a/n: Er. Right. First Sherlock fic. First proper one, anyway. This is a deanon from sherlockbbc_fic. The original prompt can be found here: http:/ /sherlockbbc-fic. livejournal. com/ 12432. html? thread= 65250960# t65250960

The muse kind of bit and latched onto my arm until I wrote it. The muse has really sharp teeth. Ow.

My thirtieth story! A nice round number. :D

This current iteration of John and Sherlock belong to Moffat and Gatiss, not me.

It was a quiet night. The ever-present overcast had lifted, although the stars were still invisible due to light pollution. There weren't any particularly creative criminals out and about and even Sherlock's experiments had decided to take the evening off.

John was finding the quiet quite enjoyable after the past few weeks spent on the case of a serial killer which involved large glass marbles. He rather liked the chance to put his feet up for an evening and rest secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't have to dash out any time soon. Excitement was all well and good, he'd found, but a bit of peace never hurt anybody, either.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was incredibly bored. He'd flipped through most of the books in the flat and found all of them dull, played through most of the pieces he knew on the violin before John had politely requested that he cease and desist, and he couldn't do anything with any of his experiments for at least another twenty-four hours. He sighed impatiently and flipped over on the couch so that his legs were up over the back and his head was hanging off the front. "Bored," he declared.

John glanced up from his laptop, where he was recording their latest adventures. "Really, Sherlock? We got home—what, six hours ago—and you're bored already? Don't answer that," he sighed. "What do you expect me to do about it? Couldn't you—I don't know—dial Lestrade and ask for another case?"

Sherlock arranged his features into an expression suspiciously similar to a pout. "No. My mobile's dead, I can't find the charger, and your mobile went missing a week ago."

John sighed. "There's no other source of entertainment?"

"Your books are dull and I've read all of mine already," said Sherlock. "You're sitting under the only working computer and my mobile, as previously stated, is dead. None of my experiments require further intervention until tomorrow at the earliest. The case is over. There's nothing to do."

"Er…" John cast around for ideas. "We could…go for a walk?"

In an instant, Sherlock was on his feet, pulling on his coat and scarf. "Splendid idea why didn't I think of it myself come on, John!" With that, he was out the door to their flat and clattering down the stairs.

A little nonplussed, John set his laptop aside and put his jacket on to join Sherlock, albeit at a slightly more sedate pace. He suspected that his flatmate would have taken almost any path out of boredom at that moment.

Sherlock was waiting by the front door, giving the appearance of calm but vibrating slightly on the spot. Once John joined him, the pair proceeded out along Baker Street.

"Nice night," John commented, glancing up at the sky. "Not even cloudy."

"No need to state the obvious," said Sherlock, but without his usual venom.

"Just making conversation," said John.

They remained fairly quiet until they reached the corner, where they turned around to go back to their flat. When they arrived at the front door, John noticed a sudden absence of warmth in his left hand.

"Were you just…holding my hand?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't look at him, unlocking the front door and starting up the stairs. "…no," he denied.

"Ah…I think you'll find you were," said John.

Sherlock huffed quietly, did not otherwise respond, and disappeared into his room for the remainder of the night.

John just smiled and went back to work on his transcription of the case. He thought he'd call it "The Lost Marbles".