A/N: Apparently I am no longer capable of writing one-shots. So, anyway, here are the first 2 chapters - should be more by tonight (my tonight), although probably not the whole thing in one day. Someone requested more from when J&S get together, so here it is. I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!
It was nice, magnificent really, to laze about in bed on a Sunday morning, especially when it was settling into cold winter outside, snuggled under the duvet in a pocket of warmth and contentment. It could only be made better if Sherlock were still in bed, but John wasn't really complaining, because Sherlock probably wouldn't be satisfied to just lie there idly, and the fact that he was up and moving about the flat was a good indication of that. He'd managed a lie in last weekend with Sherlock, but the detective had been in one of his antsy moods the past few days and John knew better to than to push it.
He had to get up eventually though, to use the bathroom and to eat, but it was with reluctance that he parted from the bed, tossing the duvet off and appreciating that at least the flat wasn't chilly. A little sign affixed to the fridge helped with that, reading "please turn up the heat if you get up before me", because Sherlock wasn't as liable to notice inconvenient things, like if it was too cold in the flat in the morning.
John shuffled into the bathroom and showered and shaved, but didn't bother dressing other than putting his pyjamas back on. He wandered into the kitchen, where Sherlock had installed himself at the table, a mess of equipment spread out around him.
"Good morning," John greeted, leaning in for a kiss. Sherlock returned it quickly, but John took no offense – he was obviously distracted by work, whatever this was, John didn't eye it too closely, for fear of figuring it out. He set himself to making some breakfast, fixing a plate for Sherlock as well, who accepted it with a muttered acknowledgement that wasn't quite a thank you, but close enough as made no difference.
He took his own plate and mug of tea into the living room, settling into his chair and picking up a book he'd been reading. He polished off his breakfast and read for a few more minutes before Sherlock came into the living room, raking his hands through his dark hair. John looked up from his book, but Sherlock was paying him no real attention, glancing about the flat as though he'd forgotten something, chewing on his lower lip.
He'd already put on a couple of pounds in the short time they'd been together, a little over four weeks now. Not in the unhealthy way, in the eating-more-regularly way. John was pleased to see it, although Sherlock had moaned about it as though he'd suddenly grown an extra head, but had stopped doing so very quickly when John told him it made him look even sexier.
Sherlock had considered this quietly for a few minutes, then jumped on John, entirely ruining the doctor's plans at the time for watching some crap telly and maybe taking a nap. Not that the change in plans has been unwelcome, of course.
"You all right?" John asked.
Sherlock refocused on him with a speed that still surprised John and chewed on his lower lip again, his expression flickering through so many variations John had a hard time pinning any of them down. He thought he caught irritation and reluctance in there, but it was hard to tell.
"What? Oh yes. Fine," Sherlock said, then glanced about again before ducking back into the kitchen, having accomplished nothing insofar as John could tell.
John cleared away his dishes and went back into the bedroom, stripping the duvet off the bed and tossing it on the floor before pulling off the sheets and pillowcases. He did this once a week, as he always had, something his mother hand ingrained in him from a very young age and which life in the army had reinforced. Sherlock was more than happy to let John take care of these things, and John usually reserved Sunday mornings for the chores he knew he'd have to do, or else they'd never get done. He was fairly certain Sherlock would do it, if asked, but it would probably take him several days of patient reminders and John would likely be subjected to excuses about how the detective was too busy.
The bed was John's; he'd been more than willing to move into the downstairs bedroom, knowing Sherlock was more attached to his space than John had been to his. After Afghanistan, simply having a room to himself had been a joy, so it didn't much matter to him if it was upstairs or downstairs, other than the worries that Mrs. Hudson could probably hear them better from the flat's main level. But not the bed, after two days of sleeping on Sherlock's old bed, he'd put his foot down. It was either that or have his shoulder retaliate in protest. John had recently bought himself a good, new bed, since his steady job meant he was making a comfortable living and his old injury needed some consideration.
Sherlock had tried to devise some elaborate contraption by which to move the bed from upstairs, until John had just said:
"Look, there's two of us, let's move your bed into the living room and then mine down here, then yours up there."
As soon as this had been accomplished, Sherlock had insisted they inaugurate the bed as officially theirs, even though it had actually been the first one in which they'd spent a night together. John didn't bother correcting this, though, since he'd had no objection to this plan.
Sherlock certainly spent a lot more time in bed now than he had in the entire time in which John had known him. Sometimes he even actually slept. It was astounding.
John finished changing the sheets and remade the bed, then dressed himself in a pair of jeans and a dark red jumper. He gathered up his phone and wallet and went back into the living room, snagging his jacket and the scarf Sherlock had bought him the previous week, a simple black scarf that was quite plain and functional, just like John preferred. He didn't have Sherlock's taste in clothing, although he definitely appreciated looking at the way Sherlock dressed. He pulled on his shoes and found a pair of gloves, then popped into the kitchen, where the mess had expanded and begun to migrate.
"I'm going to do some errands. Do you need anything?"
Sherlock, who leaning over the table, back to him, straightened and turned, still looking distracted. He'd eaten, John noticed, but hadn't properly showered yet, although he was dressed, and not in the same clothes he'd been wearing the previous day, which meant he wasn't entirely preoccupied.
"No, I'm fine," he assured John.
"All right," John said, making a mental note of the frown Sherlock gave him, of the fact that he looked more tense and fidgety than normal. Something was bothering him, but not so much – yet – that it was making him snappish. John hoped it wasn't boredom and reminded himself to hide the other man's gun when he got home. Mrs. Hudson might just get angry enough to threaten them with eviction if Sherlock kept up shooting the walls.
He went out, stopping down at Mrs. Hudson's to see if she needed anything, did the shopping that needed doing, bought himself a takeaway hot chocolate on the way home, and came back. He delivered Mrs. Hudson's small order of groceries to her then heading back upstairs.
In the short time he'd been out, Sherlock had managed to extend his mess to the dining room table and a couple of the surfaces in the living room. John sighed, toeing off his shoes.
"Thought we agreed that you'd keep it in the kitchen?" he asked, and was surprised when he didn't get a response. He went into the kitchen, which was empty, and found a place to set the groceries, carefully moving some equipment.
"Sherlock?" he called, checking to see if the detective's coat and shoes were still there, which they were.
"Sherlock?" He poked his head into the bedroom, which was empty, then the bathroom, with the same result. John frowned, then nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned and found Sherlock standing right behind him, some mysterious piece of equipment in hand.
"Yes?"
"Bloody hell!" John gasped, shaking his head. "Don't do that!"
Sherlock frowned.
"Don't do what?"
"Sneak up on me!"
"I wasn't sneaking up on you, John."
"Well, learn to make some noise when you move then; you're a menace to my mental health!" He scrubbed a hand over his lips, shaking his head, trying to convince his heart to slow down. "It is generally not a good idea to startle someone with trained combat reactions."
"I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock said. "But I'm not resorting to stomping about the flat." He paused, frown twitching. "I'm sorry."
The apology caught John up short; he wasn't actually upset, just taken off guard, and hadn't expected Sherlock to actually feel any remorse, or at least express it. The pinched look on Sherlock's face made him worry – did he think John was really that put out?
"It's all right," John assured him. "Where were you?"
"Upstairs." John's old room had very quickly turned into a storage area, since John didn't want to share their bedroom with all of Sherlock's mess. The detective had taken over what was now the spare room, and John couldn't really see them having a lot of overnight guests anyway.
"Can you get rid of some of the mess in the kitchen? I need to put the groceries away."
Sherlock gave a distracted nod and vanished, and John followed him after taking a moment to breathe a few deep breaths, shaking his head. Life with Sherlock had always kept him on his toes, of course, but being partners included navigated some hitherto uncharted and unimagined waters.