As I seem to be unable to write much lately, I thought that it would be better to post short chapters: this way you can expect an update every two days at most instead that once a month! ;)
I hope you enjoy it, and remember that I loooooove reviews.
Monday
John Watson was a man of habits. As every morning since he moved to 221B Baker Street, he woke up at 8:00, took a shower, shaved, got dressed, prepared coffee and toasts for Sherlock and himself, and finally sat on his armchair, with his breakfast and his laptop. More or less at the same time that his laptop was rebooting, Sherlock used to appear trough the sitting room doorframe, yawning and still in his pyjamas. He dropped on his own armchair, sighed dramatically, stretched his long arms above him (John's eyes caught on that gesture, greedy, but turned again to his laptop and entered his blog), and at last, as an afterthought, took his cup of coffee and sipped it. He waited until John insisted somehow on his eating breakfast before grabbing his toast: any sign from the doctor sufficed, a word, a glare, even a raised brow; it was a pantomime and they both knew it, as they repeated the same parody day after day.
Today, however, Sherlock kept on sipping his black coffee, slightly annoyed because he wanted to eat his toast before it went cold, but John seemed too engrossed on his blog to indulge on their silent agreement.
"Sherlock", said the doctor at last. The detective thought that it was enough sign for him and took his toast from the plate. It was already prepared, with butter and jam spread exactly how he liked. John raised his eyes from his laptop and repeated: "Sherlock. Have you uploaded any video to YouTube?"
"No, why?"
"Don't talk with your mouth full, please". Sherlock chewed exaggeratedly, with his mouth half open, frowning and glaring to John. The doctor puffed, annoyed, and his friend swallowed and stuck out his tongue to him. John shook his head. "Why do I always forget that I live with a toddler?"
"You were saying?"
"There are two comments on my blog about a YouTube video."
"What do they say?"
John read them aloud. They were vague; the first said "Congratulations on that video, it made my day!", and the second "Are you going to post more YouTube videos?" Sadly, any link was attached to said comments, so John was kept in blank. Sherlock raised a brow and stood up, not bothering on taking his empty cup or plate with him.
"I am sure you are able to do a YouTube search on your own, John; you don't need me for that".
And with that, he left the sitting room. John sighed (why he ever hoped Sherlock was useful for him, it was a mystery on its own), but started to do exactly what Sherlock had suggested, of course: it had been his first thought on reading the comments, after all. But his phone went off at that very moment, and he forgot momentarily all about the video.
"Hello, Greg! Yes, Sherlock is up… I think he's showering. Oh? Oh! ...Yes, I think he might be interested. I will drag him up to Scotland Yard as soon as he is presentable. See you, then!"
Less than an hour later, they were stepping in the Scotland Yard premises, and Sherlock looked indeed presentable: John watched him with the corner of his eye, marvelling on how that gorgeous and elegant man, looking so smooth and sexy in his black suit and tight blue shirt, could be the same lazy berk with the manners of an uneducated teenager of that morning. The usual faces turned to look at them, as always. In fact, John noticed a little more of attention today. Sherlock might be exuding more sexiness than usually, then.
They arrived to Lestrade's office and all seemed the same as always again. The Yard needed Sherlock's help with a chain of related robberies; it wasn't very interesting, but the thieves were slippery enough to have succeeded in seven holdups so far, all of them in wealthy flats in the centre at plain daylight. John's mind wandered as Sherlock asked about the robberies details; it all seemed to fall into the same pleasant routine these days. In fact, his only work would be following Sherlock to the crime scene and being around in case his friend needed backup, interviewing someone or even just protecting him from other people's rudeness. Since he worked with Sherlock, Donovan's remarks have lowered, for instance. And he was the only one who talked to Anderson now. John was glad for it; he felt slightly hurt every time that Sherlock was forced to hear any jibe or angry remark.
The rest of the day went by as planned: they visited the three last flats robbed, and afterwards John went to interview the manager of the security company that was in charge of five from the seven flats, while Sherlock went to Barts to analyze a drop of mud found in the balcony of the last crime scene. He popped in the nearest Tesco before taking the tube on his way home. Sherlock hadn't arrived yet, but he didn't have any new text from him, so he put a frozen pizza on the oven and prepared a salad: as he had predicted, Sherlock arrived home exactly when the pizza was ready. They commented the day's outcomes over dinner (John thought the security company was involved on the robberies; Sherlock disagreed. He needed more data, so he proposed to visit the rest of flats the next day). After that, John washed the dishes while Sherlock played the violin for him: something nice that didn't sound as a cat in heat at all. Then he asked his flatmate if he would mind to watch a film on the telly, and dropped on the sofa with a beer. Sherlock grunted a bit, but after a short hesitation he tucked his violin with loving care and sat on the sofa, next to John. Five minutes later, he was already lying with his feet over his friend's lap. John didn't mind at all.
In fact, John wondered, he found those routines incredibly pleasant and appealing. He couldn't remember the last time, if ever, that he felt so relaxed and happy about his daily life. And his friend (John thought, glancing sidewards to Sherlock) looked accordingly pleased with their flat and work agreement. John stared with undisguised fondness the smug grin of his friend every time he caught a plot hole on the film, and his startled frown when he couldn't follow the chain of emotions that put the characters into action.
"That… That doesn't make sense! Why would anybody react that way? This film is the most stupid and unrealistic recording I've ever seen!", he kept exclaiming.
John giggled and petted Sherlock's calves.
"Relax, Sherlock, it's only a film. It doesn't have to be that realistic, it's all about making us ponder a question, react…"
"Well, my reaction is that we should burn the studios. Then they couldn't film those horrors any more."
John laughed, told Smaug to keep the fire to himself and stood up in order to get ready to bed.
'Another good day in 221B Baker Street', thought with a smile while he started to feel sleep winning over him. If only he would have known then what the next days would bring…
