"Hmm, these ones are nice: simple, understated, and they're chea—"
"John. They're mugs." Sherlock sighed.
"Well at least I'm trying," John huffed at his flatmate. "I don't want to be drinking my tea out of plastic tumblers much longer, thank you very much."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and wandered off to look at the kitchen utensils, not wanting to be reminded for the eleventh time since Tuesday that it was his fault for breaking all their dinnerware when the eyeballs exploded on the hob: the curtains caught fire and all the dishes in the sink shattered. He stared at the seemingly endless aisle of ladles, whisks, and Lord-knows-whats, trying to figure out why anybody would need so many variations of a spoon. Mind you, it might come in handy for experiments.
"Sherlock!" John called out. "Try not go too far; you know how big Ikea is. I'll never find you again."
"Oh, how dreadful that would be," Sherlock muttered.
John scowled. "Just behave, will you? Let's just get these ones." He picked up a four-pack of mint green mugs with a name containing four 'a's and two 'y's.
"And there it is."
"And there's what?" John asked begrudgingly knowing he was giving his friend the perfect ammunition to show off.
"And there is your relationship with your father in a nutshell," Sherlock replied smugly.
John merely shook his head, picking up a set of plain white plates, and marched up the stairs. Sherlock reluctantly followed – shopping didn't appeal to him at the best of times.
John led the way to the restaurant, sat down at a shiny, red table and waited while Sherlock made a detour to go outside and satisfy his nicotine addiction. He rested the basket down beside the leg of his chair and looked up. Straight ahead was a baby in a car seat. She stared at John with her eyes big and blue, and John paused for a moment to appreciate the beauty of such a tiny life. He smiled and the baby giggled. It made his heart feel warm.
For one brief, wonderful moment he saw his future; his and Sherlock's. He saw himself with a child of his own: taking her to Speedy's for lunch; playing Cluedo in the flat; reading her entries from his blog; trying the biscuits that she and Mrs. Hudson spent the afternoon baking together.
And then it all vanished with the stench of tobacco as Sherlock fell in to the chair opposite, reeking of smoke.
"What do you want?" John asked his flatmate pointlessly.
Sherlock coughed. "Coffee."
John sighed as he got up to get lunch, and returned with two plates of meatballs and chips.
"I'm not hungry," Sherlock stated simply when John put it in front of him.
"Well, I've bought it now so would you please just cooperate?"
Sherlock picked at his plate.
John swallowed a mouthful. "Listen, I've been thinking—"
"I wouldn't."
John cleared his throat, ignoring Sherlock. "I've been thinking about..." He looked over at Sherlock whose face was an off-putting cocktail of impatience, boredom, and disinterest. "I've been thinking about...about the curtains." He finished finally.
Sherlock's eyes glazed over once more, and John gave up.
"Y'know, I don't know why you even bothered coming, Sherlock."
"Nor do I." The detective stared down at his untouched plate of food.
"Can you just stop it now?"
"Stop what?"
"Stop all this petty nonsense so we can enjoy the day together?" John replied.
"John," Sherlock looked up. "You know I don't find this interesting. I couldn't care less if the curtains were green, floral or made of Mrs. Hudson's cardigans!"
"Fine. Fine." John ate another forkful of meatballs.
"Oh come off it, John. Don't be angry at me for being honest. Just because you didn't get much sleep last night."
"No I didn't get any bloody sleep last night," John hissed. "If you wouldn't insist on testing God-only-knows on strange substances 'til the early hours of morning it would be much appreciated."
"I get bored, John. I get bored in that godforsaken flat and I have work to do."
"So you find me boring?" John raised his eyebrows.
"Yes. No. I –"
"Don't bother, Sherlock."
Sherlock huffed.
They spent the rest of the meal in silence: John finishing his lunch while Sherlock stared at the plate and gulped down coffee.
The doctor punched his pin code into the machine. Sherlock stood around sheepishly. He was beginning to feel only slightly guilty for pissing John off earlier. Although: only slightly.
"Here, I'll take that." Sherlock offered as he held out his hand to take the obnoxiously coloured bag from his flatmate.
"Oh." John was taken aback by this kind albeit small act of compassion. "Thanks."
"Listen, John." Sherlock began.
"Forget it."
"John." Sherlock said firmly. "I don't find you boring. You're...you're my friend and I...Well, you're more than that but..."
"Just leave it, Sherl," John told him stepping ahead to hail a cab, hiding a smile from his flatmate. Imagine getting Sherlock Holmes to admit to having a friend let alone a 'more-than-friend'.
"Right." Sherlock nodded.
They got into the back of the taxi and John gave their address to the cabbie.
"Um, Sherlock, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about..."