John shut the door behind them and leaned against it with a groan. He let their bag on the floor with a thump. He closed his eyes in exhaustion. Somewhere next to him he could hear Sherlock hanging up that ridiculous coat of his.
"If you ever," John said darkly, "ever again, experiment on me without my permission again, I swear to God I will knock you out."
"I said I was sorry, John," Sherlock muttered, abashed.
"I know you did," was John's reply. "I need tea." True to his word, John stepped away from the door and into the kitchen, flipping on the kettle as he passed. Within minutes it gave off the dull, comforting hum of water starting to boil.
A tall figure pressed against his back as Sherlock reached over him to up to cupboard and fetch down their usual mugs. He set them on the counter in front of John and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, staying crowded up against his husband.
John felt a rueful smile overtake his face, as it always did when Sherlock casually displayed his greater height. "Would you like some tea, Sherlock?" Sherlock's chin brushed against his hair as he nodded.
John made their tea in silence. They drank their tea in silence. He bundled Sherlock off to bed when he started drooping, despite the detective's increasingly apprehensive expression over John's continued silence.
"You aren't sleeping here tonight." Sherlock's voiced observation broke the silence. "You should. Your shoulder is far too bad to sleep on the sofa."
"I know."
"You don't care," Sherlock said for him. "John, please don't. I'm sorry!"
"I know," John repeated. "I'm still sleeping on the sofa tonight."
John woke more tired than when he fell asleep. He really was in no shape to sleep on the sofa, as Sherlock had said. He rolled over to take the weight off his bad shoulder and found the living room less blindingly bright than he had expected. Sherlock must have drawn the curtains while he slept.
It never ceased to amaze John that a man so observant could not figure out why some things made John so mad. Obvious things, like being kidnapped or drugged.
Well, maybe Sherlock had no idea what would make John angry, but he certainly knew how to stay out of his way. John would bet his meagre pension that Sherlock would stay out all morning, if not most of the day, either at the morgue or haunting Lestrade at the Yard.
Sitting up, John stretched out his shoulder with a pained groan. He smiled when he saw a glass of juice and three paracetamol tablets sitting on the coffee table. There was no note, but John knew Sherlock finally understood. Which was good, because his shoulder could not take another night on the sofa.
"Oh, hello Sherlock dear!"
Sherlock froze, one foot on the staircase. He had so hoped to make it upstairs quickly but as always, Mrs Hudson defied all attempts to be secretive. He stuffed a hand into his pocket, making sure John's present was still hidden.
"Afternoon, Mrs Hudson," he sighed.
The lady herself came bustling out, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, it's good to see you and John back so soon! I swear, I don't know how I ever managed without the two of you thumping around upstairs. It brings such life to this old building-"
"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock cut her off, "now really isn't the best time…" he trailed off, hoping she would take the hint.
She was a nosy old lady at times, but even Sherlock would not deny that she was clever at times and observant in her own way. Unless Mycroft asked. Then he would deny it.
"Of course." She winked, giving the side of her nose a tap. "You want to get back up to that doctor husband of yours, I understand. Oh you two, you're so sweet! Go on, then!"
Sherlock gave her a quick grin and dashed up the stairs. He cradled John's present in his pocket with one hand, keeping it from bouncing and banging against his leg. "John!" he called, throwing open the door.
"Shite! What?" John stood from his chair and made his way to the kitchen, scowling at the tea that had splashed on him when he jumped.
"Do you know what this great, ridiculous coat of mine has?" Sherlock asked, quoting an insult John was fond of muttering half-heartedly under his breath.
"What?" John returned to the living room with a tea towel, dabbing at the wet patch on his jumper.
Sherlock smirked. "Great, ridiculous pockets. Close your eyes." John gave him a puzzled look. "Close your eyes!" he repeated, insistent.
Wary, John closed his eyes.
With his free hand, Sherlock plucked the tea towel from his husband's hands. He withdrew John's present from his pocket with his other, suddenly nervous. What if John didn't like it? What if he was wrong? Normally that would not even be an issue, but John was the only person he had ever read wrongly before, and he unfortunately did it all the time.
John's eyes opened as soon as Sherlock placed the present in his hands. He stared at it for a long moment. "Sherlock…?"
Sherlock shifted nervously. "I, um, I know I'm not the best person to live with, much less the best spouse. I run off sometimes, and even when I'm here, I'm often distracted. I don't know the basic rules of society and I simply don't want to, but I am sorry. I am always sorry, whenever I hurt you or make you mad, I really am."
John gave him a soft smile. "Is this a standing apology, then?" He cradled it carefully. "You know, most people think I'm a dog person."
Sherlock gave him a mock-haughty look. "I'm not most people."
"I know." He petted the tiny kitten in his hands, a tender look on his face. "What is it?"
"A pure-blooded Manx male. I helped a breeder out once while you were…"
"Deployed?" John offered.
"Yes. That. Anyway, she owed me a favour-"
"And you asked for a kitten," John finished for him. "You're adorable."
Sherlock felt his face warm. "I'm not very good at expressing myself sometimes, but I really am very sorry for the, um, the lab incident."
John cuddled the kitten to his chest with one hand, taking Sherlock's hand with the other. "I know."
"John, I…" Sherlock's flush deepened and he found himself unable to meet John's eyes. "I love you." His voice was no more than a whisper.
"Sher-" John's voice wasn't any louder than his. "Sherlock, look at me."
Sherlock did. John stared at him with so much warmth and openness in his eyes that it took Sherlock's breath away. He stood up on tiptoes and kissed Sherlock softly. "I love you too."
"Good." Sherlock kissed his husband again.
John laughed. "Yes, very." He turned his gaze back to the little kitten in his hands, barely more than a tiny tuft of white fur with two huge, mismatched eyes. "What should we call him?"
"Call him?" Sherlock pondered the little bit of fluff. "Ricin," he decided.
"You want to name our cat after a poison?"
"Yes. I think it fits it."
"Very well," John laughed. "Ricin it is. Ricin the cat."