Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters and I'm not making a profit off of this...blah, blah, blah.
"Oh, for God's sake."
John pressed the bag of groceries up against the door and reached into his pocket for the key to the front door. 221B was rarely locked, normally because Mrs. Hudson was inside. Must've gone out for a bit of fresh air or something... he thought before finally hearing the click of the lock. He pressed his shoulder against the door and closed it behind him with his foot once he was inside.
He waddled right into the flat after heading up the two short flights of stairs and groaned inwardly at the sight before him. Books. Books and papers were scattered all over the floor. As were a couple of bullets from a nearby handgun. Not to mention clothes from the handful of times that week he and his flatmate had been impatient and unable to make it to the bedroom. He rolled his eyes a little and sighed. "I'm living with a five-year-old...honestly," he muttered to himself while heading into the kitchen.
He had gone to place the bag down, but was unable to thanks to what his gaze rested on. The kitchen table had been taken over with...goo. Some sort of vile-smelling, orange goo. "What. In. The. Hell?" he asked, staring blankly at it. He knew Sherlock was always up to no good with his experiments, but really?
A bit flustered, John placed the market bag on the counter beside the sink and pulled out his phone. It only took him a minute to send off a text.
Sherlock, what have I told you about keeping experiments on the kitchen table?
He tucked his mobile back into his back pocket and shook his head. A madman. He was dating a madman. Alright, well...he was just a "high-functioning sociopath," but still! How many men came home to find a possibly life-threatening thing on their table? And for a bloody experiment, nonetheless!
His mobile vibrated the moment he began putting the groceries away. He stored the carton of milk in the fridge before checking the response.
I had nowhere else to store it. The kitchen is the only place in the flat that consistently stays at room temperature. I don't see why it bothers you so. - SH
John glared at the phone, irrationally hoping that Sherlock could sense it.
Oh, I don't know...because we eat at that table? It may have something to do with that. Can't be certain.
He had a response just thirty seconds later.
Difficult day at work, then? - SH
He huffed in response. Yes, work had been a pain in the arse that day. For some reason, any patient that walked into his clinic room had some sort of bitter or snippy attitude. Everyone either picked a fight with him or questioned his experience and competence as a doctor. He had even been bitten a couple of times by bratty children whose mothers didn't give a damn. He sighed, knowing he had to say something.
Where are you?
He rested his back against the counter. As annoyed as he was by Sherlock's fluorescent flubber, talking to him was better than just putting things away.
Lestrange wanted me to look over a nearby crime scene. - SH
John's eyebrows rose a little.
Yeah? Anything good?
No. Incredibly dull, actually. The gardener did it, obviously. - SH
He refrained from rolling his eyes again.
Obviously.
He paused.
You're getting your bloody goop off the table when you get back.
It can't be moved for forty-eight hours. - SH
"God dammit, Sherlock!" John saw the experiment begin to bubble and shuddered.
Fine, then. You're moving it as soon as the forty-eight hours are up. It'd better not be poisonous.
At the moment it is harmless. Might become lethal once some time passes. Hm. Interesting possible outcome. - SH
The color drained from his face a little.
If I die because you made some mutant jello...
He could practically see the smirk Sherlock must've had on his face.
If it begins to smoke, leave the flat. - SH
"Good God," John said incredulously. Instead of answering the text, he placed his phone on the counter beside the bag and got back unloading groceries. He knew his annoyance and impatience with Sherlock mainly had to do with how cranky and irritable he was. Honestly, what he wanted in that moment was just for his boyfriend to come home and lay on the couch so he could cuddle with him and take a nap.
He pulled a jar of strawberry jam out of the bag and managed a little smile. He went to put it away after opening one of the cabinets, but paused. On the shelf sat a small, yellow piece of stationary - a simple Post-it note. "What...?" he murmured to himself as he stood on his toes and pulled it out to get a better look at what was written on it.
I love your smile.
Blood rushed up to his cheeks. John could recognize Sherlock's handwriting anywhere. The note was surprising, though...and somewhat out-of-character. Sherlock was not known to be the romantic sort. John knew he was loved, but his boyfriend just wasn't one to state something that obvious. Rare or not, it caused the faint smile to grow slightly on his face. It was such a simple gift, but one that brought some light to the day that had otherwise been dark and gloomy.
The jam got put away and, while he went to grab the new box of biscuits, he was stopped by another small note resting in the top of the stack of cook books they had.
I love your medical knowledge.
John's blushing returned. Sherlock had never said something like that to him. Now filled with curiosity, he began to search around the kitchen. Every couple of minutes he found a new note.
I love your humor.
I love your patience.
I love how red your face becomes when you blush.
I love the feel of your hand in mine.
I love your touch.
I love when you ask me questions.
And so many more.
The strangest part about all of this was that John could've sworn most of the Post-its had not been there when he first walked into the kitchen. It was as of they were appearing out of thin air. When he figured he had found all of the notes, the last one simply saying, "I love you," he reluctantly finished putting the market goods away. He was only brought out of his thoughts again when he felt an arm snake around his waist from behind.
He nearly jumped out of his skin and the on-edge military part of him wanted him to go into defense mode. However, only a few seconds had to pass before he relaxed into the familiar touch and the body standing behind him. "I thought you were off on some gardener killer case," he mumbled.
He heard a chuckle and felt the smile on the other man's lips as he planted a kiss on his neck. "Clearly you have yet to pick up on when I am lying over text," he replied.
A faint snort escaped John. "S'that so? Then just what were you up to? You had to be pretty damn bored to leave the flat."
Sherlock brushed his lips up and down his neck slowly, causing him to shiver and release further tension in his body. "I believe that is something you should deduce for yourself," he answered simply.
Puzzled, John opened his eyes and slowly turned around to face him. In his free hand, Sherlock held an arrangement of orange and red lilacs, lilies, and a couple of flowers John couldn't identify. He gazed up with slightly-widened eyes. "What's this, then?" he asked. "Are you feeding it to your blubber mutant?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "No," he replied, not having picked up on the playfulness. "I figured out from your texts during your lunch break that your patients were being less than cooperative today. So I bought you flowers." He paused. The expression on his face was hard to read. "Isn't that what people do? Buy those they care about flowers to make them feel better?" He blinked and his eyes dropped down to the bouquet. "Although, I don't understand why that would be the case. They're flowers, not some sort of mood-lifting drug."
John just looked at him for the longest time before bursting out into laughter. He noticed how startled Sherlock was, which only caused his giggling to increase. "Just shut up and kiss me, you ruddy sociopath," he said rather bluntly. Only a couple of seconds went by before he stepped closer and got onto his toes so he could seal their lips together.
The two of them melted against one another as they kept the simple kiss going. John reached up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck while Sherlock secured his free arm back around John's waist. The kiss was not enough to take to the bedroom, but it was pleasurable, all the same.
It was ages before John finally had them come up for air. He panted softly and glanced up at him with a bit of of a grin. "Was that what the notes were for too?" he whispered.
Sherlock met his gaze. His face was somewhat flushed and he attempted to hold back his own smile. "Compliments always lift people up," he remarked.
John chuckled. Sherlock could never just answer a question, could he? "I'll take that as a yes." He leaned up and kissed him once more before taking the bouquet from him and pulling away. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "I love it all. The notes, the flowers...you." With a shy smile, he went over to the sink and opened the cabinet door below it to grab an empty vase.
Sherlock couldn't help but watch him. "I don't tell you nearly enough," he commented, his voice quieter than usual.
"Don't tell me what enough?" John questioned as his filled the plain vase with water and placed the flowers in it. His eyes trailed back over to him once he put the arrangement on a safe part of the counter.
"That I love you." Sherlock held his gaze, "Why I do."
John turned pink yet again and felt his heart race. "Well, you don't have to say it because I know it. It makes me happy when you do, though."
The taller man merely smiled like an accomplished child. He had done something right regarding their relationship. He had been a good boy, so to speak. The doctor only stood there a moment longer before walking back over and grabbing his partner's hand. "Lay with me?" he asked. Sherlock obliged and followed him into the other room.
John tossed his jacket on his armchair and toed out of his shoes. Every muscle started to relax again as he settled himself onto the couch. This was what he had been looking forward to all day. The detective unbuttoned his own coat and slid it off along with his scarf. As he went to hang them up, John sat up a bit. "Not the scarf," he told him. With a little smile, he held his hand out. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out what John meant. John raised his eyebrows, waiting.
He was hesitant, but, once his coat was put away, Sherlock walked over and placed the scarf in his open hand while stepping out of his shoes. John's smile grew and he held the blue piece of clothing between both hands. He truly believed he was the only other person who had ever held the scarf, let alone wore it.
"Move," Sherlock commanded with an edge of gentleness to his tone. John did so and he slid onto the couch so he was laying between the back of it and him. John felt his arms slide around him from behind and he practically melted to nothing. "Good?" his boyfriend whispered, burying his face into his hair.
John sighed contently and wrapped the scarf up in both hands. His eyelids began to droop. "Mmm...perfect," he replied sleepily. Exhaustion was really getting to him. Being a doctor, a detective's assistant, as well as the same detective's romantic partner proved to be a draining combination. However, he would not have it any other way. At the end of the day, it was all worth it. He was happy and no longer alone. He never had to be alone again. Not really.
He felt vibrations against his back as Sherlock began to hum. "Clare de Lune?" he managed to get out despite how faint his voice was. Sherlock pressed his lips to his head and nodded. John smiled. "One of my favorites..." He was already nearly asleep.
As he dozed off, Sherlock peppered kisses on the back of his head. "I know," he whispered, even though he was sure he couldn't be heard. He rested his hands flat against John's stomach and shut his own eyes. "I know more than you think I do. If only you were aware of how much space you take up in my Mind Palace..."