Author's Note:

Hey guys, this is my first attempt at Johnlock of any kind.

Just a few quick things before you read.

For starters, I do not own any of the world Sherlock lives in. As much as I would

enjoy that, the lovely Mr. Holmes and everyone else are not mine. The OC who shall appear

in later chapters, however, is mine.

Any thoughts, concerns, critiques would be helpful.

Enjoy, kids!

"So you see, the mailman couldn't have done it." "Yes...but how?" "Oh John, you are so stupidsometimes." The shorter man simply glared tiredly at the curly haired detective to his right. Sherlock knew he was waiting for the answer. And he was more than willing to supply it.

He tentatively (Since when was he tentative?) reached out for the other's hand and grasped it palm upwards in his. John was cold. An unwanted, unexplainable tinge of worry ripped through him. Why does hecare? John was a fully grown, perfectly capable man.

He proceeded to explain how the man's hands were much too big to be the killer. But his mind was a thousand miles away. These feelings for John were becoming regular. It worried him deeply. John was so...so John and it didn't make sense.

Bloody hell, he reminded Sherlock of a goddamned hedgehog(But those were cute as well! Damn!)! He snapped out of his thoughts upon hearing a small throat clearing. John was looking rather uncomfortably at him-...he was still holding his hand. "Well then, did you follow that?" "Of course I did!" The cabbie smiled knowingly at the two as John yanked his hand from Sherlock's lingering touch with a huff. He probably thought they were in love. At the moment, he wasn't so sure if the man was that far off.

John walked slightly ahead of Sherlock as they stepped out of the cab. It was a brisk day out. Sherlock shrugged his coat closer. He wondered how his blogger was holding up. His blogger? "Sherlock, are cases always this...?" John left the question hanging "Dull? Sometimes. Nothing interesting really happens unless a proper genius decides to start running around killing people." he answered quickly, almost deftly, wanting to get back to the sudden questions bubbling up in his mind.

John made a noise in his throat as he shivered slightly against the wind and absently moved closer to the taller man. Sherlock noted this, of course, as the wind sped past. Maybe he should share his scarf with his obviously cold friend. Was John a friend though? "You're cold." He glared up at Sherlock's smug expression "No. I'm fine. I quite enjoythe brisk feel in the air."

John almost gasped aloud as a pair of incredibly warm, delicate hands were suddenly about his neck. He inhaled deeply and snuggled deeper into the folds of warm wool, throat making an involuntary noise of blissful approval. Sherlock chuckled at his flatmate's absolutely endearing nature. What was this? He wasn't a man of sentiment. But then why was he so excited by the idea that John loved the scent of his scarf? He didn't know what to think of it. This was a very difficult fact to swallow for the man. Very difficult.