Hi. This chapter is really written because... I write fics about John and Sherlock, about their lives, their relationships... And they're always really exciting and filled with tension. Which isn't realistic, now I think about it. So this is about the ordinary romance that inhibits their lives. I hope you like it.

Track: Accidentally in Love

Artist: Counting Crows

Album: Shrek 2 OST ('Cause I'm cool like that ;D)

YouTube link: .com/watch?v=pEprz3ifXsE

Genres: Romance/Humour.

WARNINGS: Slash, sexual references.

Accidentally in Love

10:00am

Sherlock awoke to the sound of drilling. Christ, I must have drunk too much last night, was the first thought that entered his mind at the constant, monotonous drone. Sherlock had spent the night pretending to be a French post modernist architect, and it turned out that architects threw particularly wild parties. He'd staggered in at eight in the morning, drunker than he'd been in months, a feather boa draped elegantly around his neck and clutching a bottle of champagne. He was irritatingly tired- this party had exhausted him, and now Sherlock's bimonthly sleeping plan was being thrown out of whack. He had solved the case though.

However, it soon became apparent that the building work was in fact real, not just in his hung-over head. Sherlock deduced this from three things- the mirror on the wall opposite was vibrating slightly, the neighbour's cat had moved from its usual perch on the windowsill opposite the flat, and most prominently, John was sat in an armchair wearing the most ridiculous pair of fluffy pink earmuffs he had ever seen.

"John?" Sherlock spluttered. "What the hell have you got on your head?"

"What?" he said loudly.

"I said, what the hell have you got on your head?"

"I can't hear you mate," he yelled. "They're drilling!"

"Do you think?" Sherlock said sarcastically, although it's hard to seem tauntingly contemptuous when you're shouting across a room.

"WHAT?"

Sherlock wrenched the earmuffs off his head. "I said, WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU GOT ON YOUR HEAD?"

John jumped, dropping the paper he was holding. "Jesus, Sherlock, you scared the hell out of me!"

Sherlock ignored this comment and simply grabbed John's jumper covered arm, dragging him down the corridor and into the bathroom. It was quieter here; in fact Sherlock could barely here the noise. It faded into an ignorable background buzz when he shut the door behind him.

"John, why the hell is there that blaring cacophony of building work outside?"

"Next door are having vital restructuring work," John said matter of fact-ly. "Can't be avoided, I'm afraid. It's only till nine tonight, then they'll be done."

"Nine?" Sherlock gaped. "That's hours away! It's only…" Sherlock checked his watch. "Ten now! That's eleven hours, John. Eleven."

"Yes, thank you, I can count," John said tetchily. "Well, we'll just have to stay in here. At least it's quiet, and warm."

Sherlock grumbled something incoherent and promptly clambered into the bath, scowling. "This is going to be torture. How am I supposed to work?"

John sighed. "You could do something as radical as, oh, I don't know, relaxing? You haven't got a case on anyway, what research are you planning that is so vital that it can't wait till tomorrow?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, thought, then shut it again. Eventually, he managed a sullen "Fine! Fine!"

John sat down, glad of the silence. First the drilling, then Sherlock's ranting… He didn't think his eardrums could take it. John shut his eyes. At last, peace.

…

…

…

"Joooooohn?"

John sagged. "What?"

"I'm bored."

John opened his eyes. "And what do you propose I do about that?"

"Entertain me."

"I'm not your performing monkey, Sherlock!"

"Pleeeeease John. It's so dull."

John sighed. This was going to be a long eleven hours. But he wasn't going to give in. No. Not this time.

11:15am

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"What will it take you to SHUT UP Sherlock?"

"Food. And newspapers. And cushions."

"Fine." John armed himself with his fluffy earmuffs and headed out into the flat.

12:00pm

John returned later with the goods he had bought. "I nearly walked into the bloody newsagents with these on," he chuckled, throwing the earmuffs to the ground.

"Those are ridiculous," Sherlock pointed out, looking eagerly for what John had brought.

"Those are practical," he replied. "At least I'm prepared, unlike you. Not that you need to be, oh no, you don't have to go out, you can bully your flatmate into getting it for you!"

Sherlock smiled, a little guiltily. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No," John admitted. "That's what worries me."

He pulled in a bag. "So, the things I bought from the shop- chicken and pesto sandwiches for you, BLT for me." He chucked the boxed sandwiches over to Sherlock where he sat. "Two packets of crisps- plain for you, salt and vinegar for me. Two bottles of water, two Mars bars, four newspapers- the Guardian, the Times, the Mirror and the Daily Mail so we can laugh at it. I got a few magazines too. I'm sure there was something else too… Oh yeah, I got coffee. Black, two sugars."

John passed all the products to Sherlock, who looked shocked. "How did you know what I wanted?"

"A year and a half of acting like your servant," John replied, but he smiled, opening the door and taking something stacked outside. "I also got two sleeping bags out of the airing cupboard, just for comfort, and a couple of pillows too. Just a small point to bring up, though- why is there a decaying hand in there?"

Sherlock looked around guiltily. "It's an experiment."

"Of course it is."

12:30pm

Sherlock had eaten his food quickly, clearly using the food as something to occupy his mind, if only briefly. He had read, reread and mocked the newspapers- particularly the Daily Mail- before moving onto reading the magazines.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"There was a ghost in this woman's womb."

John looked up from the copy of Empire. Sherlock had his head buried in Chat magazine. "Sherlock, no she didn't."

"I know that. But why does it say she does?"

John shrugged. "To get cash for the photo, I assume."

Sherlock looked at the story. "It does look like a face."

2:00pm

"It says here that her dog has psychic healing powers."

"No it doesn't Sherlock."

"Remember the Baskerville case, John? Not all things are as they seem."

"Sherlock, that woman does not have a psychic dog."

"How do you know?"

"I am a doctor, Sherlock."

"Exactly. It might be useful to you, is all. I'm only thinking of you."

3:30pm

"Joooooohn?"

John looked up to see Sherlock facing the wrong way in the bath, his sleeping bag covered legs held in the air.

"Yes Sherlock?"

"What's your star sign?"

"Cancer. Why?"

"'With passion planet Mars in your sign and Venus close by it is possible to meet someone special now. A sudden change at work can work in your favor, keep an open mind. Money matters are under the microscope, you can be the benefactor of extra cash.'"

John sighed. "Sherlock, you don't believe in astrology."

"Not the point. Just trying to pass the time."

John laughed. "Am I not riveting company for you Sherlock?"

"We've been in here for five and a half hours. That's nearly a school day. I feel like I'm at school."

"Well, is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, I suppose. Explain this to me."

John glanced at the article. "What about it?"

"Well, why is she in there? What's her purpose?"

John thought for a while. It was hard. He had no idea. It would be hard, teaching Sherlock about the Kardashians.

4:30pm

"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with… R."

"Razor?"

"How did you know?"

"Oh, please," Sherlock said with a purr. "I spy with my little eye, something beginning with… T."

"Toilet?"

"No."

"Toothpaste?"

"No."

"Toothbrush?"

"No."

"… Toilet seat cover?"

"No."

"Toilet paper?"

"Keep away from the toilet area."

"… Towels?"

"Closer."

"Towel rack?"

"Yes!"

5:15pm

John was getting tired of waving his hands like a maniac. Surely Sherlock would get it soon?

"Bird."

"No."

"Plane."

"No."

"Bird plane!"

John sighed. Charades was not Sherlock's strong point. "Batman!" he said exasperatedly.

Sherlock looked blankly back at him. "John, you can't just make films up. That's ridiculous."

John spluttered but said nothing. It had been a mistake to try and engage Sherlock with popular culture.

"John?" said Sherlock sleepily. "I'm tired. Do you mind if I sleep?"

"No, no," said John, exhausted himself. Sherlock needed constant distractions, and providing them was very tiring. "Go ahead."

Sherlock nestled his head into the pillow propped up against the edge of the bath, drifting off almost instantly.

7:00pm

Sherlock was hungry. He knew this now- he was absolutely starving, and he'd wasted the better part of two hours sleeping. Blearily, he opened his eyes, to spot John gently shaking him awake.

"Hi. Sorry to wake you, but I just wanted to know if you wanted some food?"

"Yes, definitely." Sherlock sat upright, stretching his arms. "What have we got?"

John looked into the bag. "The 6, the 10 and the 18." He passed the boxes of food to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at the boxes, confused. "How did you know what I'd want to order?"

John shrugged. "You always order the same thing… I just remembered." He sat down on the cold, hard floor.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Am I always so demanding?"

John looked up at him, a piece of Kung Pao chicken halfway to his mouth. "What?"

Sherlock looked guiltily down at his food. "Do I always make you go out and get the Chinese, and the shopping, and distract me from my boredom?"

John, puzzled, laughed. "Sherlock, you don't make me do any of these things. I choose to do them."

Sherlock gaped. "But why? What do you possibly get out of this arrangement?"

John said nothing, but pulled something else out of the bag. "I got us desert too. Ice cream."

Sherlock looked at the tub. "John, I can't eat ice cream, I'm-"

"Lactose intolerant, yes, I know- this is special stuff you can eat. They sell it on Browning Street."

Sherlock frowned. "That's a good half an hour away, it would have taken you a while to get it."

"Well, you know, I didn't want you to go hungry."

And… there it was. Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Blank, barren shock washed over him in a wave, making his muscles tense where he sat, his mouth going dry.

He found himself suddenly, inexplicably, accidentally in love.

With his flatmate, no less, an idea so clichéd that if it were happening to someone else, perhaps Mycroft or Lestrade, he would have mocked them. How very ironic- the larger than life consulting detective falling for someone so… normal. Too normal, it would seem at first glance, for Sherlock to tolerate. But yet, Sherlock found himself more than tolerating John. He physically needed him.

It seemed fitting in Sherlock's still dazed mind that he would realise his adoration in such an ordinary fashion, in such an ordinary situation. John, the saint that he was, remembering to buy ice cream for the lactose intolerant. It certainly wasn't going to be made into an award winning film. It was so banal, so abhorrently pedestrian that Sherlock was caught between laughing and throwing up.

Sherlock had never intended this. God knows, the notion had never occurred to him before. Of course, he had noticed how people had assumed that he and John were a couple, but he was usually in the midst of deducing. It was unimportant at the time. Perhaps that was he needed, to be separated from his work through the medium of a hangover and a pneumatic drill, to fully come to realise what he felt for the doctor. And now he knew, he couldn't possibly ignore it, bury it in his head and suppress what he felt. What people often noted about Sherlock Holmes was that he was an all or nothing kind of guy. He told it how he saw it- honesty was his policy, except for when it wasn't.

This thought process lasted for around five seconds, before the sound of John's voice saying "Sherlock?" snapped him out of the brief stupor he had been in. Sherlock looked up at the man, holding out the pot of strawberry ice cream and a spoon.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John's concern was almost heavenly to him.

"Never better," he said weakly, taking the tub and the spoon from him.

John sat back down, peeling open the lid of the pot. "Mmm, mint chocolate chip. Delicious."

"John?"

"Yes?" he replied, digging his spoon into the soft substance.

"I think I love you."

John froze for the tiniest of moments, and then relaxed. He brought the spoon up to his mouth. "What, just for some ice cream? I have to make a mental note of that, maybe then you'll do the dishes."

"I'm serious, John."

John stopped, the spoon hovering half way to his lips. There was an awkward moment of silence that felt like an age, before John dropped the spoon. The clatter of the metal hitting the floor felt deafening.

"W-What?"

"John, I-" Sherlock cleared his throat, searching for the words. "I love you. At least, I think I do. How are you supposed to know? How are you supposed to know how it feels?"

John said nothing, but stared anxiously back at Sherlock.

"It- It feels like I'm swelling on the inside. In a good way. Like the feeling I get once I've finished a case, but only a hundred thousand times better." Sherlock blushed at how inarticulate he was being. "It's like sunlight, all warm, but on the inside. Is that how it's supposed to feel?"

John nodded, a quick shocked nod that Sherlock couldn't interpret.

"Is that OK with you?" Sherlock said nervously.

John paused, and then laughed. "Jesus, Sherlock, it's more than OK."

Each would swear the other moved first if made to recollect the precise moment when they became a couple, but in reality, it was simultaneous. Sherlock enveloped John in his arms, crushing him to his chest so tightly it nearly cut off John's airway. John craned his neck upwards whilst Sherlock captured his lips with his own.

"Your lips taste of Chinese food," Sherlock said softly, panting for breath as they finally broke apart.

"What a brilliant deduction," John laughed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock.

Sherlock stroked John's hair. "So this is fine?"

"It's definitely fine. Sherlock, I- I didn't dare hope that you could ever- Not me. I mean- oh, I'm explaining this horribly." John pulled away. "I didn't think that you would ever be interested in someone like me?"

Sherlock had to laugh at this. "Someone like you? You mean, someone kind, intelligent, generous and the only person who I have ever, ever trusted? It's me who should be surprised. How could you possibly like someone so insufferable?"

"You're not insufferable, Sherlock," said John quietly. "I like you just as you are."

Sherlock was taken aback at this. "Even when I make you walk miles around London to get me newspapers? Even when I make you camp out in the rain? Even when I almost get you killed?"

John looked up at Sherlock, took one of his hands in his own, and kissed it. "Sherlock, you have to understand. I'd do it all a thousand times without thinking twice."

If Mrs Hudson thought she heard loud banging noises whilst watching the television that night, she told herself that it was simply the builders packing away their equipment. Yes, that was absolutely it. Those noises were perfectly ordinary, nothing special at all. And she had most certainly imagined the odd moaning noises, or perhaps it was a pipe. And the loud cry of "Sherlock!" was, after all, not unusual. Sherlock was always doing something to irritate John. Often repeatedly in succession.

Inwardly, however, she smiled. I bloody knew it.