So. John is evil. Evil John. Was John always evil, or was he, Sherlock Holmes, The World's Only Consulting Detective, somehow responsible for John turning against him?
Maybe it was because he sabotaged every one of John's dates. Showing up unexpectedly at the same restaurant, mixing up their names deliberately, sending criminal syndicates after them, wearing the same outfits…
Maybe it was the time he drugged the sugar. He recalled the scene, grin plastered on his face, equal parts determined and amiable, as he handed John the coffee mug. Of course the sugar wasn't drugged, and he had apologized; he had said never again. Did John realize what he had meant was that he would never again be wrong about the sugar not being drugged? Or was it when he had known John actually was under the influence of a powerful fear-inducing drug, and he had locked John in the lab, and... played growling noises over the lab's sound system. Perhaps he wasn't on his best behavior during their trip to the Moors.
Maybe it was when he put John's red pants into the wash along with the whites, turning the laundry (including his doctor's coat) a rather alarming shade of pink. "PINK!" John had yelled when he went to put the clothes in the dryer. He was only trying to help.
Or maybe it was when he pretended to be dead for three years. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
If he could only think! He had been up all night listening to Taylor Swift's "Trouble" over and over his iPhone, thinking just how weird it is how certain songs seem like they're about your life. He hadn't eaten (but that was nothing new). Eventually, he must have fallen asleep. And now…as the early morning light filtered through the fog of London, as well as the curtains, he was awake and he was thirsty. And not just a little bit thirsty; the thirst seemed to consume him. He didn't just want tea, he needed tea. It would get his brain back on track, soothe his jumbled nerves.
He looked around the flat. John had been by to remove his belongings. Though only a few things were missing from the sitting room, it seemed to Sherlock as if the whole of 221B was startlingly empty. He debated getting dressed, and decided to put that off. Get up first. Get dressed later. The need for tea compelled him toward the kitchen.
As he struggled to his feet, he heard the ring of the doorbell, a thud, and then the quick shuffling noise of someone running away. He did not feel like playing ding-dong-ditch this morning, but he had already gotten up, and the front door was steps away. He opened it, and there it was. On the front stoop. A cup of tea. And a quart of milk. He scanned the street and caught a glimpse of sandy-blond hair and a dark, beautifully tailored coat fading into the distance. He returned to the kitchen, moved an arm aside to make room for the milk, and drank the tea. It was cold.
"Sherlock, dear, how are you?"came a voice from upstairs. Mrs. Hudson nearly bumped into him as he was heading back to his sitting room, lost in thought. "I brought you some tea and biscuits," she looked uncertain, "I had a few extra and… I know John usually makes… made the tea, so I, umm… thought maybe I'd bring some down." She placed the tray by the sofa, waited a moment for any attempt at conversation, and, finding none made, she turned to leave.
"What is this?" Sherlock asked, pointing to the yarn-covered tea service.
"It's a tea cozy," she said, raising the wrapped pot, as if to pour some, and then placing it gently down instead. "It's meant to keep it hot. Let me know if I can help," she said, knowing full well she couldn't. After all, she was his landlady, not his therapist.
After considerable thought about John's delivery and what it truly meant... was it a parting gift? a reconciliation? poisoned?... Sherlock finally decided some more tea would be most welcome. He wrapped his impossibly long and improbably agile fingers around the handle and poured himself a cuppa. He was quite surprised to see wisps of steam as he did so. Despite the length of time between Mrs. Hudson setting it down on the end table and Sherlock's return from his Mind Palace, it was still hot.
He leaned his face over the cup, inhaled deeply, and brought it up to meet his cupid's bow. When it made contact, he parted his lips ever so slightly for just the tiniest taste, then he widened them, letting the sensation of hot tea pouring down his throat overwhelm him. He was unable to suppress a deep and resonating "mmmmmmmm." He tipped his head back, lengthening his neck as the last of the fluid found its way down. Oh, he had had tea before, in the dorms at Uni. In shops, surrounded by strangers, after a late night fueled by cocaine and cigarettes. But it was never like this. Warm, waiting, just for him. So this is why people stopped all other activity at 4 p.m. This glorious heat, filling his whole body. And all because of a deceivingly simple bit of knotted yarn.
A tea cozy. I want to wrap my teapot in a tea cozy every time, so it will stay hot for me. I want to wrap myself in this tea cozy, and melt into it… to envelop my whole body in its warmth. It's like a jumper for your tea. Jumpers are… good. I … want…a jumper. I want… John's jumper. I want John's oatmeal-colored jumper, right now.
Nothing could stop him from retrieving it.