It was nearly noon as John Watson fluttered his eyes open to the sight of sun streaming into the flat and Sherlock's arm outstretched over John's face. He took a quick glance at his watch, then to the sight of Sherlock sleeping in quite close proximity to him on the couch. He reached into his memories to find scattered images of Sherlock throwing up numerous times in a bar, along with himself flirting with multiple desperate girls. While he was regretting the night due to the hangover resulting from it, he didn't remember anything specifically too embarrassing happening. So basically, just another drunk night with Sherlock, was his conclusion.

"Christ, Sherlock. Wake up for God's sake. You're nearly crushing me," John groaned, and carefully lifted Sherlock's arm out of his face, accidentally letting Sherlock spill onto the floor. Sherlock groaned and glared up at John, sitting comfortably on the couch.

"Bloody hell, John. Thanks for the gentle wake up."

"Sorry, sorry." Sherlock grunted in response, and pulled himself up off the floor quite quickly. He dusted his rumpled coat and yelled for Mrs. Hudson to fetch him tea.

"So, what's it for today Sherlock? Do you need another day of what you call rest and relaxation or are we accepting clients?" John was honestly tired of going out to clubs every night with his partner in crime. While he enjoyed spending time with Sherlock, the copious amounts of alcohol consumed was taking a toll on him. He was craving some adventure, after all.

"Neither. Why don't we try something different today? I need to get my mind off things." John sighed and rolled his eyes as he realized that Sherlock's mood always determined what the plans were for the day. Why couldn't John ever pick?

"Sherlock, what things could you possibly need to get your mind off of? Irene Adler? Your brother? Moriarty, who might I add, is dead? We haven't done a case in weeks."

"John, for the last time, I don't have time for these dreadfully boring conversations. And by weeks, do you mean six days?"

"Fine, whatever." The two turned their ears to the sound of tea mugs as they noticed Mrs. Hudson stirring up a cuppa for each of them. They wordlessly accepted the drinks, grateful for the end of the clattering as their heads were still at a dull throb.

"New coat. Shoes have not been worn in years but pulled out of the closet only for special occasion. They stay in a shoe box in order to preserve them. It seems that these shoes bring back memories and therefore you are meeting someone from your past. Lipstick has been attempted to be applied multiple times, but was wiped off in the end. Hairstyle indicates one of a younger woman, implying that you are trying to show someone that you have not changed. The scab on your left hand has been reopened, indicating that you have been picking at it and are nervous. A man from your past? No, clearly if he were male you would have worn a more revealing outfit, you are Mrs. Hudson after all. You are meeting a woman that you are clearly competitive with. Maybe she was a mistress? Ah, yes. Mr. Hudson had a mistress when he went away without you and you are meeting this woman because she is in town and wants to see you. Did I miss anything?" The speed and dexterity with which Sherlock deduced took John's breath away once again. He was fascinated with the way Sherlock's green eyes flickered back and forth as he observed every inch of one's being and the way his jaw clenched as he attempted to grasp for the answer.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson almost crooned in a comical manner. She just shook her head, and left for the door, out to go meet her husband's mistress for tea. The two boys slumped back onto the couch in unison; they weren't used to being left to fend for themselves without Mrs. Hudson to take care of them.

"Breakfast?"

"More like lunch, but sure why not. Maybe we'll see a potential client." John knew he was being obvious about his addiction to these cases and his current withdrawals, but he couldn't help it. He also knew he needed to distract Sherlock before he needed another fix.

"John, not everything we do together has to involve some kind of case. Can't I just want to spend time with you?" Color rose to John's cheeks as he was taken aback but also quite flattered. And maybe something else…

"Er, yes, I guess."

"We are best friends after all."

"Right. Best friends." John didn't know why he was disappointed by a sentimental comment from Sherlock. Normally, he would be pleased. He brushed the strange thought aside and grabbed his coat.

The two headed out to a new restaurant for chips, whose owner favored Sherlock for some reason unknown to John. As they settled into their chairs, the chips were immediately delivered to them. Sherlock and John reached for the ketchup at once, resulting in a brush of their fingertips. Sherlock lightly stroked John's hand before pulling away and allowing John to use the ketchup first. It happened so quickly, but it was not unnoticed by John whatsoever. Heat flooded into both of their cheeks, and John was filled with a longing for just another brush. Anything. The nerve endings on his fingers were electrified and while he felt silly for still feeling the absence of the light pressure, he knew the feeling wasn't going away any time soon.

"So…"

"Right then." Sherlock and John locked eyes, waiting for someone to say something, when a young female dressed in a burgundy coat came running to their table.

"Oh. My. God. Oh my God! John Watson in the same restaurant as me? I have so many questions. You are literally about the absolute best writer on the planet." John felt a grin spreading across his cheeks. He rarely found admirers and was typically overshadowed by Sherlock and his famous hat. He looked over to find Sherlock smirking, no doubt pleased that John was getting some adoration. John, however content, was upset about the interruption. He felt that Sherlock was in the mood to engage in what he called dreadfully boring conversation, and John needed to know what or who was bugging him.

"Sorry, who's John Watson? He some kind of blogger? I heard his articles are dreadful, why would you read them?" A beat of silence past as the woman blinked and covered her mouth with her hand.

"Oh my God. Sorry, sorry. Um, wrong person. Er, wow. Okay. Cheers then." The young woman slowly backed away, cheeks flushed with pure humiliation. Sherlock and John hid chuckles behind their coat sleeves and left the restaurant. As soon as they bursted through the doors, the giggles took control and the two were soon doubled over laughing.

"Her… her face!" Sherlock stammered, going into another laughing fit.

"I know it was absolutely priceless." They locked eyes once again, grinning at the joyous moment they shared.

"But, John, you really can't believe that rubbish about your articles being dreadful right?"

"No, of course not." He paused, realizing that with Sherlock, there was no point in lying. "Well. Maybe…"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's pure genius and you are perfectly aware of that. You're pure genius." Sherlock's voice quieted to a whisper as he said his last sentence. John adored how the volume of Sherlock's voice often changed and how that change could sometimes reveal how he felt.

"Did Sherlock Holmes just compliment me?"

"Don't get too cocky."

"Of course not, wouldn't want to be like you." Sherlock broke into a wide smile at John's quip and continued walking down the street, chips still in hand. John followed, as always, this time his eyes lingering on Sherlock's figure before catching up. He felt a sudden need to make contact with Sherlock's hand again, but he couldn't comprehend why. He decided against the action and returned to Sherlock's side, stealing a chip as he had finished his own meal rather fast.

"So, Sherlock. What did you have to tell me?" Sherlock stared at his shoes hitting the pavement and John stole a sideways glance to gage Sherlock's mood. It was always difficult for John, being that Sherlock was completely unpredictable.

"When did I say I have to tell you something?" John discovered that Sherlock's mood was completely out in the open. He looked vulnerable and almost grim.

"I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but even I could deduce that."

"I'm beginning to realize that one can't simply reject sentiment altogether." John would've laughed and mocked Sherlock, but something about Sherlock's tone made him think better of it. He sounded genuinely scared, like a child afraid of the dark. John wasn't exactly sure what to say, so he rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed it, comforting him and his vulnerability. Sherlock seemed grateful for the lack of words, and placed his hand atop of John's, causing John to sharply intake his breath. Once again, just touching Sherlock's hand took him by surprise by how it somehow made his insides jittery. John quickly removed his hand and Sherlock blinked out of the daze. They both ignored the short conversation and continued walking, but John would not forget how it felt to hear Sherlock truly open up.