AN: this is my first attempt at a fanfic. Seriously, read with care, it's not beta-ed and I'm no English native speaker. Be kind and drop a word, because, you know, some hints are always appreciated. Mind you, in this chapter doesn't really happen anything, you've been warned: read at your own risk :)

I do not own any of Sherlock's content, all the rights go to BBC, which I thank a lot for the inspiration provided.

It was time for cleaning at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock had just bolted off, even forgetting John was there sitting on the chair, drinking tea. He had got a text message, mumbled something and disappeared for good through the front door. At first John didn't even blink. He thought that Sherlock would have noticed his absence by the time he called for a taxi, but it didn't happen. So, after about fifteen long minutes of waiting, the doctor finally got that Sherlock had just forgotten his existence.

He muttered something similar to "bastard", but in fact he didn't care much. The flat was a mess, and tidying up while Sherlock was around had never been the best idea. The first time he had tried to do that, his flatmate had gone into the "I-am-grumpy-I'd-just-play-the-violin-for-three-days" mode, which resulted in a very stressed doctor Watson since he wasn't able to sleep due to the constant screeching of the angry violin player.

But now that Sherlock wasn't laying around, it was the perfect day to do some cleaning.

The kitchen table was covered with lab equipment and the floor had some dark yellow spots of which John wouldn't really want to know the origin. Last time he asked the consulting detective for explanations, he discovered that he was dissecting a human liver. He thus learnt that it was better to keep the mouth shut. He gently removed the equipment from the table (if Sherlock were here, he thought, he would scream in agony like he was being tortured)and mopped it up, and put it in the same position he found it, knowing that the other man would notice his lousy attempts to do it correctly anyway. He then cleaned the microwave, threw some rotten tomatoes (how long had they had those tomatoes? He didn't even remember buying them and now they were just mould with some hints of red somewhere) straight from the fridge into the bin, tried to not look into a nice plastic box which seemed to contain human parts, and finally moved to the living room.

He smiled at the it-had-never-been-so-clean-before kitchen and turned to the sofa. Moving the cushions was a good idea, obviously, but what was under it was beyond the word disgusting. There was dust that could have come to life at any second, some very old nicotine patches, a thing that looked like some half eaten apple, piece of papers, a paper cutter so rusted it could have been centuries old. John took a plastic bag and threw everything carefully into it, then vacuumed every inch of it with some kind of resentment. Yes, he finally had the right day to do the cleaning he had been thinking to do for months. But how could Sherlock forget him at home like he had just done? Was he like those dust balls rolling under the cushions? The ones you sort of get attached to until you decide you had enough of them? He had thought he didn't care much, but now the anger was growing inside of him. When he was done with the sofa, he nervously tossed the cushions into place again. But in the end he was satisfied with the result. The sofa didn't smell and look that horrible anymore.

Now it was time for the bathroom and, cherry on top, Sherlock's bedroom. The bathroom, he recognized, was quite cleaner than the other rooms. Probably because Mrs. Hudson cleaned it more than anything else. Obviously she wasn't the housekeeper, but sometimes she pityingly agreed to clean at least the bathroom ("For everyone's sake", she had said) and make the bed. All this happened once or twice a week, and some other times she did the living room and the kitchen too. Nevertheless she had been really busy with her sister's hypochondria, which led her to assist the woman more than necessary, with the result she hadn't been at home much in the last three weeks. She had got the time to clean the bath, though, so John had only to mop the shower and the bathtub, smirking at Sherlock's products. Expensive shampoo, checked. Very expensive soothing balm, checked. I-have-no-words-to-tell-how-expensive-this shower gel is, checked. He almost fainted the first time he went to the supermarket and asked Sherlock if he needed any body products. The other man told him that he didn't buy them at the local store and gave him a note with an address and the name of both the shampoo and the shower gel. It was a luxury boutique in central London. It took him a thirty minutes travel with the underground on a very cold winter day, it literally poured litres of rain from the sky and when he had finally reached his destination, he was wetter than he could've ever imagined. He thus stepped into the shop and told the shop assistant the two names. When he read the price on the register's screen, he felt his legs turning into gelatine. Had he just read 102 pounds? Seriously? He tried to mutter something and was sure that his heart skipped a beat. Now nine months had passed since "the accident", but he couldn't help but smirking still when he saw the bottles.

When it came the time for Sherlock's bedroom, John thought about stopping. It had already taken him two hours for the rest of the flat and he felt rather tired. Plus Sherlock's bedroom was, in his thoughts, an intimate place for the detective and he felt like he was violating something sacred. He had only entered three or four times in the room and only with the detective by his side. Alone there? Never. The flatmate didn't like it and he respected his point of view. Although, the room surely needed some cleaning. He put his doubts and his tiredness aside, and stepped into it. The bed was a total mess. The sheets were scattered on the floor like he had slept there rather than on the mattress. The pillow was somehow stuck between the bed and the bedside table, and the lamp was dangerously hanging from it. What the hell did he do during the night? Did he fight battles with invisible people? Did he actually sleep at all? With a grunted sigh he started to pick up the sheets from the floor and rearrange them perfectly. Was he becoming the housemaid? The thought sent shivers down his spine. Two hours and Sherlock hadn't come home yet, or called, or texted. Had the one and the only consulting detective in the goddamn world suddenly decided he didn't need him anymore? Rage rushed over his face. No, that wasn't fair. Sherlock was a prick. He knew that. But he also thought that he appreciated him in some way. So what was going on that morning? Maybe the job didn't require him. Maybe there was a perfect logical explanation for that. Obviously there was! But this didn't stop his guts revolting inside him.

He reached the bedside table and picked up the poor lamp, only to notice there was some paper sticking out from the drawer. He shouldn't take that. Private things. He really shouldn't. But the more he stared at it, the more he wanted to take a look. He moved to the other side of the room. No, really, he shouldn't. Curiosity kills. It's Sherlock, he'll know you read it, John. He found himself with the paper in the hands.

He glanced at the first one. Dear John, it started and ended there. He put it aside. Dear John, I want you to know, the second one ended there. The third one was a mix of unintelligible scribbles, always starting with Dear John. What was written below that, he could not guess. The fourth had a complete sentence, but nothing more: Dear John, I'd like to thank you for the help you always give me on my job,. There were other seven letters like that, eleven not even started letters in total. All he got from the reading was that Sherlock was trying to tell him something. The first thought, hinted from the fourth, was that they were letters of gratitude towards him and he felt reassured. He knew that Sherlock had problems with expressing his gratitude: never a thank you, never an appreciation for all the cooking, the teas, the cleaning even! So maybe he was trying to fill that void with letters. John appreciated it a lot. Anyway he couldn't understand why not a single letter was finished. He ruminated the thought for a while in his mind, and let it fall in the end. It was Sherlock after all and he knew he couldn't spot everything the man had in his great mind.

He recollected the paper and put it in the drawer again, with care, like they were some kind of relics. Sherlock would know he had read them anyway and he smiled at the thought of a very angry and, at the same time, embarrassed Sherlock trying both to tell John to keep his hands off things and to explain how thankful he was for John being so helpful. Oh, it would be so funny.