A/N: I guess there is some benefit to a sick day. If I can't get any real work done, I can at least do this! This is set shortly after "A Lifetime For Music". I neither own nor profit from. Enjoy!
Also, I'd just like to say the sad face SMS is supposed to be an angry face, but ffn won't let me put the greater than sign into the text. I shake my fist in rage, but nothing changes. Sigh.
John was curled up, reading peacefully on the couch when Sherlock stormed out of the bathroom, strode into the kitchen, and began pulling equipment out, muttering to himself under his breath. John finished his page, marking it by turning down the top corner, then set it aside, standing up unhurriedly.
Sherlock was clattering about the kitchen, either making a mess or trying to clear one up, it was quite unclear to John, who leaned against the frame, crossing his arms. He watched the whirlwind he called his husband for a moment, trying to decide if Sherlock was going to cause a disaster and needed to be contained.
"What's wrong?" he enquired eventually.
Sherlock stopped suddenly, as if applying mental brakes, and looked up, grey eyes defiant and blazing.
"Nothing!" he snapped.
John shrugged.
"All right," he said calmly and went back to the couch, ignoring the glare he was certain Sherlock was giving him. He picked up his book again and proceeded to disregard the noises coming from behind him. Sherlock had worked himself up about something, and John doubted it had anything to do with him, since he'd just been minding his own business, reading for the last hour or so. Hadn't updated his blog, hadn't even touched his computer, hadn't moved any of Sherlock's experiments.
It was possible Sherlock was angry because John hadn't joined him in the shower, but unlikely. Usually, if Sherlock wanted to shower with him and John wasn't aware of it, he'd just find John and tow him bodily into the bathroom. John generally didn't mind, unless he'd just showered himself. Pointing this out always fell on deaf ears, though. Logic only applied when Sherlock wanted it to.
He hadn't missed any important dates, which Sherlock would probably be the one guilty of doing so anyway. Nor had he failed to do anything he'd promised to do, and again, Sherlock was much better at not following through on promises than John was.
Whatever it was, Sherlock would either work himself out of it, or break down and tell John eventually. In the meantime, John ignored him, knowing this was likely to get a quicker result. Sherlock hated being ignored, although he was more than willing to subject John to the cold shoulder when he was huffy or sulking or wanted something.
Sherlock continued to rattle about the kitchen for ten minutes. John kept reading, keeping an ear tuned to the noises, in case it did actually get serious and Sherlock started breaking things, or started to sound like he was moving his equipment into the food cupboards, which might result in them getting seriously poisoned. But it sounded fairly superficial, so John didn't let up with his book.
After ten minutes, Sherlock stormed back into the livingroom, twisted his scarf around his neck, threw on his coat and shoes and glared at John. John finished the paragraph he'd been reading, then looked up with a mild enquiring expression.
"Yes?" he asked.
"I am going out," Sherlock huffed.
"All right," John agreed amiably. "Pick up some tea, would you? We're running low."
Sherlock stared at him as though John had suggested he do something mad, which, John supposed, asking him to do an errand could be considered. Then he flung open the door and stalked out, slamming it behind him. John waited until he heard the lower door open and bang shut, then got up, poking his head out. Mrs. Hudson had heard this, despite the fact that her hearing was starting to go, and was in the hallway, looking curiously up at him.
"Something wrong with Sherlock?" she asked.
"He's in a mood," John replied. "Best let him just get on with it."
"Oh dear," their landlady sighed. "He does get himself so worked up."
John ducked back inside after bidding her a good morning and locked the doors again. Sherlock had forgotten his keys, which meant he'd need to text John to get let back in, or sit outside all day. John wasn't willing to put the latter choice past him, although it would also mean Mycroft could probably observe him. Sherlock would be torn, but John was willing to bet that texting would win out in the end.
He made himself some tea from their dwindling stock and went back to his book. Outside, it was overcast and cold, mid-February, and Sherlock had also left without his umbrella. John hoped he had at least had his gloves.
That's what leaving in huff gets you, he thought with a smile, then returned his attention to his reading.
About half an hour later, he got a text. It read only:
:(
Yes, what are you angry about? John texted back, waiting a few minutes first, to make sure Sherlock would be well and truly interested in getting a reply.
Not angry, came the answer.
That's good. Remember to pick up some tea.
He was certain if Sherlock could have accurately conveyed the tone and emotion behind loud cursing, he would have. John chuckled to himself when the wordless text filled only with exclamation marks came back. He put his phone aside, getting up to return his teacup to the kitchen, making an untidy pile of Sherlock's equipment on the table. It was better than the untidy mess the consulting detective had left spread out on all of the available kitchen surfaces.
After doing the washing up from breakfast, drying the dishes and putting them away, then fishing around for a bookmark, putting his book in the bedroom, brushing his teeth and checking the weather, John got his coat and shoes and umbrella – and his keys – and left the flat.
He ambled around the neighbourhood awhile, fairly certain he knew where Sherlock had ended up, but not willing to go just yet. Sherlock would be waiting for him, whatever was bothering him stewing and driving him mad, and John wanted to make sure he was willing to talk, not sulk, when John arrived. Plus, he could use the walk, he'd been sitting all morning, and the brisk air was pleasant and welcome.
After about twenty minutes of aimless walking, he arrived at Angelo's and let himself in. The ex-con-but-not-murderer greeted him with his exuberant cheer and John returned the good morning pleasantly, with a genuine smile. He liked Angelo, and at least the man had laid off about the whole "date" thing he'd always tried to pin on John. Now it was "husband".
"Where's himself?" John asked.
"Back corner booth," Angelo said, pointing with a thumb over his shoulder. John raised an eyebrow; it was not Sherlock's normal table. He usually liked to be able to see what was going on outside on the street, to observe the pedestrians and the traffic. But at least back there, none of Mycroft's cameras – or the city cameras Mycroft appropriated somehow – could see them easily.
John asked Angelo for a coffee, then wandered back and sat down across from Sherlock, who glared at him, grey eyes gleaming. John tangled his ankles with Sherlock's effectively trapping him so that he couldn't get up without appearing clumsy, which John knew he hated.
"Got the tea, then?" he enquired lightly.
"No," Sherlock muttered. "I have not got the tea. Buy your own bloody tea."
"All right," John agreed equably. "I have some time for errands today."
Sherlock glared at him again, eyes blazing, but was interrupted by Angelo bring John's coffee.
"Cream, John?" he asked.
"No, thank you," John replied, but helped himself to a packet of sugar. He made a show of opening it, pouring it in, and stirring it before asking: "Are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"
"Nothing's bothering me," Sherlock snapped.
"Of course not," John replied. "You are your normal cheery and pleasant self today. I agree completely."
Sherlock scowled, pushing his empty coffee cup around the table, fixing his eyes on it so he didn't have to look at John. John kept his eyes trained on Sherlock's face so that his husband finally looked back up, shooting him another dark look.
"I didn't ask you to come here," Sherlock said.
"I just came for a coffee," John replied. "Had no idea you were here."
"Liar."
John shrugged his good shoulder lightly. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, even more displeased.
"It's quite good," John said, lifting his cup slightly, then taking another sip.
"It's utter swill," Sherlock replied. "You have no taste."
"You've already had a whole cup. Probably two."
"I needed to determine if it was indeed swill. One cup is not sufficient evidence."
"Well, I like it," John commented.
"That's because you have no taste," Sherlock said.
"Certainly not in men," John agreed, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock's nostrils flared and his eyes blazed again. John wondered if he'd hit a nerve – it's not like he'd said anything untoward or offhanded to Sherlock and certainly hadn't turned him down the night before.
"If I've done something, you've got to tell me," John pointed out evenly. "I can't just guess. And I don't have your deductive capabilities."
"You didn't do anything," Sherlock said tightly.
"That's a relief, then. How about you tell me what it is?"
Sherlock kept a hard gaze on John for a moment, then dropped his head. For a second, John was confused, then he realized Sherlock was actually pointing to his head, to his dark hair. Frowning, John leaned forward somewhat, then sat back, laughing. Sherlock's head snapped back up and his eyes shot daggers at the doctor, who scarcely noticed.
"You have a grey hair!" John said. "So what?"
"It's not grey," Sherlock said stiffly. "It's white."
"Grey, white, whatever," John said, waving a hand and trying to repress his laughter in the face of Sherlock's angry expression. "Sherlock, so what? You're thirty-six. It happens to everyone."
"I've never had a white hair before," the consulting detective muttered.
John was hard pressed not to laugh but swallowed it down for his husband's sake. Sherlock was proud of – vain about, really – his hair, although he went to great lengths not to show it, and believed John didn't know. John did know, but kept it to himself, because he agreed with Sherlock that it was one of his best physical features. Along with his whole body, really, but that's not the way Sherlock saw it. John did love those dark curls, but he was aware that one day, they would not be dark. As long as he didn't go bald, John didn't care. He hoped Sherlock would keep all of his hair, as thick and curly as it was, because he loved to lace his fingers into it, tug in gently, mess it up, and would miss that, if it were ever gone.
"Well, now you do," John said. "It's not a big deal. Everyone's hair turns colour."
"I'm not everyone," Sherlock replied, his voice tight.
John chuckled, shaking his head.
"The great consulting detective, brought low by time. Really, it's just one. It could be years before you ever get any more. What are you going to do? Worry about it until you find another one? Worrying about it could actually make it worse, you know."
At this, Sherlock looked alarmed and chewed on his lower lip, then tried to smooth over his expression.
"Come on," John said, not quite keeping the laughter out of his voice. "I think I have a solution."
"I'm not colouring my hair," Sherlock warned. "Those chemicals are highly toxic and their effects on the water system and the human immune system are unstudied."
"That's not my idea," John replied. He paid for his coffee and drained it as quickly as he could, then herded Sherlock out of the booth, taking him home. Once inside, he divested himself and Sherlock of their coats and steered him into the bathroom.
"Sit," he ordered and Sherlock flipped the toilet seat lid down and perched on it, watching John cautiously.
"You're not going to shave it off, are you?" he demanded when John opened the medicine cabinet.
"I'd rather chop off my own hand," John said. "I like your hair."
"I like my hair, too," Sherlock muttered, the closest John had ever heard him come to admitting vanity about his appearance. John pulled out a pair of tweezers.
"Sit still," he ordered and pressed his left hand to the top of Sherlock's head, plucking the offending hair out by the root. He held it up for inspection and Sherlock glared at it, as though its existence was insulting to him. John held up a hand for Sherlock to wait and went into the kitchen, coming back a moment later with a lighter. He flicked it on and let the hair burn over the sink, noting that Sherlock looked more heartened as he did so.
"There. All evidence destroyed. Although at some point, you won't be able to do that without making yourself go bald."
"As long as it isn't for quite some time," Sherlock said.
John ran a hand into Sherlock's hair and Sherlock closed his eyes. He turned his face up when he felt John lean down, and the doctor brushed his lips over Sherlock's jaw, trailing them down Sherlock's neck, feeling the jump of his husband's pulse against his own lips. He kissed the pulse point and then licked it lightly, earning a small appreciative noise.
"Now," John murmured, his lips moving against Sherlock's skin. "We really do need to go out and get more tea."