Hi everyone :) This is my first story for this fandom, although I've been lurking around for quite a while. Before season 4 aired I rewatched all the episodes, and I thought, wow, Sherlock sure has gone through major character development! And then this story was born. Basically it's going to be a collection of missing scenes and post-eps that show how much Sherlock is actually loved, and how he slowly learns to love back. All canon compliant except for the last chapter, or at least that was the intention. It's all already written, by the way, so I should be able to update regularly.

This first chapter is set during season one, starting from the end of A Study in Pink, and it's pretty much friendship only. The characters that will appear are Sherlock, John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

One more thing, English is not my first language so you may spot some mistakes.

Enjoy :)

1. Series One

Sherlock doesn't quite know how to describe the feeling.

They form thoughts and put them into words and then pronounce them. Questions, answers. Whole sentences, monosyllables.

They chat. There's no deduction to make, no crime to solve. He's not showing off, he's not proving he's the cleverer of the two. They're just chatting. Word after word, pause, breathe. A chat. Something so very dull, mundane, something that usually belongs to the others, now belongs to him.

He chats with this man sitting in front of him. He learns things about him. Not that he hasn't deduced them already, but somehow Sherlock lets him speak, and he finds himself interested in the information he's acquiring. And then, to reciprocate, he says something on the same topic, or closely related.

He notes down, in his mind, that they have quite a few things in common, since the number of times silence fell between them has been stuck at two for the past hour and a half. The more the conversation goes on, the more he feels engaged by it. It's not a crime scene. It's not an experiment. Whatever it is, it is engaging him.

They giggle, a couple of times.

He wonders if this is what normal people do in their spare time, if they chat and giggle with other normal people. Dull, he thinks. But not quite as dull as he thought. Not with this particular man sitting in front of him.

They walk home later on, John climbs the stairs to his bedroom.

The feeling hasn't left Sherlock's mind yet.

"By the way, if you could just be more careful and spare me a murder the next time, that would be great," John says carelessly, behind a mask of light laughter, shaking his head.

Sherlock blinks, once, and then again, as he watches John disappear upstairs.

Sherlock wonders what that sentence could possibly mean, what the implications could be, not only the selfish wish to avoid a criminal offence, but the other hidden meaning, to be more careful, an advice, a request.

If the pleasure of a frivolous chat was unknown but fairly understandable, this is something else entirely. Is it just human nature, not to want another individual to decease, he wonders, or is it concern. Does John care about him, Sherlock asks himself for a second, and the answer is evident. John's choice of words. The tone of his voice.

Yes is the answer.

Sherlock goes to bed that night with this brand new awareness, that his new flatmate cares about him, and that they enjoy each other's company, and with no idea of what to do with this information.

John is convenient.

He shops for groceries. He gets the newspaper. He lets Sherlock borrow his computer, albeit reluctantly. John doesn't mind the violin, or the body parts in the fridge. Or Sherlock bursting in the bathroom while John's taking a shower.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" John yells from behind the shower curtain when he hears the door opening.

"I need my toothbrush," Sherlock replies as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Oh for God's sake, sod off!" John barks again, and this time Sherlock does.

Ten minutes later, John approaches his inappropriate flatmate in the kitchen. "For your information, it is not okay to come in the bathroom while your flatmate is having a shower!"

Sherlock doesn't even bother to look up from the microscope. "My previous flatmate didn't mind."

"Your previous flatmate?"

"The skull."

At that, John finds himself completely speechless and drops the argument

John helps Sherlock solve crimes. Not that John's contributions are ever crucial, but having a second opinion has revealed to be stimulating, if not useful.

John makes tea for Sherlock too when he makes it for himself. John chats. John gets takeaway dinner.

John is convenient, and Sherlock likes having John around. Of course, people we like are always convenient, or we wouldn't like them, Sherlock believes. Human nature is so dull it's mind-numbing.

And yet, there's more. John cares about him, Sherlock reminds himself from time to time. He's growing accustomed to the idea, and somehow it's making it easier to trust John. Which, consequently, is good for work, to have a partner you trust.

John is convenient.

John cares a lot about Sherlock's health status.

"Tell me again why you thought it would be a good idea to jump down a fire escape?" John says, crossing his arms to his chest and watching as Sherlock limps up the stairs to their flat.

"The criminal was running away, I had to chase him, obviously," Sherlock replies. Plus he hasn't jumped down a fire escape, as John keeps putting it. Sherlock has just skipped the last couple of steps. A few, maybe. Ten tops.

However, he did end up lying face-down on the street and with a sharp pain on his left ankle. Possibly not his most accurate calculation, but he's fine.

"Sit down, I need to check your ankle. You might need to go to the hospital," John says as they enter the lounge.

"I don't need to go to the hospital, I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock remarks, taking off his coat.

"It's easier to believe it when you say that without limping around," John points out.

"I'm fine," Sherlock repeats, distinctly pronouncing every letter of the last word so that John's slower brain can understand it. Sherlock doesn't need any help, from anyone. It's not the first time he gets injured during a case, won't be the last either.

"Sherlock, either you're letting me check your ankle or I'm driving you to the hospital right now, your choice."

John's insistence is at the same time upsetting and confusing. Sherlock does know that John cares, but displays of such sentiment never fail to startle him. So much energy and thought spent in the form of concern for another human being, it's a concept that still eludes the great detective.

Eventually, faced with the possibility of having to endure an actual medical visit, Sherlock gives up.

"Fine," he says, letting himself slump into his chair. "Examine me."

John does, kneeling in front of him. He removes Sherlock's shoe and sock with care, holding his foot up with an hand under the detective's inquisitive gaze. John is relieved to notice the swelling is minor, confirming his initial hypothesis that it's just a sprain.

Needing to understand the severity of it, he lays his thumbs against the top of Sherlock's foot, and the detective's leg automatically jerks up almost kicking John in the face.

"It hurts!" Sherlock complains.

"Sorry," John says, repeating the action with less pressure. Sherlock kicks again.

"It hurts! What kind of doctor are you?!"

John sighs loudly, biting his lip to repress the instinct to strangle his whiny flatmate. He has barely touched Sherlock this time.

"I am your doctor, and if you don't stop kicking me we are going to the hospital."

At that, Sherlock blinks. His doctor.

He doesn't kick again, letting John finish his examination in peace.

"Done," John announces just a minute later. "Grade one sprain, put some ice on it and rest for a couple of days. See? That was quick."

Sherlock blinks again, following John with his eyes as he disappears downstairs, probably to retrieve some instant ice from Mrs Hudson.

John's concern has just spared Sherlock from a trip to the A&E.

John is definitely convenient.

John seems to care not only for Sherlock's health, but also for his overall well-being.

John gets Sherlock to eat regularly, at least something, whereas Sherlock would often forget, lost in his experiments or his mind palace or the latest case or anything less dull than eating.

John cares about Sherlock's sleeping schedule.

The detective is blending bones, one sleepless night, when John slumps down the stairs and leans against the kitchen door, his eyelids still heavy with slumber.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" he asks, obviously upset.

Sherlock blinks, seemingly unable to deduce the reason behind his flatmate's altered mood. "Experiment. I'm blending these bones to check-"

"I don't care what you're doing. It's three in the morning and that thing's keeping me up. Go to sleep."

"I tried to sleep, in vain," Sherlock states.

"Well I don't care, do something else that doesn't require a bloody liquidiser!" John barks, now borderline angry.

Sherlock doesn't understand, it's hardly anyone's fault if he can't sleep. "My mind is set on this experiment now. I can't just drop it and do something else," he explains.

John sighs, loudly, before disappearing up the stairs. He's back just a minute later.

"Drink this," he says, pouring a glass of water and dripping a few drops of an unknown medicine in there.

"What's that?" Sherlock asks, suspiciously eyeing the glass.

"I'm not poisoning you, if that's what you're asking," John replies. "It's a powerful sleep inducer. Drink it and you'll be out in ten minutes. You can resume your experiment tomorrow."

Sherlock considers the idea for a moment. He can't just switch his mind from an experiment to another, but this drug is supposed to switch his brain off completely, get him some sleep. If the only two alternative he has right now are either changing experiment or lie in bed unconscious for a few hours, he'll choose the latter.

He takes the glass and drinks it all in one smooth sip. Tastes like oranges.

"There, done," he says, crossing his arms to his chest. "What now? I'm still fully awake."

"I said it takes ten minutes. Just lay down and wait, I'll see you in the morning."

With that, John retires back into his room, grinning to himself once fifteen minutes have passed and the noise of the blender still hasn't appeared again.

He gave Sherlock a vitamin C supplement.

That night, John has conducted a little experiment himself. The placebo effect can fool geniuses too.

Also, his flatmate is more of an overgrown child than he originally believed.

Off to a new case.

John's outside already, calling a cab. Sherlock's putting on his coat.

He hears the sound of a door cracking open, and regular steps approaching.

"Have you got your scarf, dear?" Mrs Hudson asks. "It's a bit chilly outside."

Sherlock mutters some affirmative reply as he rushes outside, wondering in the back of his mind what kind of question that was. He's well aware of the outside temperature, easily deductible by the current month, the time of the day, and mainly the condensation resting at the bottom of his windows. Plus he never leaves without his scarf.

They arrive in Bethnal Green, where clothes and traces of blood have been found, but without a corpse in sight. Sherlock examines the surrounding, and it takes him approximately two minutes to make the proper deduction.

"I'll have a better look in case there's more to it," he adds, kneeling down to smell the grass next to the abandoned trousers.

John and Lestrade are standing behind him, watching intently.

"He's bloody amazing," Lestrade whispers to John, the volume of his voice low but not low enough to be missed by Sherlock's ears.

"He is, isn't he? I keep telling him that," John agrees.

Sherlock can't help smiling, unable to hide the pleasant feeling that seems to appear every time someone praises his abilities. Mycroft has always been the smartest of the two, it's a hard truth that Sherlock hates to admit, but a truth nonetheless. When Mummy and Daddy praised someone, it was usually Mycroft. No matter what Sherlock did, Mycroft could always do it better, faster.

"Yeah, an amazing freak."

Anderson's snarky, loud remark reaches his ears too, ending his stream of thoughts. Sherlock doesn't even bother to reply.

"Piss off, Anderson, will you?" Lestrade snaps.

As Sherlock registers the dialogue, something clicks inside his mind. Fascinating.

DI Lestrade did bother to reply to a mean comment. DI Lestrade defended him, took his side, and he deliberately chose to do so when he could have as well chosen otherwise.

DI Lestrade likes him, it's obvious, or he wouldn't consult him on a regular basis, and now another obvious fact is that he cares too. Just like John.

Then Mrs Hudson's remark from earlier that morning replays in his mind, and everything falls into place.

DI Lestrade and Mrs Hudson care about his well-being, Sherlock tells himself. That's a full 200% increase of people who care about him if compared to the data collected just a couple of months earlier.

Once again, he's not sure what he's supposed to do with this information.

The ride home is silent, the only sound in the vehicle the taxi radio.

Staring out the window, Sherlock ponders on the events that happened just a short time before, in a darkened pool. He met his enemy, Moriarty, and they were all going to blow up if someone hadn't called. But that isn't what concerns Sherlock's mind. He is used to risking his life on a daily basis.

What tortures his brain, what doesn't give him peace, is John, the way John was ready to sacrifice himself, and then the speed, the promptness with which Sherlock made sure John was safe afterwards. The crippling fear that shook his mind and heart, that John could die. It hit Sherlock out of nowhere, the sudden, unexpected instinct to protect John, to keep him safe.

John cares about him. A fact.

Sherlock cares about John. Apparently another fact. More data is required.

Sherlock tried to resist, tried to keep sentiment out of this all. He tried to keep John at arm's length, to enjoy his company without actually growing attached to him. John was convenient.

Somehow, at some point along the way, Sherlock had clearly failed in this lifelong intent to remain alone. He ended up connecting with this person, so different from himself and somehow so similar.

Sherlock has grown fond of John. Sherlock would suffer if something should happen to John. Their lives were now tied together.

Not only dull, Sherlock thinks as they climb the stairs to their flat, also dangerous.

"We almost died in there," John says. Something very odd happened tonight, beside him risking his life. He's seen something in Sherlock, the way he reacted, the way he behaved, there was something human there.

"I know. Are you okay?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," John replies. And he is, very much. After their first case, he's never bothered with trying to figure out Sherlock's feelings anymore. He just thought Sherlock wasn't wired like that, he's all deductions and observations and inappropriate behaviour. A very tall child with a brilliant mind and poor survival instinct.

But now John wonders if there's more, beneath.

They're standing in the middle of their living room, facing each other. Sherlock observes his flatmate, trying to understand what is going on in his mind. He can perceive that something's about to happen, it's right there, lingering in the air, it's in John's eyes and in the way he bites his lower lip to cover up an emerging smile.

And as a matter of fact, John opens his arms to his sides and takes a step closer. "Can I- er, do you mind?"

It's a rare event that Sherlock finds himself speechless, but here, in this precise moment, reading John's intentions, he does. The moment he shakes his head, John closes the distance between them and Sherlock is being wrapped in a hug without even realising it.

He freezes.

John is hugging him. John's arms are wrapped around his waist. John's chin is lying against his shoulder. John's chest is pressed against his own.

"We make a good team," John says.

Sherlock finds himself unable to reply, or hug back, for that matter. His mouth is suddenly dry and his arms are completely limp against his sides. He can't recall he last time someone hugged him or even tried to, he's always considered it dull and unpleasant, but his body's now releasing endorphins, and it's yet one more information he doesn't know how to handle.

John takes a step back after three seconds, and Sherlock releases a breath that he didn't know he was holding. His pulse is elevated. The sudden lack of contact makes him feel cold. He finds himself wishing the hug had lasted longer.

John's smiling, not a mocking smirk, an actual smile, that makes Sherlock frown, as his mind races to understand what just happened.

"Good night," John adds, before climbing the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock is still standing in the middle of the living room, cataloguing this new experience in his mind palace. Hugging John is a pleasant experience. Might want to repeat.

Also, further confirmation acquired on the fact that Sherlock definitely cares about John. Now 100% a proven fact.

No one needs to know though. He can treat this sentiment like he treats every other useless information, deleting it. He can divorce himself from it.

Plus, Mycroft would be so disappointed if he knew.