When John returned home to 221b Baker Street after a drunken haze of a pub crawl with Mike Stamford, he expected to find Sherlock asleep on their living room couch. If he was honest with himself – and he almost was when intoxicated – he looked forward to the sight. More often than not, Sherlock became consumed by whatever obscure subject he was researching for a case (or out of boredom) and lost complete track of time, only to eventually fall asleep in the artificial glow of his or John's laptop. He always figured out John's passcode, even when John had determinedly reset it to random letters and numbers.
Tonight, there was no slumbering detective on the worn leather couch. Figuring that his flatmate was actually having a good night's rest in his own bed, John stumbled into the kitchen to try and quietly sober himself up with some tea. The night had not been uneventful; he and Mike had bumped into Molly and Lestrade at a bar near St. Barts. John let out a stifled giggle when he remembered that they'd stuttered over each other in a race to explain why they were there together. Not that he cared in the slightest what their business was; he was already more than adequately tipsy by that point, and a little relieved that Molly seemed to have backed off Sherlock. She was only ever going to be let down. A sweet, well-meaning woman and a bizarrely charming sociopath: what a doomed pairing. Sherlock repelled friendship, let alone romance. Sure, John had managed to enjoy being his flatmate for most of the time, but that was just a fluke.
Realising that he'd been repetitively dipping his teabag into the mug while staring fixedly at the wall, John shook himself out of the stupor and laughed it off before he could further muse on the consulting detective's sexuality. Simple appreciation of the man was enough; it wouldn't be practical to become too speculative too often. He was a doctor, after all; he knew the difference between intrusive thoughts and actual preoccupations, and how not to let the former turn into the latter. Tell somebody not to think of a purple elephant and of course they would, even if it was meaningless to them. Let somebody live with an eccentric sociopath and of course they'd wonder.
After one sip of unappealing lukewarm tea that he'd made too watery, John gave up with a sigh."Oh, just sod it."
"You'll be overjoyed to know that I've recently devised a method to revive the freshness and temperature of cold te-"
Startled half to death by this husky voice from somewhere behind him, John turned around all too quickly, and, sudden dizziness getting the better of him, almost fell to the kitchen floor.
"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock uttered as he caught John's upper arms and helped him regain some balance. He leaned John against the counter, fussed around with some appliances, and returned to his friend with a steaming – so apparently revived - mug of tea. Gently placing it into John's hands, Sherlock noted that they were cold and smiled warmly – a little bit against his will. He was pleased he could provide John with this tea-revival method that would save a few of the barely sipped ceramic corpses that the flatmates left strewn around the place.
Sherlock had slowly deduced that John's presence brought him a very foreign kind of comfort. It hadn't gone unnoticed that John dressed similarly to Sherlock's father, and he knew that childhood influences and role models had mirrors and synchronicities in one's adult life. John was able to move something in him that Sherlock supposed was a rather gaping void that he'd called sociopathy since late adolescence. It was… miraculous. His smile widened thinking about it, his eyes fixed curiously on the drunk John before him.
"Yeah, cheers for laughing at my expense, Sherlock," but John was laughing along. "You bloody well knew that'd happen if you crept up on me like some vampiric bloody thing."
"I suppose I'd hoped to have some fun. I've been bored."
"Well I've had a great night," John said, heavy-lidded, "and what have YOU done Mr. Holmes? Clued for a case?" He shook his head in acknowledgment of the nonsense coming from his own mouth. Sherlock smirked and paused before responding, for dramatic effect. He was having fun now.
"Well, since you asked, and you're so clearly in an obliging mood, I can tell you that I've been so bored that I decided to do a study in how ordinary people sort their underwear. More specifically, how you sort your underwear. God, it's like a self-portrait. Very enlightening. And I fell asleep on your bed, accidentally."
In living with a highly curious detective, John had become accustomed to minor and sometimes major privacy invasions (from presenting John with damning research on his various dates to actually inviting himself along on them) so this wasn't surprising, but on principle he wanted to be angry. The truth was, he was more than a bit intrigued about Sherlock's results. He sighed.
"Just tell me, you… cock." His attempt to make his speech less slurred made it sound like he was talking in slow motion. "What horrible conclusions have you drawn?"
Affecting a tone of smug boredom, Sherock launched right into it.
"Your drawer organisation is structured according to a basic rule of black cotton briefs during the week and colours on the weekend," - he furtively glanced downwards - "red for Fridays, apparently. I took a semiotic approach. Basically, you are rigid in your routines but not entirely happy with them, because on weekends you're willing to open yourself up to new opportunities. You're comfortable with your life right now but something's missing, something... that invites your true colours to be seen. A bit trite of a deduction I admit, but interesting nonetheless when applied to you. That's as far as I got, I fell asleep as I was analysing different fibres trying to discern whether your choice of underwear has any bearing on your gait. Your stumbling through the door obviously woke me up," he added.
John was staring, mouth agape, at Sherlock. That dark agile frame, the shock of curly midnight-coloured hair, the brilliant mind – always so opaque, what was he thinking now? – studying John's underwear, sauntering around his bedroom. It wasn't so much that his deduction was true – it was – but the fact that Sherlock had the most surprising ways of showing John to himself. Unable to suppress his adoration, it came tumbling out with less finesse than John thought.
"God, you're so cute, do you know that? You must know that," crossing his arms defensively and looking mock-confused.
"Uh. Unusually forthcoming, but thank you. I'll show you the tea... re-heating… device in the morning. Have lots of water and you'll be back to your usual self the morning. Goodnight John." Sherlock mumbled this response, his steely blue gaze fixed inwardly like he was simultaneously processing something chaotic in his head.
There was a long moment where the two men lingered. John tried to meet Sherlock's eyes and his hands twitched, now by his sides. In one swift movement, Sherlock stepped closer; leaning his left thigh against John's right as he reached around his friend to grab the mug of tea. John gulped as he watched Sherlock – was that a wicked smile? - disappear into his bedroom and shut the door on the night.