Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plot.

White-powdery snow swept Baker Street. A ring in the distance indicated that it was two in the afternoon, and that was when Sherlock walked into 221B and saw his flatmate on the floor, surrounded by wires. He half-smiled and remembered that their roles were reversed only a few days ago. Although the wires were human veins… same thing really.

Sherlock watched as John gave a hopeless sigh and rubbed his face. He narrowed his eyes and cleared his throat, looking ahead as he pulled off his gloves. "The twin sister did it."

John looked over his shoulder, noticing the other for the first time. He scanned them before returning his attention to the wires. "Yeah, well, you already knew that." He picked up a controller and studied it. "Said that as soon as you stepped foot in the flat." He slowly unraveled the wire, setting the controller free.

Sherlock glanced at him as he strode across the room, slipping his coat off and hanging it up. He looked ahead and fixed his sleeve. "Lestrade didn't seem so keen when I texted him the conclusion."

John sighed and shook his head. He grabbed the other controller and freed it, too. "You're the only one who wants to work the day after bloody Christmas."

The taller paused and turned his head, looking out of the window. "Oh, yeah." He waved a hand. "It's that holiday—"

"—Boxing Day."

"Saint Stephen's Day," he corrected.

John gave him a look as he slid the wires and controllers away from him. He slowly stood up and walked into the kitchen. He rubbed his arms. "Tea?" he asked Sherlock, but his flatmate had focused in on the object on the floor.

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "Super Nintendo," he stated.

John watched him and sniffed. "Yeah," he said, reaching up and grabbing two cups from the cupboard. "Harry sent it to me for a Christmas gift."

"Why would she send you a horribly outdated system as a gift? Clearly she needs to reevaluate—" He paused, seeing John's expression. "Ah, sentiment." He turned and glided into the kitchen, taking the outstretched drink. He watched John and raised an eyebrow. "I remembered."

The other only hummed as he took his own cup and headed back in the living room. He took a quick drink before setting it down. "I have everything here. I just don't know where"—he grabbed a thick wire that branched off into three smaller ones—"these things go. Everything else is all right. But these." He shook them. "I don't know."

Sherlock watched John quietly from beside the kitchen counter. He lifted the cup and took a drink. When John fell silent, Sherlock carefully placed the cup on the tabletop. He wiped his lips with the pad of his thumb. "The wire heads are colored coded: yellow, white, red." He walked across the room and towards the television. "There will be an identical set on the telly." He placed his hands on the sides of the machine and ran them up and down. He furrowed his brow.

"Already looked, Sherlock. There's none."

"Nonsense, John." He tilted his head and pulled on the set, craning his neck to check the backside.

John softly smiled and crossed his arms over his chest. "Find anything?"

Sherlock hesitated before slowly pulling back and fixing the television. "Actually yes." He straightened up and turned on the balls of his feet. He stared at John, who was watching him with an amused expression. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "There are input jacks where you are able to plug in cables, but," he paused and looked away from John's smug smile, "not what you're looking for."

John said nothing as he crouched down and gathered up the controllers, winding them up. He found a spot for them on the bookshelf before sliding the gaming system across the floor with his foot. "Don't worry about it. We'll figure it out later," he said quietly. He sounded as if he was convincing, reassuring, himself rather than anyone else. Sherlock felt his features soften as he watched John look at the Christmas tree in the corner of the room. "We still need to take that down."

Sherlock chewed on the inside of his cheek and walked over to the tree. He looked around and glanced at John. "Where's the box for these baubles?" he asked delicately, reaching out a hand behind him.

Instead of passing the desired box over, John walked over and stood beside Sherlock. He cradled the box in one arm and began to pluck ornaments off of the branches. He kept his eyes transfixed on the tree as he sighed. "Tell me how the twin sister done it."

Sherlock carefully watched him before stretching up and removing the star topper. He ran his thumb along the smooth surface. "I immediately knew when I smelled her perfume on the corpse…"

Later that day, after Sherlock had treated John to Chinese, the pair found themselves lazily lounging in front of the fireplace. Even though the welcoming flames heated up the flat, Sherlock noticed John had pulled on a new jumper. He watched carefully as the other situated himself on the couch, tugging at the neck of the garment. Sherlock blinked and turned his attention to the fire. "Mum bought you that jumper," he stated, but John could hear his voice raise at the end, as if he were also asking.

He looked down and picked at the sleeve. "Yes," he said, pursing his lips. His flatmate only hummed as he placed his hands on his chest. John studied him before looking ahead. "Want to put on a film?" He received another hum, which he took as a yes. He stood up, hearing the joints in his knees pop, and walked over to the shelf next to the telly. He started to flip through the various cases.

"Nothing too ridiculous, John," Sherlock said, opening an eye and glancing at his friend on the floor, hearing a chuckle emerge. The dark-haired shut his eyes and tilted his head back. "Wouldn't want a repeat of last Thursday."

John shook his head and picked up a film. "We wouldn't want that, would we?" he breathed out. He looked at the back of the case before standing up. "How about this one?" he asked, making his way over to the player. He glanced down and moved the rest of the films to the shelf. The old gaming system caught his eye, making him grimace.

"You can't just expect me to agree to something if you don't show me," Sherlock drawled.

John narrowed his eyes and looked over his shoulder. "Your eyes are still closed." He sighed and faced front, popping in the DVD. "Idiot," he mumbled.

"John…"

"It's called Contact. Haven't watched this in ages." He walked back over and plopped down next to Sherlock. "It's about aliens and all that rubbish you like to poke fun at." Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over at John, who leaned back and settled down as he grabbed the remote, beginning the film. He glanced over, seeing Sherlock stare. "It even talks about a real star. Named Vega."

"Vega…"

"You know… in the solar system."

Sherlock snorted and looked ahead, crossing his arms over his chest. John laughed and pulled a leg up onto the couch, ready for the following one hundred and fifty minutes of criticism and commentary. But he heard none. Well, he heard Sherlock exclaim loudly when the main character's father died ("Come on, you stupid girl!"), but after that, he was out like a light. He blamed the stupid jumper.

As the last scene slowly zoomed out and the credits rolled, Sherlock stretched out and sighed. "Well, John, another film that furthers the point that you have terrible taste." He smoothed out a wrinkle in his shirt and waited for a snark-filled remark, but none came. Sherlock let out a triumphant hum as he looked over. "Too stunned for a—" He paused, smiling falling. "How am I supposed to criticize you when you're asleep?"

A snore.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked ahead, childishly crossing his arms over his chest. He expected John to wake up in the following minutes, but when no such thing happened, he let out a defeated sigh and peeled himself off the couch. He dragged his feet across the floor and stood in front of the player. He popped the disk out and studied it, wrinkling his nose in distaste before putting it away. He turned off the television and crouched down, placing the film with the others, making a mental note to leave a hefty review inside the DVD case and saving John the misery if he had the urge to watch it again.

He slowly straightened up and ran a hand through his curls, spying the Super Nintendo system that had made John silent for two hours. He didn't like it. Sherlock looked to the corner of the room, seeing the bare and half-put away Christmas tree. John said that they would have to finish the next day. Sherlock made a face and turned on his heel, walking across the room and studying John once he reached the coffee table. He stayed still for a few moments, taking it all in. He breathed in and reached over, grabbing the blanket on the back of the couch and tossing it over John. He considered removing the jumper, but decided that it wasn't his problem if John suffered a heat stroke in the middle of the night.

Sherlock looked him over once more before turning around and relocating to his bedroom for the remainder of the night.

John woke up the following morning with sweaty palms and a light-head. He grumbled and lazily pushed the blanket off of him. He breathed out and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling it stand on end. "Jesus," he muttered, lowering his hands and hooking his fingers underneath the hem of his jumper. The bloody jumper. He ripped it off and straightened out his t-shirt, sniffing. He made a face at the bundle of fabrics before placing it beside him. He sighed and looked ahead.

The flat was completely quiet.

Now, John knew that didn't necessarily mean that he was the only one left. Sherlock could be tucked away in his bedroom, performing an experiment that only God knows how it'll end. So, John carefully stood up, taking note of how nauseated he felt, and made his way over to Sherlock's bedroom. He listened for a second, trying to see if he could find an answer without further investigation. When no sound came, John fought back an audible groan as he rapped his knuckles on the door and pushed it open. "Sherlock?"

The room was empty. The bed covers were strewn across the floor as if the occupant leapt off in a hurry. No sign where said occupant went, however. John pursed his lips and turned back around, leaving the door open a smudge before slowly walking into the kitchen.

He let out a sigh he felt he had been holding and moved over to the cabinet, taking out a cup. John paused, then, seeing a bright yellow sticky-note pressed to the top of the cupboard. He furrowed his brow, set the cup down, and reached in, peeling off the post-it. He pulled it close, immediately recognizing Sherlock's quick scrawl.

John!

Lestrade just informed me of this rather interesting case that he's been holding hostage. I didn't want to wake you.

-Sherlock

P.S. Also, if your stomach isn't up to par (which I'd imagine it isn't), munch on some crackers with your morning coffee.

John studied the post-it note a few times before letting out a long stream of breath. How Sherlock managed to fit all of that on a single sticky-note, he would never know, but he decided not to look too much into it.

He shook his head and placed it on the counter, sliding his middle finger along the top to let it dwell there. John wet his lips as he went about making a pot of coffee, looking into the adjacent cupboard where the crackers resided. Instead, he only found another note.

Sorry. No crackers. Try toast.

John gave the post-it a good hard look before sighing and fishing out the bread loaf and toaster.

John seemed to have no concept of time while Sherlock was away. He had planned to make himself productive and clean the flat, but when he turned to the Christmas tree, he felt all that confidence disappear. He talked to himself as he dragged its box closer and began to complete the job he and Sherlock failed to. He had grabbed onto a limb when he felt Harry's present stare at him. John frowned and wanted to curl in on himself. Instead, he sat on the floor and examined each ornament.

Sherlock walked into the flat, then, not particularly surprised to find his friend on the floor twice in the same week. He studied him before shifting around the package under his arm to peel off his gloves. "Hello, John." He stuffed them into his coat pockets.

The other slowly raised his head and looked over his shoulder. He offered Sherlock a small smile as he lowered an ornament back into the box. "How did the case go? Anything interesting?" He heard Sherlock hum in validation, the smile that was laced within. John looked back over just as Sherlock placed a box on the coffee table before shedding his coat. John raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

Sherlock slowly shook his head and spun around. "Patience, John. Let me tell you all about the—"

"—yeah, yeah. Spare the details for another time. Maybe later. What's that? John stood up and walked over, standing next to Sherlock. "Oh, God, please don't tell me it's something illegal that you managed to smuggle under your brother's nose."

The taller smirked. "If only." He reached down and nudged the box closer to John. "It's a present. For you." He paused. "It wouldn't be that hard to smuggle something underneath Mycroft's fat nose."

John slightly smiled. "Save it for another day." He dropped his gaze down to the box and studied it. "A present?" He crouched down and extended a hand. He hesitated and pulled it back. "Is it a head?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Not a head." He walked over, sitting in his armchair. He steepled his fingers against his lips and watched John. "Open it."

The other continued to hesitate, but soon, he took a deep breath and carefully opened the box. He knitted his brow and pushed away the wrappings before lifting a sleek, compact device out. It had multiple input jacks in the back where various wires could be connected. The corners of John's mouth twitched. "Is this—?"

"—yes." John looked up and grinned at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock waved it away. "It was at the pawn shop we were at earlier. It was tucked away, out of sight, so I—" He stopped, hearing John sigh. "What?" he asked as John rubbed his eyes.

"This is illegal. You nicked it out of some shop. Jesus, what if we get infiltrated or something."

"It's just a cable box, John."

Sherlock studied him, narrowing his eyes. The other weakly laughed and scratched at his head. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. Sorry." He looked down and turned the device over in his hands. "Thanks, Sherlock. Really. This means a lot." He looked up and stared at him. "Even if you nicked it. Git."

Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth raise. "Don't mention it."

Initially, it never struck Sherlock that giving John the cable box—the last piece to the puzzle—would result in any negative effects. Perhaps it was because, as a child, he never divulged in trivial things such as video games. He just never saw the appeal. But John, oh, he seemed to think that the center of his universe was that game system. He would sit in the flat, in front of the television, wasting precious time on a game. He would only remove himself when he was called into surgery, when Sherlock asked (politely) for him to tag along on a case, and when the time came for meals or sleep.

The game John was playing, now, was one off of the Mario branches from what Sherlock could gather. The little, portly man in red (that reminded him of Mycroft, minus the mustache) was running across the screen. The objective of the level was unclear, though. John seemed to be enjoying himself regardless.

Sherlock pursed his lips and moved around, stretching out his legs under the coffee table. He turned his head and glanced at the clock. Nine o'clock. He heavily sighed and looked back ahead, staring at the screen again. The little man in red had acquired a green dinosaur, now, and was jumping all over the screen. Sherlock frowned and lifted up his hands, rubbing his face. "Please never grow a mustache, John."

He received a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. I would never grow a mustache." John looked down at the controller and pressed a button. He looked back up at the screen, squinting his eyes. "Not in a million years." He jumped on a turtle creature.

Sherlock studied him and placed his hands on his chest. "You've been staring at that screen too long, doctor."

"Yeah, yeah. Let me finish this level."

He didn't know when the level was "finished", but he had an inkling that it wasn't anytime soon. Sherlock tried to yank his legs to his chest, but ended up ramming his shins into the coffee table. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. "Oh," he mumbled.

John glanced at him for a second before turning back to the game. "You okay?" He smashed his thumb against a button.

Sherlock stayed still, in his semi-fetal position on the couch. He slowly opened his eyes and let out a breath. "Of course I'm okay," he said, carefully standing up. John hummed in response and kept his eyes on the screen. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared at the game, watching as the character ran in a single line, occasionally jumping over a few creatures. Boring.

The other must have felt Sherlock watching him, for he paused the game and slowly twisted around. "What is it? You wouldn't be standing there with… that look on your face if there wasn't something you're holding back." Sherlock smirked and turned, looking out of the window. John blinked and glanced over, out of the window, too. He sniffed and stared at Sherlock. "You don't need my, I don't know, consent for you to lock yourself in your bedroom." He faced front and picked up the controller. He resumed the game and jumped right back in. "Just going to finish this level," he reminded the other, adding a nod.

Sherlock stared at the back of John's head and then at the screen. He walked across the room and made sure to pass in front of the television, resulting in an exclaim from John as he "lost his last life".

"Teach me how to play," Sherlock stated one evening a week later. It came out of the blue. They were both doing their individual things: Sherlock plucking at his violin, John reading a book. So, that was probably why John hesitated.

"What?"

"Teach me how to play. It's a simple enough request."

"Oh, nothing is simple with you."

Sherlock hummed and looked at John. He lowered his gaze and began to pluck at the violin's strings again. John must have been referring to the actions of the previous days. He was hoping there wouldn't be any repercussions.

Lestrade had phoned Sherlock, informing him of a strange case that popped up. Wanting to peel out of the flat as soon as possible, Sherlock practically shouted at John to finish up with "his stupid, little level" or he was leaving him behind. John, of course, retorted back that it wasn't stupid and that he needed to be patient.

"The case isn't going to grow legs and walk out of Scotland Yard," John had said, wrapping the wire around the controller.

Sherlock stopped pacing the room and stared at his flatmate. He narrowed his eyes. "Oh, John," he began, but the shorter had already shoved past him, walking down the stairs.

The case had, no doubt, been a strange one. As soon as Lestrade began to explain the situation, the detectives in the room, along with John, could see the cogs turn in Sherlock's head. His eyes lit up, and he seemed to stand up a little taller. Without as much as a warning, he left the station, spouting off ideas to no one in particular. John was left behind to finish up his notes, making sure to get the last few details before following after the consulting detective.

Mr. Foster and his wife were staying at a hotel for an Inventors' Convention. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, according to Mrs. Foster, but the next morning, Mr. Foster was found dead with a knife in his chest. Surrounding the body were a newspaper, a large bedspring, and an open box of his favorite cigarettes. The windows and the door were all still locked from the inside. The primary suspect was Mrs. Foster, although she declared that she was innocent.

John had hurried out of the station to catch up with Sherlock, who had already walked down the length of the street. He let out a breath when he reached him. "It's obviously the wife," he stated, sighing.

Sherlock raised up a hand. "You have to look at it from all angles," he said, keeping his eyes on the streets.

"Ah, alright. Well, guess I'm just narrow-minded. Sighted."

"Yes."

John glared at the back of Sherlock's head, at the low rumble of his voice. He slowly breathed in and reached into his pocket, taking out his small notepad. "The hotel manager, maid, and the doorman said they saw nothing." He squinted his eyes and turned the pad. "There was another couple at the hotel with the Fosters. The Waltons." He glanced at Sherlock, but his friend kept silent. He let out a breath as he looked back down. "Not much to go by…"

Sherlock quickly spun around, causing John to make an abrupt stop, almost running into the taller's chest. "They worked together."

"Excuse me?"

"Mr. Foster and Mr. Walton. They worked together. Didn't you hear Lestrade?" He looked ahead, eyes flickering about.

John flipped his page of notes and nodded a bit, raising his eyebrows. "Ah, yes. Right here—"

"—and seeing as this convention was for inventors, and sounded like it would last for a few days, the two men brought their wives along for company." Sherlock paused and slowly turned on his heel. "But who put the knife in Mr. Foster's chest?" he muttered. He walked down the street, pulling his coat collar up. He turned the corner and disappeared from sight. John stood still and narrowed his eyes. He looked down and scribbled a few notes in the page's margins before marching away.

Later that evening, John had walked back into 221B to find Sherlock stretched out on the couch. He stood in the doorway and studied the other. He glanced in the direction of the television and shifted his weight onto the other leg. "So…"

"No, John."

He furrowed his brow and looked over at the mass on the piece of furniture. "What?"

Sherlock swung his legs over the edge of the couch and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "The knife was shoved into Mr. Foster's chest at such a force that caused him to topple over." He hesitated. "Although, who wouldn't topple over." He shut his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands to them.

John pursed his lips and slipped off his coat. He hung it on the hook before heading into the kitchen. "You need some tea."

"Yes, some tea would certainly replenish my dying brain cells and make this so clear," he drawled, falling back.

John glanced in Sherlock's general direction before shaking his head. He dragged cups out and stared on the tea. "Maybe the wife dabbled into some inventing herself. Her husband upset her, and, I don't know, used the bedspring to rig the cigarette box." He leaned against the counter.

"Still caught up on the wife, John." Silence rang, to which John pursed his lips, and then Sherlock's eyes snapped open. His lips curled at the edges. "Oh," he breathed out. He sat up and looked around frantically. "Oh!" He stood and reached to grab his coat. He quickly put it on. "You are excellent, John! Go play on your silly game." He sprinted out of the flat, leaving John in the kitchen, a frown on his face.

John went to bed that night, his mind racing. He had no idea where Sherlock had gone. He hadn't heard anything from him or from the Yard, so he stayed optimistic. Although, it was getting hard to do after Sherlock bade him goodbye with the order of playing his "silly game". He had made it seem like John was a dog, and after doing an outstanding trick, rewarding him with a treat. John had, in fact, played, but Sherlock didn't need to know that.

He grumbled and pressed his face into his pillow. If his flatmate made a snarky remark, which he would (this was Sherlock, after all), John would just say that he was wasting time. Simple as that. He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut.

John was woken up a few hours later by his mobile vibrating against the side table. He rubbed the sleep out of his eye with one hand and answered with the other. "Yeah?"

"John, it's Greg." His eyes widened as he lowered his hand. "You might want to get down here. Sherlock got himself into a mess, and he's not cooperating."

He glanced at the clock and let out a loud sigh. "I'll be right there."

Upon his arrival at the station and seeing Sherlock with a long cut across his cheek, John cursed. He marched in and gave the detective a chastising look, but it proved to be futile for he was perched on the edge of his seat, bubbling with excitement.

"It was a catapult, John! A catapult in the cigarette box! You should have been there. It was Mr. Walton. I had my suspicions from the very beginning, but after you mentioned the possibility of a rig, I went back to the hotel. Turns out Mr. Foster and Mrs. Walton were spotted together—should really be careful with that sort of thing—and her husband figured out what was happening. Well, who wouldn't. It was really quite obvious. No idea how I could have missed it." He looked at John, the grin still on his face. "A catapult, John. You never see those anymore."

John narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "What happened to your face?"

Sherlock blinked and raised a hand, touching his cheek. He pulled back his hand, seeing blood on his fingertips. "Almost forgot. Mr. Walton wasn't too pleased to see me."

He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You went after him."

"Well, of course. Lestrade wasn't responding to my texts. What was I supposed to do?"

"Wait, Sherlock! You're supposed to wait! He could have done more damage. He could have shot you—"

"—oh, he did."

John's eyes widened. "What? He shot." He looked him over, as if a bullet hole would suddenly pop out. "He shot you."

"Don't act like that. The bullet grazed my hip." He patted said hip, narrowing his eyes. "I have legs. I can. Dodge." He stared at John.

"That isn't the point, Sherlock. You could have been badly injured, and it would be no fault but your own. Oh, God. I should have ran after you. Kept tabs."

"I can take care of myself—"

"—what if you died—"

"—but I didn't. And if I did, you could just think of me as one of your game characters. I'll just 'respawn'. Be good as new."

John stared at him, pressing his lips together. "That isn't funny, Sherlock."

"Really? I thought it was side-splitting."

Silence had hung in the air, then, as John stood in front of Sherlock, eyes narrowed. His jaw was clenched, and his knuckles were turning white. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "No comment?" He watched John's tongue slide in between his lips.

The other kept quiet for a few more moments before nodding. "You have stupid hair."

"At least I don't acquire a limp every time I'm bored."

"Ha, clever."

"Hmm."

The next few seconds had passed by in a flash. One moment, Sherlock and John were exchanging hateful glares, the next, John had Sherlock's coat balled in his fists as the detective smashed their mouths together. John furrowed his brow as he pressed closer, feeling Sherlock's fingers in his hair. He parted his lips and breathed into the other's mouth, receiving a nip on his bottom lip.

John pulled away a bit, raising his eyebrows. "Shit." He looked up at Sherlock, his blue eyes stark and determined.

"You're mine," he growled, leaning down and claiming his lips again. "I'm the center of your universe." He dipped his head down and pressed a biting kiss to the side of his neck.

John screwed his eyes shut. "Oh, God, yes," he sighed, tilting his head back.

"Bloody hell." John jumped and looked over, seeing Lestrade and Donovan standing in the doorway. He could feel the tips of his ears redden. He glanced at Sherlock, who had straightened up and kept his eyes fixed on the wall, his expression unreadable. John was left to face the others.

He cleared his throat and scratched his neck. "Well, um, I think Sherlock can cooperate now." He shot him a look before awkwardly patting his shoulder. "Yeah," he added, nodding. He looked back at the two and, with their surprise etched on their faces, he ducked his head down and slipped out, saying that he had "something to take care of".

John went home that evening, head racing with thoughts and unnecessary fantasies. He tried to tuck them to the farthest corner of his mind as he made himself a small snack, knowing he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. With Sherlock being tended for his injuries and the declaration he made at the station, there were quite a few things keeping John up.

Finally, around four-thirty in the morning, John, from his position in his chair, heard movement on the staircase. He straightened up and rubbed at his face, at the weariness of his eyes. He turned his head and looked at the doorway, seeing Sherlock stand there. The detective looked worn-out, even for him. He stared at John before looking ahead. "There was nothing too serious. I can take care of myself, like I said before. I would have been home a lot sooner, but, you know. Paperwork." He took a deep breath and slipped his coat off his shoulders. John remained quiet as Sherlock strode across the room. "Oh, I see you made food."

John looked at the floor. "So, that's it, then."

"What's it, then?" Sherlock asked as he shoved a handful of food in his mouth. John looked ahead and let out a dry laugh. He stood up and made his way to his bedroom, shaking his head. Sherlock watched as he passed and narrowed his eyes. "John?"

"Goodnight, Sherlock," he called as he shut the bedroom door. He stood in the middle of the room and took a deep breath, laughing afterwards. He shook his head and laughed again. John had made his way over to the bed and crawled in, not in the least bit tired.

The days that followed were nothing extraordinary. Sherlock had acted like he never declared ownership over John (even though the small mark on his neck begged to differ), and John acted the same. Soon, it had been a week, and nothing spectacular happened. The pair had finished a rather mundane case earlier that day, and Sherlock was now dragging himself around the flat.

John watched helplessly from his seat and bit his lip. "I've got a riddle for you."

Sherlock sighed and stopped where he was. He glanced at John before looking out of the window. "I never liked riddles."

"A man was found murdered on Sunday morning," he started, leaning back in his chair. "His wife immediately called after finding him. The police questioned the wife and the staff and got these alibis: the wife said she was sleeping; the cook was fixing breakfast; the gardener was picking vegetables; the maid was getting the post; and the butler was cleaning the closet." He watched Sherlock as he perked up his head and looked ahead. John rubbed his lips. "The police immediately arrested the murderer. Who was it, and how did they know?"

Sherlock smirked a bit and reached over, grabbing his violin from its case. "Oh, John, I admire your simplicity." He turned and walked to his chair, sitting down and plucking at the strings.

"What's the answer, Sherlock?"

He tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. "The maid. There's no post on Sunday." He looked down. "Stupid riddle."

John shook his head and stood up, going over to the bookshelf. "Yeah, just a stupid riddle." He narrowed his eyes and grabbed the first book he saw. He thumbed through it as he walked back to his chair, plopping down.

The next few minutes passed without interruption—Sherlock plucking at his violin, John reading a book—but the baritone that is the detective's voice soon broke it.

"Teach me how to play."

John paused. "What?"

"Teach me how to play. It's a simple enough request."

"Oh, nothing is simple with you." Sherlock hummed as he returned his attention to his violin. John furrowed his brow and shut his book. He placed it on the arm of the chair. "Why do you want to know how to play?'

The other glanced at John and straightened up in his seat. "I want to know what's so enticing about it." He looked at John, narrowing his eyes. His friend smiled as he stood up, walking over to the television. Sherlock looked down, running his fingertips along the violin strings.

John switched to the correct station and looked over his shoulder, at Sherlock. He pursed his lips and looked back ahead. "I don't like being treated like a dog." He crouched down and plugged in the controller.

"I know."

He sat down and sniffed. He looked over. "Come over here, you big buffoon." John smiled as Sherlock placed his violin in the chair before walking over, sitting beside the other. John passed the controller over and watched Sherlock glide his thumbs across the buttons. "It's pretty self-explanatory." He looked down and began pointing at the buttons. "Move with these. Jump with this. And you'll sometimes need to use this one." He glanced at Sherlock and took his hum as a cue to move on. John started the game and leaned back. "Good luck."

"I don't want to be the funny, fat man."

"Tough." John laughed. He switched back from Sherlock's poor attempts at completing the level to Sherlock himself, who seemed to get more frustrated by the minute. John laughed again. "This is just the first level."

"Shut up, John."

Several button smashes later, John reached out a hand and touched Sherlock's arm. "Hey there."

"I'm getting the hang of it, John. Hush."

John studied him and bit back a smile. "I've already lost you?" He shook his head and straightened up. He glanced back at Sherlock and placed his hands in his lap. "You know—"

"—yes."

"You know the universe has no center." He watched as Sherlock seemed to switch gears, no longer focused on the game. John continued, "So, that means nobody can be the center of one's universe. Which is a pity, because it's such a—" Sherlock dipped down, then, and carefully kissed John, only pulling away after the other realized what was happening and reciprocated.

He looked down and adjusted his grip on the controller. "Everything is relative to the observer." He glanced at John before clearing his throat and looking back at the screen.

John watched Sherlock and glanced at the floor. He took a deep breath and shook his head. "Here," he said, reaching out and taking the controller. "Let me show you how it's done."