Unexpected
John looked at Sherlock. They'd never been this, well, let's say close. Sherlock had asked John to get some tea at a local cafe they'd never been to before, why? He wasn't quite sure, but spending some calm time with him, not worrying about a case, or whether or not Mrs Hudson had made tea for them, was perfect and John was happy enough without having to ask questions. They were now walking home as a light sprinkling of December snow started to paint London into a winter wonderland. John had linked his arm around Sherlock's and was wondering why he hadn't objected to the minor public display of affection. The crunch of the snow under their shoes was more noticeable in the silence the two men were sharing. John kept sneaking peeks at Sherlock, not daring to turn his head but instead peeking out of the corner of his eye, just enough to make out the tousled black mess of hair and chiselled cheek bones that supported the face of the man he admired so much.
By the time they got home, the silence had consumed all hope of any more conversation for the rest of the night, besides, John could tell Sherlock had retreated into his mind and was thinking hard about something, what? John never knew, but was well. As they approached the front door of 221b Sherlock and John awkwardly unlocked their arms in a difficult shuffle type movement away from each other, leaving a disappointed feeling in John's heart. Wishing he could grab hold of Sherlock again and never let go John pulled off one of his gloves and delved into his coat pocket plucking out a silver key and clicking it into the lock. Traipsing upstairs the two of them shed layers of coats and scarves and jumpers until they were both comfortable. John flicked the kettle on, despite having just had tea, but British habits die hard.
"Don't worry about that, I'll get it." Sherlock called from the living room. John had been in a daze, thinking about the evening they had just had, and the sudden unexpected sound of Sherlock's voice made him jump. He registered what Sherlock had said and laughed.
"Are you sure you can handle it?" he chuckled.
"John, I am a grown man, capable of making… beverages…"
"Well in that case then I'll have a coffee please with-"
"Two sugars, I know John, I know. I am Sherlock Holmes."
"I was going to say a couple biscuits." They're arms brushed as they both squeezed past each other through the kitchen door. John was amazed that had happened, he had expected to have a quick coffee in silence and then go to bed in silence, but instead it seems that Sherlock had come out of his thoughts and interacted with him, and John was pleased for that. After a couple minutes John heard the kettle boil and the switch flick off. The sound of Sherlock lifting the kettle off its stand occurred, quickly followed by a 'yelp' of pain and then mumbled curse words. John sighed and got up. Sure enough, Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table cradling his left hand, and there was water all over the counter. John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock refused to look at John. He quickly mopped up the mess with a cloth and then sat down on the table opposite Sherlock. Sherlock looked like a child in a strop.
"Let's have a look then." Sherlock thrust his hand out towards John but still refused to look at him completely. John guided him to the sink and held him hand under the water, the burn was faint, but covered the side of Sherlock's palm. Stroking his hand delicately, John started to notice things he had seen before; little indentations at the tips of the fingers from the violin, tiny scars where Sherlock had touched things he shouldn't, like glass. Sherlock started to study John studying him. The way Johns eyebrows furrowed together. The way his mouth was tightened around the corners. Sherlock imagined kissing him. He'd never imagined kissing anyone. But, in that moment, all Sherlock wanted to do was kiss John Watson.