I was having lots of Reichenbach feelings again so I needed some fluff. Beware the fluffy awkwardness!

When John came downstairs to make breakfast he found the kitchen in an uninhabitable state. An experiment. Of course. When he went to bed Sherlock looked like he was up to something. But John had been too tired to ask .

He sighed and started clearing a spot on the counter. He made sure to wash his hands very thoroughly after touching the petri dishes, which contents were brightly coloured and smelled like rotten tomatoes.

John had learned to ignore such things. He made tea and toast and with the table being a war zone he would have to eat in the living room. When he opened the door he had to suppress a snort.

Sherlock slept on the couch. But it looked like he simply passed out. He was laying on his belly, one hand on the floor. And his mouth was hanging wide open.

There was something childlike about the way he had crashed on the couch. Like he had insisted that he's not tired at all but at some point his mind just had to give up and give in to his body which was very tired indeed. John had witnessed that game quite often by now. Sherlock simply refused to believe that his body needed rest until it just collapsed. The doctor had tried to convince Sherlock to actually sleep regularly. Every night. Just a few hours! Only when they didn't have a case and the world wouldn't end if he didn't run around the city all night. Sherlock had first ignored him, then he sneered and the last time John mentioned it he had yelled that he could take care of himself and that he already had an older brother, thank you very much! John had dropped the issue then.

Carefully he sat down his plate and the teacup, not wanting to wake his flatmate, even though he was fairly certain a train had to roll through the living room to actually wake Sherlock. Before John sat down he grabbed the blanket from his armchair and draped it over Sherlock.

Who chose this moment to flip onto his back.

And trapped John's arm in the process.

Great.

"No, Mycroft..."

Oh, yes. Sherlock talked in his sleep. John found it very amusing to listen to him. Which was, now that he thought about it, a little creepy. You don't listen to your flatmate sleep. But then again it was hardly his fault Sherlock always slept in the living room. He had a bedroom. He could sleep there. John wouldn't hear him there.

Anyway, he had to figure out what to do about his arm now.

"You can't have John."

What was that? Have him? What the hell was he dreaming?

"He is mine!"

What? His? His what? John stood hunched over the couch, his arm under Sherlock's back and with a big frown on his face.

"Go and find your own friend, Mycroft!"

Oh, his friend.

Wait, why was he surprised to hear that? They were friends, had been for months now, even though it was quite an unusual friendship. But nonetheless exactly that. What had he expected? It was probably Sherlock choice of words. 'He is mine' is not exactly something you say about a friend. That's something that sounds more like a jealous partner.

And then it dawned on him. That for Sherlock it was like that. Sherlock, who didn't have friends. Until John moved in. Of course he must have some sort of fear of... losing him. John chuckled a little. The thought of him abandoning Sherlock to be Mycroft's friend now. It was very childish and somehow... endearing.

But surely Sherlock knew how much John enjoyed being with him. That he didn't have much in his life except for Sherlock and his cases. He had work, sure. But only to pay the rent. And to get away from Sherlock's madness. And he had Sarah. Who he only met when Sherlock was being especially irritating. But he could live without those, what he couldn't live without was Sherlock.

Oh God.

What was he thinking? That sounded almost like a love declaration. To his flatmate! To this absolute lunatic, a man who had a brilliant mind and could deduce anyone in seconds, but completely failed when it came to understanding the human nature, emotions. Social conventions. Personal boundaries. When they had a longer conversation it almost always ended with John wanting to punch him in the face.

John looked down at the man in question, who now frowned in his sleep. Sherlock had a remarkable face, very expressive when he wanted it to be. Or when he wasn't in control of it, which only happened when he slept. John had watched him.

Fantastic, back to stalker behaviour now... So what? So he liked to look at Sherlock's face. It was a nice face. It had an unusual shape, especially his lips, and he could never determine what colour his eyes were. Sometimes they were piercing blue, then sometime more grey, sometimes even green. It was interesting, that was all. Right now they were grey.

Something had changed. Something was wrong.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you hovering over me, staring at my face?" Oh. He was awake. Well. That was awkward.

"Um, I-I put the blanket over you and then you rolled over and trapped my arm." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"And what? You didn't have the strength to retrieve it?"

"I didn't want to wake you"

"Well, I'm awake now.", Sherlock said, neither of them moving. For a moment they were silent. John's back started aching, he had been standing in this position for a couple of minutes now. "I talked in my sleep, didn't I?" John nodded. Sherlock suddenly looked unsure. "You're not going to...?"

"Run off to become your brother's BFF? I don't think so." Sherlock didn't smile. John sighed. "I won't go anywhere. Even if I wanted to I couldn't. You're lying on my arm.", John said with a smile and now Sherlock smiled back. He sat up and John sat down next to him, slightly massaging his shoulder. They sat in silence for a while.

"What's so fascinating about my face?"

"Dunno. Why would you think I'd run off with your brother?" Sherlock huffed.

"That's hardly an argument. That was a dream. I wasn't in control of myself."

"Probably more honest that way."

"Pff, honest. That from the man who can't even tell me why he's staring at my face whenever he thinks I won't see it. Yes you do, don't try to argue with me."

John stared at Sherlock, absolutely stunned.

"I... I do?"

"Yes, constantly."

Now this was beginning to be really awkward. John sat up a bit straighter. He had been the one starting to talk about honesty, hadn't he?

"I don't know, I just enjoy looking at you.", he told his knees.

"Why?" John's head snapped up and turned towards his friend.

"Hell, I don't know! I just do! And I can't stop!" Sherlock just smiled at his sudden outburst. Not one of his smug smirks, no, a genuine happy smile.

"Good. Tea, John." And with that Sherlock went over to the desk and sat down in front of John's laptop while John stayed exactly where he was and found himself once more staring at his flatmate.

"What do you mean, 'good'? Why is that good?"

Without looking up from the screen Sherlock explained "Because I found it is quite pleasant to look at you, too. The tea, John." John finds himself walking to the kitchen and putting the kettle on. While waiting for the water to boil he drifts back into the living room.

"So... what exactly does this mean? Us liking to look at each other?" Sherlock actually bothered to look at him, slightly nonplussed.

"It doesn't mean anything. We just think the other one is aesthetically pleasing." The water was boiling and gave John some time to think that over. When he finally walked over to Sherlock and set down his tea – milk, one sugar – he asks: "Is there anyone else you like to look at?" Sherlock sent him a look indicating that that's the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard.

"Of course not!"

And suddenly John hears himself say: "Good."

Sherlock doesn't say anything to that. In fact, he doesn't do anything. He freezes completely, his long pale fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then his face slowly starts to form a frown.

"That would bother you, wouldn't it? If I liked to look at anyone else?" John took a deep breath.

"Yes, it would." Sherlock turned his face upwards to study John.

"I can assure you, no other person holds any interest for me in that matter."

"But that doesn't make sense! There are far more good looking people out there. You walk past them, every day, without caring about them."

"No, there aren't. Not for me. They might be good looking in a the common sense, but they bore me. But when I look at you I see so much more than just a face. I know exactly when each wrinkle appeared on it, since the day we met. And I am astonished that there are more wrinkles building in the corners of your eyes than on your forehead. And when you look tired I know exactly what made you tired. Or when you look annoyed. And in most cases it's because of me. And I find it remarkable that I can see my impact on you clearly written on your skin."

John grabbed Sherlock by his arms and yanked him upwards, the taller man luckily understanding what he was trying to do and stood up. As soon as he did the shorter man crushed into him, slinging his arms around him, face pressed into his neck. It took Sherlock a moment to realise that he really didn't mind and that it was probably appropriate to reciprocate. When he put his arms around John

the blonde man tightened his around him to a point where it was getting difficult to breathe. But Sherlock didn't say anything, just silently hugged back.

When they finally let go of each other, John straightened up quickly, wiping his face of emotion, looking every bit the soldier he would never really stop to be, and cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, that was... a bit too much, I guess." But Sherlock quickly shooks his head.

"No, it felt nice." He hesitated. "I would like to repeat that some time." They were still standing close to each other and when John looked into Sherlock eyes their noses almost touched.

"Of course the wrinkles are there because of you. No one makes me smile as often as you do. Or frown. Or just care." And they smiled at each other. And because it felt like the right thing to do Sherlock bowed down a little so that he could place his mouth on John's, carefully, waiting if the other man would pull away, hoping he wouldn't. And he didn't. Instead he felt John's lips push against his own, slowly and just as carefully, as if he was afraid of breaking Sherlock.

When they lips parted John couldn't keep the smile of face.

"So you were lying when you said it means nothing that you like to look at me."

"I thought by now you would have learned that you can't trust me." And together the chuckled, feeling the vibrations from the other one's chest. And then John gave Sherlock a sincere smile and said: "But I do. And I always will, Sherlock."