Cho guys, it's me again! Another Sherlock-fic, who could guess? It's a one shot, pretty short but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. I'll come back with something containing chapters soon, I promise! When I've got time.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson & 221B Baker Street (c) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC. Poems used in this drabble are 'Alone' and 'Serenade' by Edgar Allan Poe.

"What's your mother's name?"

"Excuse me, what?"

John blinked. He glanced to his left under mahogany-brown frames, eyeing Sherlock carefully. What on earth was the man thinking about now?

They were both sitting next to each other in the 1.5 meter wide bed, John had been deeply focused on a novel he'd picked from Mrs. Hudson's bookshelf earlier (his own shelf was filled with detective stories and he pretty much got to live through them every other day since he'd moved in at Baker Street). It was a classic, Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice.

Sherlock on the other hand was reading a local newspaper, not really concentrated but still calm somehow. Unusually. One white nicotine patch reflected the light from the lamp as his fingers drummed on his navy blue pajama-pant.
And now, he was looking at John.

"Oh don't be ridiculous, you heard me the first time. What's your mother's name?"

"Why on earth do you wanna know that?"

"Because" Sherlock started, but stopped himself to clear his throat and make sure that John was listening. He was, obviously.

"I know about your sister, I know about your sister's fiancee - since clearly they're back together, I know about their drinking habits and I know a small amount of your father and also about your old dog. I know because I've observed; clearly. But I don't know your mother's name."

The doctor eyed his friend under reading glasses before he put down the book in his lap and removed the dark frames from his face. It became silent between them for a few seconds which probably made Sherlock a little bit annoyed, but at least he didn't show it.

"Lydia. Her name is Lydia" John then finally said, smiling a crooked smile.

Sherlock's face lid up quickly. He started to murmur - not quiet enough for only him to hear but neither loud enough for John to hear exactly everything he said…
"Lydia… Lydia Harriet Watson. Woman who loves god: 'woman from Lydia'…"

He sounded like an encyclopedia.

"Wait, how do you know her full- ah, nevermind…"

Considering returning to the world full of tea parties and Mr Darcy's passion that was so well hidden under his outer swankiness, John was just about to open it up again when he came to think about something…

"So uhm, then… What's your mother's name, Sherlock?"

Surprised, the man looked up with a wrinkle between his eyes. "I won't tell you."

"But why? You know so much about me, about my family and all… And here I am, aware of no one other than Mycroft - and I'm not even sure if the British Government counts as family-"

"I won't tell you."

Oh god, he looked like a five year old kid with his lips pressed against each other and his dark brown hair curls flying everywhere around his head like planets floating around in wrong orbits.

"Alright, alright…"

John sighed and scratched his neck, "But uhm, then… At least tell me… What's your middle name? Favorite food?"

The look he was given was not even nearly close to enthusiastic.

"Alright. Here… Your favorite word?"

Immediately; the face of the consulting detective changed to dreamy and distant in about a second.

"Substantive, verb, adjective?"

"Your choice."

It took a while, but he then opened his mouth again.

"Morgue."

John's mouth fell wide open.
"Are you serious?"

The man nodded.

"But for god's sake Sherlock…"

"What, you asked me! What is wrong with the word morgue? It's not it's meaning I'm talking about, It's the precise word, Doctor. Morgue. It sounds like a earthquake on your tongue. Try saying it and you'll feel yourself. M-or-gue."

Unsure, he tried a few times. And in all honesty, he had to admit that the madman was right.

"Okay, you win."

"Excellent, as always Doctor Watson."

John rolled his eyes.

"How about you?"

"My favorite word?"

Sherlock nodded.

It didn't take long to figure out. He knew by hand a few words he had put in mind a long time ago, words that somehow had caught his attention… "I like dust. The meaning in dust, or how you can imagine dust. Small particles made of practically anything you'd like…"

John realized how stupid it all sounded as soon as it had escaped his tongue, but Sherlock didn't really seem to care about that. His eyes were focused on his friend, which made the ex army doctor a little bit embarrassed and flustered.

"Speaking of words. And meanings. Do you have a favourite poem?"

John shook his head. He enjoyed Poe and Shakespeare, not to mention Emily Dickinson. But to choose one of their works was a little too much.
He saw how Sherlock sunk down into half-sitting half-laying position, hands behind his head like he was laying on a tropical beach somewhere far far away. Eyes stared up the roof, focused on something that didn't exist; or at least not inside the walls of the apartment.

His mouth opened then closed. Opened again. Then the baritone spoke:

"From childhood's hour I have not been / As others were; I have not seen / As others saw; I could not bring / My passions from a common spring"

Something stung inside his heart. John could feel it, he was sure. He had no idea what it was; but the warmth that came from hearing Sherlock's dark voice speak such lovely words started spreading from inside, deep inside… It was like he could feel them. Feel the words in the air, feel their scent and their touch against his skin.
But they were merely words.

"Edgar Allan Poe"

The man beside him nodded.

"'Alone' it's called. 1829."

"You should, uhm… You should read poetry more often. I mean, out loud. Your voice really is great."

"Thank you, John."

They sat back in silence for a while.
John slowly started feeling how his eyelids became heavier and heavier, his vision blurrier and blurrier… Before he literally fell into sleep he had to put away the goddamn novel he'd borrowed, but he was simply too tired.
It ended up falling to the floor with a muffled thud.

With his reading glasses on the bedside table, John leaned over to turn the lights off. As soon as he had made it, he rolled back to the right position and helplessly buried his face deep in the pillow.

It was a little hard to relax. Sherlock's words were still echoing inside his head, again and again and again…

Suddenly, the silence in the room was broken again. This time by Sherlock as well.
He had gotten closer. In fact, pretty much closer than previously. They were now laying next to each other - John on his side, facing Sherlock and Sherlock on his back; closed eyes and palms against each other below his chin. The usual pose. It looked like he was praying - but knowing The Sherlock Holmes made the pray-theory nothing but comical.

Still a bit taken by surprise, John watched as his flatmate opened his mouth and talk with his dark voice.

"Enthralling love, my dear John / But list, O list,- so soft and low / Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow / That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem / My words the music of a dream"

Did he change from Adeline to… My name? 'My dear John'…

John was barely awake. He let his hand move from his side up to Sherlock's, slowly stroking with fingers up the thin fabric of his pajama shirt.

"Our thoughts, our souls- O God above / In every deed shall mingle, love"

Sherlock's voice was more hoarse, revealingly tired. But it was still the most beautiful lines John ever had been read through his whole life.

"Goodnight, John" the voice whispered.

He smiled.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

Thank you for reading, I really enjoyed writing this! Why don't you leave a little comment below of what you thought about it?
Thanks once again - and Merry Christmas!