"You have food." John's voice came from the kitchen. The amount of surprise in his voice didn't match the words spoken.
"Sorry?"
John walked out of the kitchen and stood in the doorway staring at Sherlock lazily reclining on the sofa. "You have food in the fridge. Actual people food, like chips and milk and mustard."
"Yes… I do eat sometimes, John. Sometimes even without your nagging."
"That brand of milk, it's from Tesco, isn't it? It's the brand I buy." John was still just staring making Sherlock unreasonably uncomfortable in his own flat.
"So?"
"Did you go grocery shopping?"
Sherlock groaned, the reasoning for John's unnecessary questions finally clicking. John was wondering how the groceries got there because John didn't think Sherlock was capable of ordinary domestic things like shopping.
"I am perfectly capable of feeding myself, John. I lived alone for nearly twenty years before I even met you."
"During which time you got yourself addicted to more drugs than I care to know, were thrown out of ten different flats—according to Mycroft—and dropped to about ninety-five pounds."
"I haven't been ninety-five pounds since I was twelve. Don't be dramatic."
"Oh, so you've never taken reasonably good care of yourself. Good to know."
The two looked at each other for a moment, Sherlock expecting John to return to the kitchen, and John still waiting for an answer.
John gave in first. "Did you go grocery shopping?"
"No."
John looked back into the kitchen for a moment and Sherlock couldn't decide if he'd seen relief on his face or if it was just him contemplating a new puzzle. The two expressions looked remarkably similar, Sherlock could—of course—relate.
"Did you make Mrs. Hudson do it for you?"
"Of course not," Sherlock said, genuinely offended for once. "I do have some manners."
"You make her clean your loo."
"I don't make her clean anything. In fact, I'd rather she didn't. She does it on her own, besides cleaning the toilet doesn't involve a twenty-minute walk. I have at least moderate respect for her age. Though the hip is completely bogus, you know."
"No, I didn't."
"Hmm, apparently yes. Had me fooled too, until I caught her dancing with the vacuum the other day. No one with hip problems moves like that."
"Molly?"
"Sorry, Molly, what?" Sherlock looked back at John again realizing he was talking about the shopping again. "No, she doesn't go to Tesco."
"Mycroft?"
"Really, John?"
"He could have hired someone."
"Or I could have."
John looked back at him, eyebrow raised. "You don't hire people."
"Well to be fair hired implies regular employment. Also, taxes which is a pain and best avoided if at all possible. I suppose bribery is a better term."
"You bribed someone into doing your shopping for you."
"Among other things yes."
"Other things?"
"Picking up dry cleaning, paying bills, all those little domestic things you used to do while you still lived here that I really can't be bothered with."
John's mouth opened several times in an attempt to form words and Sherlock found his silence fascinating. Less like he was speechless and more like there were so many questions they were clogging up his windpipe trying to come out.
"Who?" He finally asked.
"Homeless network, obviously."
"Right, obvious. Yeah. So you pay twice what Tesco charges for some loon to buy you milk and sugar just so you don't have to do it yourself."
"Isn't that what any delivery service does? You and Mary had Chinese delivered yesterday because neither of you could be bothered to go get it yourself. Hell, you couldn't even be arsed to make it yourselves even though you clearly had all the ingredients at home."
"How did you… Nevermind, we'd both had a long shift."
"And I hate shopping. Is it really all that different?"
"I guess not."
"And—unlike you and Mary—I'm helping the poor of London feed themselves. You just handed some teenager money to buy alcohol and condoms. So good on you, John."
"He was twenty-five, Sherlock." John was giggling to himself regardless. Once again impressed by the clever Sherlock Holmes, even if it was just in his ability to get out of doing things he didn't want to do. God, Sherlock had missed this.
"Could still be the case though."
"You are the laziest sod I have ever met. You know that right?"
"Naturally, I think you're the one who forgot."
"Yeah, I think I did."
"You can hardly blame me for your poor memory."
"No, but I can blame you for being too lazy to do your own shopping."
For a moment Sherlock had expected him to end that sentence a different way. Once again accusing him of leaving John a broken wreck for two years and when Sherlock met his eyes he could see that John knew it too. What he couldn't have known was how much Sherlock appreciated that he hadn't said it. Forgiveness wasn't something he had much experience with, certainly not on this scale, but John had always been able to surprise him with how much abuse he was willing to endure just to be Sherlock's friend.
Blokes just don't say those kinds of things to each other, however, so in return, Sherlock just smiled and leaned back comfortably on his sofa in his PJs as John rummaged through the fridge for the first time in years. And he couldn't have been happier to be back.