A/N: Hello, and thank you for clicking on my little story here! This is my first go at writing fanfiction, though I'm an avid reader. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
John isn't sure when it started, but he first notices it one morning while groggily padding through the kitchen to put the kettle on. The time is more appropriate for brunch rather than breakfast, John notes from the time display on the microwave, and of course Sherlock is already awake and dressed( he had probably never even gone to bed in the first place) at the table fiddling with his microscope and some sort of experiment. John can't help but scowl at the bloody crazy consulting detective, whether out of envy or concern he isn't sure. John still can't comprehend how Sherlock manages to survive on so little sleep. Last night had been insane – John doesn't even want to think about the end of that case and all the waiting, and running, and more waiting, and more running and oh has the murderer got a gun? ... He's called out of his musing by what sounds like a low 'amazing' in Sherlock's rich baritone voice.
"Wha'd you say?" John mumbles as he mechanically fetches two hopefully not contaminated mugs from the cabinet.
"Nothing. Oh good, you're making tea, I've been waiting for hours. I asked for some earlier but you didn't respond," Sherlock replies, keeping his eye on the microscope.
John gives him a look of disbelief and huffs in an exasperated tone, "Wha-? Sherlock, I just woke up! You can't expect me to hear you talking to me if I'm not even awake."
Sherlock makes a non-committal noise and changes slides. John emits a long-suffering sigh and goes back to the tea, then pauses and furrows his brows. Surely Sherlock had said something...or maybe not; John still wasn't fully awake without his tea; maybe it was actually nothing. He turns from the counter top and distractedly places Sherlock's mug on the table on his way out of the kitchen, not pausing to hear the unexpected 'thank you' from his flatmate.
At the lab in St. Bart's, Sherlock is analyzing the victim's blood. It's been quiet ever since Molly scurried out after having brought them coffee and failed to engage Sherlock in an awkward one-sided conversation. John sometimes feels sorry for her; she never gets any appreciation from Sherlock. But that's just the way the consulting detective is, and John knows that, but he still tries to help him get along with other just a little bit better. Sometimes John thinks his efforts are paying off when he notices Sherlock say 'thank you' or refrain from belittling someone's intelligence - or lack of, as Sherlock reminds him- when they can't follow his incredible train of thought. Most of the time, though, John admits he still throws out 'bit not good' more than he would like. John is sat at a table adjacent to Sherlock, leaning his elbows on the tabletop and resting his chin on his hands, puzzling over the case.
"-fantastic," he hears Sherlock say, who is still looking into the microscope.
"What? Did you find what you were looking for?" John asks.
There is a pause, then a low hum from Sherlock. "Yes, but the results were not quite satisfactory. I'm done here. We need to contact Lestrade." He swivels abruptly in his chair to face John, eyes narrowed in a calculating fashion, then sweeps up, grabs his coat from the next chair and puts it on in one fluid motion.
John is perplexed, which is not unusual, by Sherlock's words. Why would he say 'fantastic', then turn around and say it wasn't good? John doesn't hear much in the way of sarcasm from his flatmate, so surely the 'fantastic' was serious. John makes a face and stands to leave - no matter how curious, the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes can wait, they've got a murderer to catch.
It was a recurring thing, now. Sherlock kept on talking to his work, and John kept on wondering what the hell was going on. John would pass Sherlock doing research, or an experiment, or even once while he was eating, and hear him say that something was 'amazing', or 'extraordinary', or something like that. Sherlock doesn't much talk to himself now that he has John, nor does he usually praise his experiments, just mutters the occasional mental note. John thinks and thinks about the situation but continues to come to the same conclusion: that Sherlock must be talking to himself. Sherlock is always intently focused on a task when he says such things, so it must be the answer...but really, this solution doesn't quite satisfy him. Eventually John gets tired of wondering what Sherlock is up to. He finds the problem increasingly taking up the space he has left to think between information about cases, making sure Sherlock isn't endangering his health when not on a case, and work, and tells himself that enough is enough - answers will be had.
He approaches Sherlock one afternoon, who is sat at the kitchen table doing something with a dangerously bubbling beaker and what John thinks may be fingernails.
John clears his throat, "Look, Sherlock, you've been acting weirder than usual lately and I need to know what's going on. Are you doing some sort of social experiment on me or something?"
Sherlock shifts his gaze to John for a moment, furrows his brows, then returns to monitoring the bubbling substance. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about how you keep talking to yourself whenever I walk by. Don't think I haven't noticed. Believe it or not I do happen to observe more than you give me credit for."
"Hmm...yes, you're right. Although I have not been speaking to myself."
John screws up his face in a baffled expression. "What is that supposed to mean? You can't deny it, I've been hearing you saying things like "amazing" and "fantastic" for weeks," John puts his hands on his hips, "now look, if this is some sort of, I don't know, subliminal message experiment or the likes, it needs to stop."
Sherlock, not pausing in is work, drops some of the liquid onto a slide containing a fingernail and replies, "I'm not experimenting on you, John."
"Then stop bloody brushing me off and tell me what all this is about," John huffs, not quite proud of how his voice is raised.
Sherlock's face twists into annoyance at John's words and stands up so quickly he nearly upsets the table. "I'm not ignoring you, John, I'm trying to compliment you!" John swears he sees a touch a pink on those high cheekbones. "Forgive me if it's bothering you, I can see that they are unwanted!" Sherlock spits the words at him like an angry cat. He actually folds his arms at the end of his outburst, leaving John shocked and just a little ashamed.
John lets out an "ohhh..." and shifts his weight from foot to foot, scratches the back of his neck, licks his lips. "No, no...thank you, Sherlock. That's very...kind of you." It all makes sense now and John mentally kicks himself for not realizing the truth sooner. He knows that Sherlock despises sentiment and often has difficulty expressing his appreciation of their friendship, but for some reason he didn't recognize Sherlock's words and the way he avoided looking at John when he praised him as the usual indicators. John is suddenly hit with the remembrance that Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, is indeed human, has a heart, and is capable of being embarassed. How is it that he forgot?
Sherlock still stands stiffly by his chair, arms crossed in a guarded way, gaze focused somewhere over John's left shoulder. Before he realizes it, John has taken a step closer to his flatmate and places his hand on his upper arm. Sherlock flinches at the contact, but it produces the desired effect in that he is now staring into John's eyes. John smiles reassuringly.
"I'm sorry, I get it now. I appreciate the compliments, Sherlock. Just...maybe next time let me know they're intended for me, yeah?"
"Of course," Sherlock mumbles, his lips quirking into the smile he reserves only for John.
A moment passes in companionable silence before the reality of the situation ( standing in each other's personal space, John's hand on Sherlock's arm, touching ) seems to hit them both at the same time. John practically reels back from his flatmate and Sherlock hastily drops backwards into his seat.
John deliberately puts his hands behind his back and clears his throat.
"Right, well...tea? I'll put the kettle on." He takes the long way around and steps to the side of the table opposite to Sherlock.
"Lovely," is Sherlock's reply.
John jerks to a stop and turns his head round to Sherlock, eyes wide. For a moment he's not sure whether this is another complement (surely not?) or an agreement to the tea.
Sherlock is frozen in place holding a dropper over a slide, the same wide-eyed look on his face.
"No, that was meant for the tea," comes out all in a rush, quite different from his usual eloquence.
John squares his shoulders and carries on to the kettle.
"Right."
a/n: What did you think? Please R&R!