Seeing that John wasn't much for talking therapy, Ella had taken to giving him concrete assignments to complete in between sessions. This was part of "Operation Getting John Off His Arse" as John bleakly joked about on his blog that no one ever read besides his therapist. He was to "explore" a different section of the city every day off from his boring part-time clinic work. The only rules were that he had to enter at least two places of business and that neither could be an impersonal chain establishment that he could easily walk through as yet another member of the nameless London populace.
John waited for the crowds to subside a bit before he made his way up and out of the Baker Street tube station. He would rather wait than have strangers jostle past him on the stairs as he held onto the railing with one hand and his cane with the other. At street level, the grey sky greeted him, the darker clouds passing by like the slow ice drifts on the Thames.
John perused the grossly overpriced gourmet honey selections at the corner shop that boasted only carrying goods that were produced within 100 miles of London. The free samples were lovely, as was the woman behind the counter, but both were out of his price range.
John wandered a bit. It was a nice neighborhood, but not that different than many others in the city. John caught sight of a bookstore across the street, just a little place, and remembered that he was out of unread paperbacks. A night spent with a book seemed marginally more interesting and respectable than falling asleep in front of crap telly, so he crossed the street.
Save for the walls lined with book shelves and the antique cash register, the shop looked more like a spinster's sitting room than a business. John nodded to the woman perched on a stool behind the counter. It was, he assumed, the Mrs. Hudson whose name was emblazoned in nostalgic gold script on the front window.
"Hello dear!" Said the woman. "You must be new to the neighborhood, haven't seen you in here before and I never forget a face."
"Live a few stops down the line actually. Just passing the time." Replied John.
See, Ella, I talked to someone today, happy? Thought John.
"Oh would you look at that!" The older woman exclaimed, gesturing towards the window. The lazy sky had churned up the gumption to let loose a proper downpour.
"No wonder my hip was acting up today, and no doubt that leg of yours as well. I've got a little fireplace in the back sitting area, why don't you stoke the fire a bit and make yourself comfortable. Not going back out in that anytime soon. I'll put the kettle on and make you a nice cuppa."
Mrs. Hudson patted his back on the way by. John found himself obeying her direction. Just like that, the little lady made John feel more at home in under one minute than he had felt in his dreary bedsit in all the weeks he had been back.
Once the fire in the small grate was nicely crackling, John poked around the store. He stopped by the medical section for a quick glance, then thumbed through the display of paperbacks near the front. He selected a copy of the newest book by a popular mystery writer.
John settled into the large, well-worn armchair to the left of the fire. He positioned the small Union Jack pillow behind his lower back and was quite comfortable indeed. He was only about two pages in when…
"Mmm, no."
John shot up from his relaxed position, for the voice that he heard was far too deep to be belong to Mrs. Hudson and far too close to his ear to be socially appropriate. John quickly turned to seek out the owner of said voice just as the tall man in an impeccable suit rounded from the back of his chair where he had, apparently, been bent over John's shoulder just a moment ago.
"Pardon me?" John asked, proud that his voice didn't give away how rattled he was at the intrusion into his personal space.
"You don't want that book. Predictable. If it follows the same narrative pattern as the author's last three novels then it is the clearly the business rival's wife that committed the murder. Even you could figure it out by page 77. If you are looking for something more your speed, doctor, might I suggest this one instead, as it was heralded by several reviewers as well as a veteran's organization for its realistic combat action and a high level of emotional impact. So, invalided home from Afghanistan or Iraq?" rattled off the dark-haired stranger as he pelted John's chest with a paperback.
The man swept his finger over a bookshelf and checked his fingertip for dust residue. Then he sniffed it. For a moment, it looked as if he were going to taste it as well but then restrained himself. The man allowed his gaze to flit over John where he sat, as if warily looking for his reaction and perhaps bracing for a negative one.
John leaned back in his seat, astounded.
"How do you know that I am a doctor and that I was recently discharged?" John ventured.
At the same breakneck speed as his first run-on commentary/book recommendation, the man spewed observations about how John hovered in front of the medical section, carried latex gloves in his jacket pocket, and how his collar was wrinkled in a manner that was indicative of prolonged interaction with a stethoscope. Also, he carried himself like a soldier and had tan lines that were conducive to recent service in a sunny location. John used a cane for a supposed leg injury, but he left the cane leaning against the book shelf when he became engrossed in reading the back cover descriptions, which suggested that the injury was at least partially psychosomatic. Psychosomatic limp suggests a trauma, so an active war zone.
John was stunned. But he couldn't help the grin that started to creep in.
"Afghanistan" he replied.
The stranger gave a small self-satisfied nod.
"And," John added, noticing that a shot of tension ran through the man's shoulders. "That was amazing."
"You really think so?"
"Yes that was amazing, really quite remarkable."
"That's not what people usually say."
"What do they usually say then?"
"Piss off."
"Language, Sherlock" chided Mrs. Hudson as she entered with tea service.
"I didn't hear the bell over the door. Sneak in through the basement door again did you, then?"
"I may have been followed." He mumbled ungracefully around the biscuit he had snatched from the tray as she passed.
"Nonsense you just like to make a dramatic entrance" she quickly and confidently responded.
The scowl that the man made in way of an answer confirmed for John that the little lady hit close to home with the accuracy of her teasing.
"Don't mind him, umm, oh, I'm sorry I didn't catch your name before." she said when she handed John his cup of tea.
"I should be the one apologizing for not having offered it. It's John. John Watson." he said. John tried to rise to shake her hand but Mrs. Hudson tsk'd him back to sitting down before he made it all the way up.
For an older lady with a self-proclaimed bad hip she got around just fine when she was busy serving tea.
Sherlock shoveled sugar into his cup then placed it on the mantle to strip off his damp coat and scarf.
"It's Dr. Watson, actually, Mrs. Hudson." said Sherlock, shaking the droplets of his head of curls.
"Ooh! Really! Ah doctor!" she cooed, accompanied by and eye wag at Sherlock.
Before John could wonder about what that was about, the bell over the front door rang and Mrs. Hudson was dashing off to answer a question from a tourist and deftly sell them a walking tour book in the process.
John sipped his tea and picked up his original paperback, eyeing it and wondering if it was really worth it after what Sherlock had said. Sherlock, who deciphered almost everything about him with just a glance, and didn't hesitate to tell him. Sherlock, who John could see staring a hole through him from where he stood at the fireplace.
John looked up over his tea cup. Sherlock wasn't just looking at John, but was rather turning his head to take in John and the chair at different angles.
"Oh!" said John then, motioning to get up.
"Is this your usual seat? I mean you are clearly a regular here and if this is your spot…"
"What?" responded Sherlock, looking like he was called out of a daydream.
"No, it's fine. This," he gestured to the deep grey leather and chrome chair just across from where John sat, "is my chair."
As if to demonstrate his ownership of said chair, Sherlock grabbed his tea, took a seat, and picked up the small old book that was sitting on the end table next to it.
John squinted to read the name on the spine.
"Is that in French?"
"Mmm, no. Portuguese."
"Hmn"
John sipped his tea in amicable silence with the stranger who had read him like a book and who, apparently, also read Portuguese.
"You have questions." Sherlock said when John's tea was almost gone and he hadn't yet taken his book back up.
John then learned about the profession of the world's only "consulting detective."
Eventually, John did take up the book Sherlock had suggested to him. It was good. It was very good, actually. Reading it made John feel like he could still feel the grit of Afghanistan's desert sand under his fingertips as he turned the page.
Mrs. Hudson walked by once or twice, but did little more than warm his tea and cast a sweet smile his way. This must be why the door to the shop didn't read "book store" but rather "Mrs. Hudson's Reading Room." She clearly had a respect for the sacred quiet of reading.
Sherlock's phone buzzed in his suit coat pocket.
He retrieved it, only finally dragging his eyes away from the tome in his hand when the blue screen illuminated his face. He raised one eyebrow, snapped the book shut, and was taking long strides toward the front door, donning his coat and scarf in the process. He did a quick spin near the counter to peck a kiss on Mrs. Hudson's cheek with deft precision. As he ducked out the door, John could have sworn Sherlock had winked at him. He was probably mistaken, though, John told himself. John's face may have felt a bit warm, but it was only due to the heat of the embers.
John burned through the rest of the novel over dinner for one and sitting propped up in his bed that night. He hadn't got through a whole book in one day's time since he was a kid, and this one was much thicker than The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
That night John dreamt, but it was just about cleaning his rifle and telling jokes with his army mates. The jokes didn't make any sense but they all laughed and John did too. No one reeked of burning gasoline, spent shells and congealed blood. It was a good dream. Simple, but good. Right before he woke up, John remembered that he caught sight of a tall dark-haired figure in a long coat pass by the door of the tent. John rose and went to follow the figure. Dream John didn't question why he got up and pursued, didn't mind the teasing cat calls of his fellow soldiers. John had someplace to be. The light streamed in through the tent flap as John approached.
John awoke feeling better rested than he had in weeks. If he didn't have a shift at the clinic to make it to, he would have rolled over and tried to chase the remainder of his dream. He really wanted to see what the dream version of himself was so excited about.
At work, about two hours before quitting time, he was asked to stay later. One of his colleagues had called in sick. John agreed to stay of course. He could use the extra money and he would rather it be him that had to pull an extra long day than one of the other doctors who had loved ones waiting at home. His leg tolerated the hours on his feet better than he had expected. But as his second shift crept along, John found that he kept looking at his watch. He hustled through the last of his paperwork and stepped out the door. As fast as his cane could carry him, John went to the tube station. Only when he was standing on the platform did his plans catch up to his consciousness.
John was headed back to Baker Street. There was a chair with his name on it, a perfectly made cup of tea, and perhaps the quiet company of a mad genius awaiting him. John Watson had someplace to be.
John quickly became a regular at Mrs. Hudsons' Reading Room despite the somewhat inconvenient distance from his flat. John often, but not always, had the company of Sherlock in the back reading area. Other times, he read alone but perhaps did not stay as long. Mrs. Hudson was nice company but had the sales counter and shelf-cleaning to look after. She seemed to stuff him full of extra biscuits when Sherlock was not there.
When John arrived one particular day, Sherlock had four different books spread out between the floor, the side table, and the arms of his chair. There was also a laptop computer tucked haphazardly into the side crease of the chair. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing more sinewy and well-muscled forearms than John had expected. Sherlock seemed leaner, bordering on too thin, when he was perfectly buttoned up in his finely tailored suits. Sherlock had one foot tucked up under him like a lanky teenager and his other bouncing frenetically on the floor. He switched between books every few minutes. The expensive laptop was opened and closed harshly and carelessly, often accompanied by some sort of annoyed huff.
"Okay, I'll bite" John said finally, "What's got you crawling out of your own skin today?"
"BORED!" Bellowed the consulting detective.
John let Sherlock rant and rave about the lack of interesting crime in the city of London. Sherlock somehow ran right into into a dissertation on some of the more remarkable serial killers and other notable criminals of old that he wished he had been around for. They talked for so long Mrs. Hudson had to politely kick them out. Sherlock showed John a few sites of past murders on the way to dinner together. By the time they said goodbye, Sherlock's grumblings of boredom seemed to be just for show.
John rose extra early the next day. He delivered a package to Mrs. Hudson and then headed in for his morning shift. All day he wondered about how his gift may have been received. Maybe it had been too presumptuous on his part to think that it would be something that would capture Sherlock's interest. Maybe Sherlock didn't even go to the Reading Room that day. The anticipation was not terribly different than when, at age 12, John had once passed a note to Julie Smith asking "I like you. Do you like me?"
The note in John's gift to Sherlock instead explained that the hand-written journal contained the personal notes of his maternal great-uncle, a GP from a small village in the North some 50 years ago. It had been bequeathed to John by the man's widow upon John's acceptance to med school. John had bookmarked 2 cases. One involved a fatal farming accident that, although the police disagreed, John's uncle strongly felt was actually due to foul play. The second case took place within that same family, a near-fatal poisoning. The almost two-time widow explained that her husband was always so careless with the garden pesticides and must have breathed in too many in the shed. John's uncle asked the police to look into it, but again to no avail. His personal notes outlined the clever doctor's research into the toxicity of the garden chemicals that the family kept. John wrote to Sherlock that he hoped that the bored detective might find something within the old cases to pass the time.
When John walked down the steps of the clinic at closing time, no sooner did the tip of his cane hit the pavement than a tall man fell into step beside him.
John tried to hide his smile. The journal was tucked under Sherlock's arm.
"I don't recall ever telling you exactly what clinic I worked at. Deduced it did you?"
"I could have, but it also says it on the work ID that you clip to your inner jacket pocket when you get off work. Why did you trust me with your great-uncle's medical journal? Judging by the inscription from his widow to you in the front cover it clearly holds sentimental value within your family."
"I thought you might like it, the one with the poison especially. You've been on a poisonous substances reading kick lately, after all."
"I did like it. I have two, mmmm, possibly three hypotheses to run experiments on because of it. But that doesn't answer my question, John. My question was why did you trust me with it."
It was something about how Sherlock said John's name that made him him stop and look at the other man's face. There it was again. It was that rare look of uncertainty that crept into Sherlock's expression, just around the edges of his silver eyes. It would fool most people, but not someone who spent the last several weeks sneaking too many looks than he would ever admit over the top of a book as they sat across from one another.
"Why wouldn't I trust you with it?"
Sherlock shuffled his feet.
"It is the general understanding of most people that make my acquaintance that I am ignorant to matters of sentiment and reckless in general, and therefore cannot be trusted with things such as heirlooms and relationships and such...stuff."
"Well," said John as he came to stand right in front of Sherlock "most people are idiots."
Sherlock's face broke into a genuine smile.
"Indeed they are" he answered finally.
The two discussed pesticides, poisons and the murderous motives of a 1960's farm wife over dim sum. John never asked for the journal back. He knew it was in good hands.
John stood in the shadows of a cold, dank abandoned warehouse in an industrial district. He clutched his SIG with both hands, the heavy black metal comfortable in his grip. He was looking across the doorway to where Sherlock stood when the realization hit him that both hands on his gun meant no hands on his cane. The last time he remembered using his cane was much earlier in the evening. He must have left it by his chair in the Reading Room when Sherlock had burst in and beckoned John to follow. There was a whirlwind of explaining, a stop off at John's place for his hand gun (which he never told Sherlock about but apparently the gun oil and callous on his index finger had tipped Sherlock off about weeks ago), and then two hours spent wandering around the blocks of warehouses until the right one was located.
Sherlock must have read John's mind, which John was getting quite used to, because when next he broke his gaze from the meeting of mid-level organized crime types that they were eavesdropping on in the next room, the detective again flashed that full-on smile that John was so fond of.
John was about to return it when Sherlock, the mad bastard, just waltzed right out of the shadows and crashed the private party of criminals. John hung back after Sherlock deftly slipped into the conversation that he came alone and unarmed. Sherlock got the information he needed from some deft verbal trickery. John looked up from texting the information to the police just in time to see the racketeer in the corner of the room panic and pull a gun on Sherlock. He was going to fire it, John saw it in the tensing of his inexperienced grip and the light going out of the young man's eyes and he swung the muzzle towards Sherlock. John walked into the room without a thought to his own safety. He fired into the young man's shoulder, the gun clattering to the ground. He placed himself in between Sherlock and the criminals, barking orders to get down on the floor. Once they were all secured, John tended to the gunshot he inflicted only moments before. Sherlock was strangely quiet through the whole event. He silently held the gun on the three other men while John worked on the fourth. He was worried Sherlock might have been in shock from the firefight and the close call. When he finally got to cast an appraising eye on his friend, the scrutiny that Sherlock returned in his direction nearly knocked John back on his heels.
Sure, John had been on receiving end of Sherlock's deductions plenty of times, but this time felt different. It had a feeling of being less clinical, more like Sherlock was deciding just how John fit into his understanding of the world.
But then there were police to deal with, and John delivering orders to the paramedics. By the time he returned from being Dr. Watson, Sherlock had already delivered a convincing story about how John had procured the gun from under the desk in the front room they had been hiding in. Sure enough, there was an empty holster nailed inelegantly to the underside of the desk to give credence to the claim.
Hours later the two men were finally cut loose from the bureaucracy of Scotland Yard.
"Thanks, for that, covering for my handgun I mean." Said John.
"I should be the one thanking you, don't you think so John? You did just shoot a man for me."
"Yeah, that's true. But he wasn't a very nice man." Replied John.
"No, he wasn't, was he?" Said Sherlock with a small smile. "So I guess I really only owe you a drink. If you killed him then it would warrant dinner, but..."
"Hey, he at least won't be using that arm anytime soon, so it better be a good drink, not some watered down pint. Not much open at this time of night though." Countered John.
"I think I know just the place." Said Sherlock.
Not long later, the duo stood in front of the Reading Room door.
"Sherlock, you can't lock pick your way into Mrs. Hudson's storefront!" John chided.
"I'm not. What do you take me for doctor? She gave me a key ages ago." Said Sherlock, opening the door with a flourish.
"I am however, going to crack the safe in the back where she keeps several first editions and two very good bottles of scotch." He added.
"Sherlock!" John scolded, but with a stifled grin.
"Oh, it's fine. She offered me some several times and several times I turned her down. I'm finally taking her up on her offer. She just doesn't happen to know about it. And I plan to share." He said.
The safe proved little challenge to Sherlock. John had barely got the fire started when a snifter of what was, as advertised, very good scotch, was deposited in his hand. The two men relaxed in their respective chairs as Sherlock spelled out how he solved the evening's case. He added all the more dubiously legal bits that he had left out of the police report. It seemed like every time Sherlock leaned forward to pour more into John's glass the chairs crept a bit closer to one another. John soon had his feet resting on Sherlock's seat, Sherlock' were likewise resting on John's chair against his thigh. John lost track of how many refills he had received.
From there the conversation wandered. John spoke a bit of Afghanistan. Sherlock spoke of his days at University. John didn't know how long his hand had been on Sherlock's ankle when he finally realized that it was there. Not only on his ankle, but John had also pulled down the charcoal grey extremely soft sock in order to trace circles over Sherlock's bone. Somewhere, in the distant recesses of his warm and fuzzy scotch-washed brain, John thought maybe he should have some thoughts on that. He looked to Sherlock for a clue on the matter. Sherlock had been watching John's thumb as it stroked his skin. Sherlock met John's eyes.
"John, are you flirting with me?" Asked Sherlock directly. The query was delivered in such a tone that it was definitely not Sherlock being coy. It was a true question.
John gave the question some serious thought. Well, as serious as he could in such a state. He pursed his lips.
"I don't know." He finally said honestly.
"I don't think I've ever flirted with a man ever before." He added after a moment of further consideration.
John took another sip of scotch. He didn't remove his hand from Sherlock's ankle.
"There's a first time for everything." Said Sherlock, his reply coming a bit slower and a bit deeper than usual.
Sherlock placed his hand carefully on John's leg. His long arm landed on John's leg mid-calf. He made motion to slip his hand up John's pant leg, but then caught himself just before. He lifted a questioning eyebrow to John.
"I don't mind" said John, almost spilling his drink in the process.
So Sherlock set one cool hand on John's skin. He repeatedly opened and closed his fingers, stirring the fine gold hairs on John's leg.
They sat in companionable and comfortable silence for some time.
"You know what else I never did before?" asked John suddenly.
"No, what?" Sherlock squeaked. He furrowed his brow, cleared his throat and asked again.
John answered without acknowledging the uncharacteristic event of Sherlock repeating himself. He also didn't mention the blush that rose in Sherlock's cheeks, although he did notice it.
"I've never had a mustache. I'm thinking of growing one."
Sherlock snorted a deep chuckle and shook his head.
"No."
"What do you mean, no? Is'my face, not yours. I think it will look distinguished."
"It will make you look old. I can't be seen running around London with an old man." said Sherlock. He quickly hid his smirk behind a sip from his glass.
John let the "old" remark slide.
"Is that what we do? We run around London together?" he asked instead.
Sherlock didn't hide his smile in response to that. And it was a warm and real smile. The gentle stroking of John's calf became a bit firmer, more like a massage.
"Besides, I like my doctors clean shaven."
John sat up and leaned forward. He fixed Sherlock with a mock-serious glare.
"Sherlock Holmes, are you flirting with me?"
"John I have never flirted with anyone in my life save for it being a means to an end. A non-romantic end." replied Sherlock, punctuated by a very put-out expression.
John leaned back in his chair again. His hand naturally fell back to its pattern-tracing on Sherlock's ankle, as if that's where it belonged.
"Well, there's a first time for everything."
The silence returned. It was a warm and wonderful silence that they shared. John felt the pull of sleep and thought he detected signs of impending slumber in Sherlock as well, but he didn't want the night to end just yet.
"What are your socks made of, Sherlock, silk?" John asked.
Sherlock raised his head and squinted at his socks. John giggled as he felt Sherlock wiggle his toes within his shoe.
"No, not silk. These are cashmere."
John thought about making a teasing remark about how ridiculously posh that was, but he thought better of it.
"They're nice. They're soft." he said simply, then wished he hadn't. Sherlock hated it when people stated the obvious.
"You like jumpers. You like soft things. You should get a cashmere jumper. Something in blue. But you won't. Too expensive. Maybe I'll get you one for Christmas." Sherlock said with a long yawn.
"Christmas is a way off" said John.
"Hmmm." was Sherlock's only reply.
"Did I ever tell you I play the violin?" Sherlock asked after another stretch of silence.
John was on the verge of sleep but shook his head to muster a response.
"No, you never told me. Any good? Nevermind actually. I know you're good at it. You're good at most things and you wouldn't bring it up if you weren't good at it."
"Do you like violin music, John?"
"It's nice. It's fine. You should play for me sometime."
John was losing his battle with sleep. His last words were barely a slurred whisper.
"Good. Then it's settled" said Sherlock resolutely.
"Hmmm?"
"Nothing, John. Go to sleep."
"G'night Sherlock"
"Goodnight John"
John woke up about an hour before Mrs. Hudson's usual opening time. Sherlock was gone. The scotch (or what remained of it) and the glasses had been put away. The blanket from his chair was draped over him and the keys to the shop sat dead center on his chest. John rubbed his sore neck then got everything settled and locked up.
He took a walk around Regent's Park before heading back to his tiny flat. He marveled at the loss of his limp, marveled more profoundly at the man whose crazy adventure and unlikely companionship cured him of it.
When John did finally arrive home he did two things. First, he cancelled his next appointment with Ella. Despite the mild hangover, John felt better than he had in a long time. Secondly, he made a flier on his computer. He decided to look for living arrangements closer to Baker Street. With his income, that would mean searching for a flat share. He would just need someone tolerable, as he didn't spend much time at home anyway. It would be nice to not have to take the tube everyday to get to the Reading Room.
Armed with a stack of fliers, he exited the tube station at Baker Street. John wondered if there were any openings in Sherlock's building where, he assumed, Sherlock lived by himself. He had never been to Sherlock's. But Sherlock had never been to his either. John always figured Sherlock was within a few blocks of Baker Street. John's feet carried him automatically to the Reading Room. Mrs. Hudson had a community bulletin board just past the register that he could post his flier on. He entered and exchanged his usual greetings with the matron of the establishment. John noted inwardly that she didn't seem miffed, so he and Shelock must have done a sufficient job of cleaning up after their night of drinking.
He posted the flier then turned to the back seating area to see if Sherlock was in.
John's blood ran cold for a moment.
The chairs…his chair…Sherlock's chair…they were gone. It felt like the scene of a crime somehow. For a chilling moment John felt a panic rise. What if he had imagined it all. What if he looked down and saw a cane in his hand.
"Oh yes, I meant to tell you John, Sherlock took his chairs back out. I thought you knew, thought you may have helped him. They were gone when I came in today." offered Mrs. Hudson as an explanation for the empty floor space in front of the hearth.
"No, I didn't. Sorry, what? Sherlock's chairs? I thought they were yours."
"Oh no dear, they were always his. He brought them down from his flat upstairs. He said it was an experiement. Oh, you know how he is."
"Sherlock lives upstairs? Upstairs as in this building?"
"Yes dear, or course! 221B! He never mentioned it?"
"No, he never did" John said flatly.
"I think I heard him run up some time ago. You should pop up!" she said.
"Yeah, sure" said a very befuddled John.
So John Watson walked out the front door of the Reading Room and turned right. He entered the imposing black door with the brass knocker that he walked by without a second glance for all those weeks. As he climbed the stairs, violin music wafted down to spur on his steps.
John didn't even knock.
"See, I knew you'd be good at it. Brilliant actually." said John to Sherlock's sillouette at the window.
Sherlock finished the last few bars of the song he was playing. He turned and greeted John with a fond expression laced with apprehension. The expression changed when his peircing gaze landed on the fliers in John's hand. Sherlock carefully laid down his violin before striding over and grabbing the stack from John's grip.
"Flat share wanted? A total waste, John. You're moving in here of course. There's a second bedroom upstairs and the price is well within your budget. Besides, you answered my ad ages ago." Sherlock declared.
Confused again, John crossed the room and settled in his chair. The position of his, Sherlock's, and the fireplace matched the setup they had downstairs perfectly.
"What do you mean, Sherlock? When did I answer your ad? What bloody ad?"
Sherlock didn't answer but stood by the mantle and unabashedly took in the sight of John, in his chair, in Sherlock's sitting room. Well, their sitting room. He then slowly took the two steps to his chair and sat. He steepled his fingers to his lips and waited with uncharacteristic patience for John to figure it out.
John stroked the familir fabric on the arm of the chair. Even the side table had been brought up from the shop. And atop the table was the book John had left there the other day, still sitting open, facing down, to hold his page.
The realization hit John and kindled a glowing warmth in his chest.
"The chair. The chair was your ad. You placed it downstairs and waited for the right candidate to sit down in it."
Sherlock's mouth quirked up on the one side, his eyes alight.
"Clever" huffed John fondly.
"Worked" said Sherlock in return.
"You got one detail wrong though, when you brought everything back up here I mean" John added nonchallantly, picking up his book.
"What? I did not! I even measured the angle of the table to the chair and recreated it perfeclty." scoffed Sherlock.
John put the book back down. He cleared his throat. He stood just high enough to lift his weight off the chair. He took a few small awkward steps forward, dragging the chair behind him. He sat back down, brought the book back up to his face, and brought his feet up onto the side of Sherlock's chair.
A cool hand slowly insinutated itself under John's pant leg. Two stockinged feet wedged between John's thigh and the arm of his chair. He heard Sherlock sigh.
"Perfect" sighed Sherlock.
John smiled behind his book and pushed down one posh cashmere sock.
Thanks so much for reading! I also recently published this over on AO3 as part of the springlock gift exchange on tumblr. I would love to hear what you think! Comments absolutely make my day.