees himself blushing in the mirror then the blood rushing to his face will only stay there for longer.

It is because John is 'concentrating' on his tie and mentally reprimanding himself that he doesn't see the reflection of a tall figure appear behind him. Therefore, he is quite taken aback for a second when he feels hands on his shoulders spinning him around 180 degrees, but it only takes another second for John to compose himself as the very same pale, long indexed hands sort out his tie with an surprisingly practised ease, and then usher him towards the doorway.

Sherlock reaches past him to open the door and pushes John forward gently, the same way you would a small child. 'Have fun on your date, John.'

John is outside now, and whips his head back to face his flatmate with a quietly disgruntled expression. 'I never said-'

But the door shuts, cutting him off. However, Watson is not offended because in the millisecond before the door was closed he saw Holmes' eyes warm and a whisper of a smile glance across his chiselled features, and as he walks away from his residence, smiling and shaking his head, he begins to wonder if Sherlock is finally developing a sense of humour.

When John arrives back at 221B Baker Street later that evening, he half expects for Sherlock to be seated in the same chair, and in the same manner as he was when John saw him last. As it were, however, Watson finds both the sitting and kitchen rooms deserted and in utter darkness. He picks his way through the furniture slowly, as he knows that Holmes could just as well be asleep in one of the armchairs; as is his habit when fixated on a case to exhaust himself through thinking. Many a time John has been woken by a yell, and has dashed out of his bedroom to find Sherlock on the floor next to an overturned chair, having fallen out of it during slumber.

John Watson pads into his own bedroom and, with the aid of the moonlight through the unclosed curtains, spies the figure of his flatmate sprawled on top of the covers on his bed. John raises an eyebrow, but decides that the question of why Holmes chose his bed to sleep on can wait until morning. Sherlock's messy curls glint at him in the barely-there light.

John crosses the room with the aim of closing the curtains, so that his flatmate wouldn't be woken up with the dawn of the sun the next morning. He glances back at Holmes, taking in the slightly open mouth and furrowed brow...and bare feet hanging over the edge of the bed.

The cool autumn atmosphere earlier that evening had quickly transformed into a cold night, as Watson had found out walking home. So with an air of trying to sustain his dignity, John grabs the blanket that is draped over the back of the only chair in the room, and gently drops it on top of Holmes' unconscious form. Sherlock flinches a little, and mutters something that is too quiet and unintelligible for John to make out.

The former army doctor represses a yawn as he yanks the curtains home, and then manoeuvres his way in the darkness back to the door. John glances back at Sherlock over his shoulder, gives a little sigh at the weirdness of it all, and starts back towards the living room with a decidedly bemused expression. He'll be the one sleeping in the armchair tonight, for once. And he can't help thinking that this was Holmes' idea in the first place.