Five times Sherlock made coffee for John.
Moving In
In 221B Sherlock and John's boxes of personal items, and clothes, and scientific equipment lay spread throughout the flat. Sherlock still hadn't finished unpacking and the mess was not helped by John's boxes which he brought the night before. It was two days after John shot Jeff Hope, the serial killing taxi driver with an aneurism, and yes, he was already moving in. Shooting another person for someone forms a kind of bond, the kind of bond that makes you move in with a virtual stranger who knows everything about you and whose brother kidnapped you and bribed you and who cured you of your psychosomatic limp (something your therapist hadn't been able to do). Not to mention the fact that said virtual stranger is extremely peculiar, demanding, and mysterious. John woke up that morning and walked into the living room of the flat. He sighed, passing through, at the mess and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock was standing at the counter staring with extreme boredom at the coffee pot into which dark, strong coffee was sluggishly dripping.
"What are you doing?" John asked, mildly bewildered.
"Making you coffee," Sherlock replied in a tone that clearly said 'stop asking stupid questions, it's painfully obvious what I'm doing.'
John was sure Sherlock was capable of kindness, but making coffee for another person for no apparent reason seemed a bit too nice to fit his personality.
"Um...why exactly are you making me coffee?"
"I am to understand that this is a common nicety practiced by most people to show kindness or gratitude."
Sherlock poured the coffee into the only clean mug in the flat and handed it to John with nothing in it.
"How'd you know I like it black"
"You're in the army, in fact you were stationed in Afghanistan. The army doesn't waste space on shipments to war zones with creamer or sugar packets, nor would you have the time to do any more than pour coffee in a styrofoam cup to drink down quickly to stay awake during surgery. After a while, drinking plain black coffee would become habit. Hardly a difficult deduction."
"Brilliant," John said, thinking he'd never get used to Sherlock's amazing ability. "And what about you?"
"Pardon?"
"You. Don't you want something? Breakfast, tea, orange juice?"
"Transport," Sherlock said with a dismissing wave of his hand.
Sherlock went to his microscope and started putting some chemical on a slide.
"Feel free to unpack anytime you want, this is your flat now too and I'm sure you don't want all your stuff to stay in boxes," Sherlock told John, never lifting his eyes from the microscope.
The Morning After
It was the morning after that eventful night when John was kidnapped by one consulting criminal and dressed in enough Semtex to bring down Fort Knox, let alone a small swimming pool. After Jim left, both John and Sherlock released fearful breaths they didn't know they'd been holding. John almost cried in relief. Sherlock threw the gun to the side and grabbed John up from the shoulders and was hugging him. John was bewildered for a moment but was soon hugging Sherlock back with just as much strength. Neither of them could tell you how it happened, but the next thing they knew they were both kissing as if they would never live another day again, even though they just found out the exact opposite. They took a cab back to the flat and the moment they entered they were tearing off each other's clothes. John would tell you it was the best sex he'd ever had and Sherlock would tell you it was the first time he actually felt an emotional connection to someone. They both still hated Moriarty, but they knew they would always thank him in a twisted way for adding a new dimension to their relationship.
The next morning John awoke to an empty bed. He could tell from the coldness he felt that Sherlock had been up a while. He yawned and stretched. He pulled on his dressing gown and walked out and into the kitchen. He saw Sherlock languidly leaning against the counter, a hint of a smile on his face. When John walked in, Sherlock immediately took notice and looked at John, the hinting smile instantly turning into a full on grin. John couldn't help but smile back. He walked over to Sherlock and leaned against his chest, breathing in the lingering smell of sex, sleep, and Sherlock's own unique scent.
"I could get used to this," John said, smiling right over Sherlock's heart.
"So could I."
Experiment
Sherlock didn't want to drug John. Especially not with an untested drug whose effects could be extremely dangerous. But Sherlock wasn't sure if Henry was drugged, but the only possible explanation for what he saw was narcotics. He knew drugs effected his brain in a slightly different way than others, so it was necessary to test it on the average person. Although Sherlock knew John was far from average. He wasn't a super genius or a superhero, but his personality was the most extraordinary thing Sherlock had ever encountered. John had the soul of an angel, caring for people and showing a compassion Sherlock had never known. But John also had the rage of a demon. He had killed for Sherlock the day they met. Sherlock had seen John yell and had seen John internalize his anger. John never failed to fascinate Sherlock.
No, Sherlock did not want to drug John. He did not want to drug and mess with the brilliant personality of the army doctor, but he must. In the name of The Work he must. And so he did.
The Fall
The kiss was rough and needy. It wasn't the quick, chaste nip on the lips or cheek they shared at crime scenes or when watching crap telly. It wasn't the slow, content ones they shared in the morning or when John kissed Sherlock to stave off his boredom. This was frantic and hectic and chaotic. It was the definition of disorder. Sherlock nipped roughly at John's lip, eliciting a low moan. He trailed kisses down the lateral line of John's jaw and sucked at his pulse point, leaving a slight bruise. He moved back to John's lips and explored the depths of his mouth with his tongue. Sherlock knew what he had to do. He had already figured out Moriarty's plan. He knew that through the very man who he was trying desperately to possess completely right now, the criminal would burn him. John was his heart, and through John, Moriarty would reach Sherlock. He would play it off, act as though he didn't know, but he knew. He would break John's heart and break his own. John taught him he had a heart and now he would destroy this new discovery to save him.
The sex was rough and meant to possess, not to show affection. When John woke he was sore, but in a pleasant way. He walked to the kitchen from the room he and Sherlock had started sharing but a few months ago. Sherlock was gazing at the coffee pot, but he wasn't looking at it, not really. He looked through it. He looked through it to see the final problem. He looked through it to see his heart, his John. He saw everything John had done for him and everything he had done for John. He cured John of his limp, and John cured him of his sociopathy. John showed him just how human he really was. He knew he should consider it a weakness, being human, being so vulnerable, but whenever he looked at the man who exposed this weakness, he couldn't view it as anything but a blessing. Sherlock wouldn't change a thing even if given the choice, regardless of the impending heartbreak.
John walked to Sherlock and kissed him, softly this time, and leaned their foreheads together.
"I love you," John said.
I'm so sorry, Sherlock thought as he poured the coffee.
Retirement
When Sherlock first met John on that fateful day at St. Bart's, he didn't know that they would end up like this, old and grey in the English countryside, keeping bees and watching the flowers grow. Sherlock thought he would never be able to leave his London- his battlefield. He never dreamed he could leave the excitement and the crime and the smog that choked the air. John never dreamed he could leave adrenaline. When he was invalided home he thought he would never be the same again. He thought his life was hopeless. "Nothing ever happens to me," and nothing did and he hated it. He detested it with all his being. Then he met Sherlock, and his life changed. His life was exciting again. He never knew that it wasn't the adrenaline he couldn't leave. Both Sherlock and John found a new drug in each other. Both were excitement addicts turned John/Sherlock addicts. They replaced their love for the city and for the adrenaline with each other. They retired to the country side, the exact opposite of London, but they lived together still, so they were content.
John's shoulder hurt him occasionally. It hurt worse when it was going to rain and right after, when the rainbow shot through the bright blue sky. Sherlock sensed the changing seasons in his arthritic knee- too much running through London had finally taken it's toll. Both were relatively healthy and in good spirits. John was still kind and good but could turn the other way in a heartbeat. Sherlock was just as odd, and demanding, and mysterious as ever.
They still loved each other. They loved the days they spent reading on the porch. They loved the days they spent watching Sherlock's bees fly around. They loved drinking tea and eating biscuits. They loved reminiscing about their cases. John loved when Sherlock occasionally deduced the shopkeep at the grocery store. Sherlock loved it when John would laugh with one of the young girls at the flower shop, even though most of the time they were laughing about Sherlock. John loved watching Sherlock jarring the bee's honey. Sherlock loved when John would read his old medical books because he was bored.
They'd been retired for almost twenty-five years when Sherlock discovered his heart problem. It scared John, but it didn't bother Sherlock. He didn't fear death, he was honestly surprised he lived this long. John didn't want Sherlock to die, he feared his love's death more than his own.
They still loved each other.
The day Sherlock died, John walked into their small kitchen. He saw Sherlock looking at the coffee pot.
"I've only ever made you coffee four times before."
"And I've made you tea how many?" John asked jokingly.
"5,634 times."
Sherlock poured John his coffee.
"If I could only make 5,629 more cups."
"One kiss would do."
Sherlock kissed John once, quickly, on his lips. It was soft, and short, and sweet, and oh so very loving. It was the last kiss they ever shared.
Sherlock was buried back in London, the city that stole his heart before John stole it back. John only lived three months without Sherlock. They are buried next to each other under a communal gravestone that reads,
My Love, My Heart, My Life. Together we go.