Chapter Text
It all started on a regular Sunday morning at Baker Street. Sherlock had laid himself out on the couch, hands steepled delicately against his lower lip as the sun rose, eyes closed tight against the brightly refracted light. His hair was mussed from the few hours of sleep he had been granted, but his brain jolted with electricity. It was still racing around frantically, tying up loose ends from last night’s case, which John had dubbed ‘The Cinderella Slipper’. Ghastly. It hardly had anything to do with the shoe and more about the severed foot attached to it, but despite this John had seemed quite chuffed with his title. He scoffed at the memory and flicked his hand into empty air, filing the thought away with the others from the previous week. Slowly, he sank back into the depths of the case. This was his usual Sunday morning routine, and to onlookers as well as Sherlock himself, it would have seemed to be the start to a very uneventful and boring day. That, however, was where he was wrong.
John had woken at half past six, a remnant of his army schedule, and immediately trudged into the loo. Sherlock shifted slightly at the interruption, but was not annoyed. Quite the opposite, actually. When John was up, that meant tea. Tea he didn’t have to make. Wonderful. He listened intently as the shower water ran, stopped, and was replaced by the faucet accompanied by the faint sounds of teeth being brushed. His thoughts briefly wandered to how John’s diet impacted his enamel and gums, but he shook his head at the thought of the shorter man’s reaction to that sort of question. The last time he had inquired about John’s personal hygiene (something about soap brands, not too sinister), he was met with a disapproving look and petri dishes (that were important!!) being thrown away.
A few minutes later, John emerged from the closet-sized space in a navy jumper and dark jeans, and headed straight for the sitting room. He rubbed his eyes sleepily as he picked up the dirty teacups, making Sherlock’s stoic face break into a half-grin. He always loved seeing John like this. Not the military-stanced man he was during the day or on cases, but a soft and vulnerable human being. ‘I have this terrible feeling that we might all just be human’ he recalled his own quote from many months before with ease and grinned at the switch in philosophies.
At first, John was the one convincing him he wasn’t just a well-oiled machine, but somewhere along the lines the roles had reversed, and Sherlock had ended up comforting John. He still cringed at the memory, the absurd levels of emotion he had let through that evening. Not his best moment.
“Bloody buggering fuck.” A crashing of dishes reinstated him to his reality and he glanced over towards John. He had knocked over a stack of plates in the sink, and was now frantically ridding the floor of soapy liquid. Chuckling to himself, he listened to the commotion, but replaced his blank expression as he heard footsteps approaching him. He stilled himself as much as he could as two scar-covered hands wound their way into a curl of his hair.
After The Fall and the whole Mary ordeal, John had become increasingly attached to Sherlock. Anytime the detective mentioned going over to Bart’s or out on a case alone, the stout doctor would insist on coming along, no matter what he had been doing the moment before. He’d started touching Sherlock more too. Just friendly pats on the shoulder, nothing too expressive, but just long enough to ensure him that his reality wasn’t a dream. It had escalated slightly over the last few weeks, seeing as his ‘death day’ was coming up, but Sherlock didn’t mind in the slightest.
Which puzzled him to no extent.
He hated being touched, poked, prodded, hugged, or even talked to most of the time. Even with his own family, he’d much rather take another dive off of St. Barts then hug his father or god forbid Mycroft (that absolute walrus). But with John, he didn’t mind. Even though the extent of their ‘attachment’ had only reached head rubs or the occasional i-had-the-couch-first-so-i-put-my-legs-in-John’s-lap, it was enough to make Sherlock feel safe. Which was odd. Even now, as John’s fingers caressed their way through his unruly curls he felt calm, an entirely new sensation until around five years ago. He tried not to lean into John’s touch, seeing as he was supposed to appear to be drowning in his mind palace, but to no avail.
John jerked his hand away at the slightest twitch of Sherlock’s head and returned to his station in the kitchen, much to the latter’s dismay. He stayed still for another few minutes, once again sorting through memories, but snapped out quickly when he heard the fridge door and a rather exasperated sigh. Lecture time. Oh goody.
“Sherlock.”
“Hmm?” He turned his head as he answered, still not bothering to move.
“There are toes in our vegetable drawer.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and finally sat up, walking limply over to the dining table. John was holding a small plastic bag with a pair of tongs, holding it out to the detective, who grinned. In a fake exasperated voice with an even faker smile, he leaned downwards in mocking approval.
“Great observation, John! And what can we deduce from that?”
“I can deduce that you’re a right git and will be cleaning out the entire fridge after the day is over;” He said pointedly, throwing the outstretched bag of (Interesting!) body parts into the trash. Sherlock had to restrain himself from whining but decided that he wouldn’t act like so much of a child. Today, at least.
“I still don’t see why you don’t get your own fridge.You could store as many body parts as you wanted there, but instead you choose next to my lettuce and celery.”
“Not enough room.”
“Use 221c, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would be happy to lend it to you, even for a week.”
“Mold.”
“Sometimes I wonder how I stand living with you.” John said, smiling to himself. He closed the fridge, elbowing Sherlock in the process, and headed over towards the adjacent counter. The latter, however, promptly retreated to his trusty armchair, a pout replacing his stoic expression as he tangled his lean body into itself.
“Do you want tea?” Sherlock glanced upwards.
“Obviously.” What a stupid question, he thought. Of course he wanted tea. He always had tea in the mornings unless there was a particularly interesting case, a seven or higher. John knew how he took his tea by heart, he was sure, considering the amount of times that the blond had made him a nice Earl Grey.
Expecting John not to answer and just brew him the casual beverage, he grabbed a book off the side table next to him, and began to flip through lazily. But what the blond said made him drop the book straight onto his lap and off the chair in pure and utter shock;
“Alright, love.”
Sherlock froze. He quickly looked up to see if John had realized his error, or had any intention of correcting it, but he was grabbing his favorite mug from the cabinet and hadn’t seemed to notice that anything was wrong. Book forgotten on the floor, he rapidly attempted to restart his brain from the initial shock, and once he was aware of his surroundings and what had just happened, time stopped. He started to panic, his thoughts racing(and failing) to find a probable reason for the slip up. John had stopped looking for girlfriends after Mary, so this wasn’t just a blunder of tongue. This was something his mind thought through, and intended to say.
“Out.” John turned at the abrupt statement, eyes easily finding the detectives.
“What?”
“I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“Not quite sure yet.” He pulled his Belstaff off the hanger near the door and swiftly started attempting to put it on. John followed him into the hallway, tea long forgotten, but Sherlock emphatically avoided his questioning gaze. He flipped up the collar and folded the cuffs, snapping his wrists in distress.
“How long?”
“Don’t know.”
“Case?”
“No.”
“Alright then. Try not to get yourself killed.” John knew not to question him often because of his variety of odd experiments, which he was quite grateful for having done at the moment. He nodded his head vaguely, grabbing his scarf and mobile.
With that, he bounded down the stairs, skipping three at a time, and out the door. He shut it firmly by the knocker and immediately turned towards Regents Park. He didn’t know where he’d end up. All he knew was that he needed more data.