"Sherlock!" John calls as he walks up the stairs to the flat.
"What?" A tall figure appears at the top of the stairs.
"Did you buy any milk?"
A guilty look appears on Sherlock's flawless face.
"I'll take that as a no," John remarks wryly.
"I can go now..." Sherlock says, his heart sinking at the thought of leaving his latest experiment.
"No need. I assumed you'd forget, and I got some on my way home," John laughed as he reaches the top of the stairs. "Dear me, Sherlock, you're almost getting predictable!"
Sherlock grins as he plants a kiss on his boyfriend's cheek. "Almost!" he sings gaily as he retreats back to the kitchen.
That night as they lie in bed, John's head resting on his partner's shoulder, their legs intertwined, Sherlock says "I'm sorry."
"For what?" John replies sleepily.
"Never getting milk."
John raises his head to look down on the deep eyes and gorgeous hair and damn sexy cheekbones of the man lying next to him. "I don't mind," he smiles, "it's just one of your many quirks."
"But it's not like you ask me to do much and I always forget and..."
"Sherlock," John interrupts, placing a finger over Sherlock's lips, "forget it. I really don't mind." John kisses him lightly, then settles down again to sleep.
But Sherlock can't.
John wakes the next day to an empty flat. He dresses in silence, wondering where Sherlock could possibly be this time. As he enters the kitchen, he sees something which brings a broad grin to his face. There, on the kitchen table, is a ready-made breakfast - toast, sausages, eggs, beans - and a full carton of milk. Next to be plate is a scrap of paper with his name written on it, and when he turns it over he sees three words in Sherlock's beautiful looping handwriting.
I love you.
He chuckles quietly to himself, then sits down and digs in.
John has a day off, so he uses it to catch up on some blogging. Everything seems pretty close to perfect, until just before lunch. He stands up and stretches, and then feels a sudden sharp pain in his side and a wave of nausea sweeps over him. He rushes to the bathroom.
This is how Sherlock finds him when he returns an hour later - John is sitting on the bathroom floor with his eyes closed, his head resting against the wall, leaning over every few minutes to throw up miserably.
"Oh god, John...?" Sherlock rushes to his side and tips up John's chin so he can look at his face. It is pale and vaguely green. Food poisoning, he deduces in seconds. Then his heart stops. He remembers who cooked breakfast that morning, and he realises in utter horror what has happened. He did this.
John opens his eyes just long enough to see Sherlock dash off again. He groans and gently massages his pounding head. Where can he have gone now?
By that evening, John feels completely better, if a little tired. It takes him a while to notice Sherlock is still missing - and that his coat and scarf are lying on the sofa. John frowns, then decides to go looking for him.
A few hours later John feels like he must have walked down every street in London - yet there is still no sign of Sherlock. He is so desperate he seriously considers texting Mycroft and asking him. Just as he thinks this, his phone beeps cheerily into the cold dark night, and then again. His heart leaps, hoping that Sherlock has finally replied to one of his many texts and calls.
Sherlock is at Baker Street. MH
Hurry. MH
I'm on my way. JW
At some point along the way home, it starts to rain. Big heavy drops of water splash all around him, soaking him thoroughly. When he reaches Baker Street he feels less like a man and more like a drowned rat. Then he sees Sherlock. Sitting, completely soaked, on the pavement outside 221 with such a melancholy look plastering his face that John's heart stumbles as he runs to reach him.
"Sherlock!" John shouts, relief singing out in each syllable of his boyfriend's name.
"John," he replies.
"Where did you go? Why did you go?"
"I had to. I hurt you."
John is flabbergasted. "Hurt me?"
"You were sick. Food poisoning. My fault."
"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock," John says dismissively.
Sherlock stands suddenly, and there is a fiery anger written all over his face.
"It was my fault." he snaps, his eyes blazing.
There is a long pause.
"That's no reason to run away," John points out gently.
"I'm a terrible person," Sherlock says quietly, more to himself than to John, "and I deserved to be alone."
John looks at him in shock, then takes a step forwards and presses a kiss to Sherlock's cheek.
"No one ever deserves to be alone," he whispers softly.
And although they both know all the flaws Sherlock could point out in this statement, he doesn't. Just for once he'd like to believe it's true.
And so he allows John to help him upstairs, and to dry him, and then to hold him and kiss him as they lie in bed.
They fall asleep in each others arms.
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