He can hear john's completely even foot falls as he runs up the stairs, accompanied with the sound of crinkling plastic. Two bags of groceries then. Most likely filled with packages of perishable food. Milk or cans would be too heavy, would throw his footsteps off slightly, would slow his pace a little. Sherlock takes pride in the thought that John wouldn't be leaping up the stairs if he wasn't a part of his life, that his John needed him and that Sherlock had positive influence on his life. That his john's life was considerably less dull with him in it.
And that was the best thing a person could do for a friend, right?
There were so many Johns in the world, a small percentage of them war veterans, an even smaller percentage of them trained army doctors, and only one John was associated with the one and only consulting detective. His John was completely unique. Well, every John was genetically unique. His John had the training of a soldier, the insight of a doctor, and a genetic code and way of thinking that was useful to Sherlock in ways no one else's was. A convenient height, an un-intimidating facial structure and stature, an incredible amount patience, and a daunting loyalty and unearned trust in Sherlock. All of these things were incredibly helpful when it came to the work. And to him as a person.
All of these thoughts flitted through Sherlock's consciousness by the time John jumped up the last step. He heard John pause and sigh in the doorway upon seeing Sherlock curled into a ball on the couch, and he could practically see the fond eye roll that usually accompanied that particular sigh. John saved those sighs for Sherlock, usually huffing them when he saw Sherlock doing something he found endearing. Or, as he would normally put it "annoying".
"Don't mind me, I don't need help. But thanks for your concern."
Sherlock just laid there and stared at the stitching on the back of the couch as he listened to the familiar grumbling.
The sounds of bags being placed on the table accompanied the usual cacophony of sounds from the street outside. A stressed female called for a cab. The limping gait of an office worker- no, bus driver, sounded on pavement approximately a hundred meters from the cracked window in their living room.
Sherlock's attention was immediately drawn back into the kitchen as John paused what he was doing to breath a Dammit Sherlock Not Again sigh, as he most likely inspected the new stain Sherlock's latest experiment had put on the table. Sherlock smirked and leapt up off the couch (stepping on the coffee table) and silently sauntered into the kitchen. He raised an eyebrow as he turned the corner to see John still bent over and looking at the blemished table surface. A tanned hand cradling his face as he supported his head on his left elbow, clearly trying to guess what had caused the latest discoloration. A quick gaze down John's body and the set of his shoulders confirmed that he was contemplating the potential causes, and was not at all angry or even surprised.
Sherlock could practically see the warm eyes, raised eyebrows, and quirked lips that John saved for the minor damage that scarred almost all their flat in a way that John found comfortingly constant. Or, as he would call it, annoying.
Sherlock let these thoughts fill his head as he stood behind johns form, taking one second to re-examine johns crossed legs, bent waist, and the two bags he must have lifted off the table and transferred to his right hand, momentarily distracted from putting them away. John was so easily distracted after coming back in the house. Sherlock's smirk grew into a lopsided smile at the thought. He walked forward, smoothly taking the bags from johns hand without slowing his pace as he saw John jump out of the corner of his eyes.
"Christ, Sherlock, don't startle me like that."
He heard the shuffle of feet and slight shifting of the table that meant that John was straightening his posture and placing both of his hands palm-down on the wooden surface. Pivoting on his heel he turned, now on the opposite end of the table, smirk and raised eyebrow still intact on his face. John raised an answering eyebrow of his own when he saw Sherlock's facial expression.
"Well, don't you look disturbingly happy? Should I call Lestrade and tell him that the next drug bust is long overdue?"
Sherlock placed the bags on the table, leaning back against the fridge as he answered.
"John, you know I paid my suppliers off to stop selling to me," his voice was scathing and almost jovial, his crooked smile stretching further across his face, "don't be daft."
John feigned being unconvinced, looking over the long lean line of Sherlock's body stretched out on the fridge.
"Is there a particularly dreadful experiment waiting for me in one of the closets? Did Lestrade Text you? Did you cover both of your arms in nicotine patches again?"
The sarcastic infliction on his voice faded into genuine concern as he muttered the last question, the hand he'd been running down his face lowering to reveal slightly worried eyes.
Sherlock scoffed.
"Only two on my left forearm. despite common belief, I don't fall blindly into my 'addictions', without seeing a reason to, so, stop acting like mummy," he looked disgusted for a minute," or Mycroft."
John chuckled and shook his head.
"Why do I even worry?"
"You are a doctor, you were trained to worry. Also, seeing as you are my only friend, it's only logical that you feel partially responsible for me. You're always comparing me to a child and you no doubt-"
He paused mid rant when he saw John's mouth hanging open.
Sherlock's eyebrows drew together as he went through facts in his head.
"Something I have said has surprised you."
He tilted his head slightly and drew his eyebrows even closer.
John took a moment to think about how the gesture was oddly feline, and how adorable it was.
If you could categorize an emotionally stunted, self-proclaimed sociopathic genius as adorable.
The mop of perfect dark curls tilted even more to right as John shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thoughts that so often found a foothold in his consciousness.
The forty five degree angle of Sherlock's jaw stretched and flexed his pale neck, the top of his blue bath robe lying loosely on his jutting collar bones.
John swallowed.
Fuck this was getting weird fast.
Impossibly bright blue-green eyes narrowed as they locked on the motion in the shorter man's throat.
There was an even weirder moment when John felt like he was being hunted by a wild animal.
And damn, if wasn't incredibly hot.
John was painfully aware of Sherlock probably being able to dissect and see through everything he did and knowing exactly what he was struggling with.
Sherlock always knew.
It took almost no effort to fall into soldier mode, staring at the fridge behind Sherlock as he replied clearly,
"You've only called me your friend once before, I guess I'm still acclimating to hearing that word come out of your mouth."
Fuck. Don't think about his mouth.
He relaxed almost immediately after he had answered, smiling warmly at a serious Sherlock and turning curtly away, leaving Sherlock to put the groceries away.
Though he probably wouldn't.
He never did.
Sherlock glared at the plastic bags in front of him; briefly analyzing the conversation he just had before deciding to actually put things away.
He had upset John. He could deduce why.
The last time he had referred to John as friend, he had then proceeded to drug and traumatize him for the sake of a case.
Somehow Sherlock knew that friends were supposed to take precedent over the work, over the game.
His fists closed at his sides, the fingernails digging into his palms.
Images of john looking at him, trying to reason what Sherlock was planning to use him for this time for why else would Sherlock use the term 'friend'?, were pulled from his information bank and thrown into his vision. These images were shortly followed by the memory of john swallowing with repressed anger, of him going into soldier mode because he was so upset by Sherlock daring to use the term friend to his face again.
Sherlock hadn't meant to, the word had just slipped out.
How odd.
Long fingers worked their way under smokey curls, ruffling his no-longer-perfect but possibly-even-more-attractive hair.
Guilt had become an increasingly common emotion since John had moved in. After they had left the lab in Dartmoor, Sherlock had mentally run through all the ways the ordeal could affect johns PTSD. The list had been long. Thinking about it made him wince.
The monthly nightmares Sherlock heard from john's room had turned into to biweekly ones after they had gotten back from the moor. It was terrible for both of them. Sherlock, almost always awake, could hear the thrashing and the murmuring in the middle of the night, could hear John wake up and suppress whimpers as he laid in bed and calmed his breathing, could see him turn on his bedside lamp as he sat up on his bed, not trusting his brain to let him sleep without throwing him back into some blood splattered memory, or the drug induced hell Sherlock had put him through a month ago. Sherlock would watch with sad eyes as he noticed the way the lack of sleep was affecting his friend- his John, only to look away and pretend to be absorbed in something else when John turned his tired-but-trying trying so hard not show his trauma, trying so hard to protect Sherlock from seeing what he had caused eyes on him, flooding Sherlock's incredible mind with sadness. These moments were usually followed by Sherlock quickly looking away and closing his eyes for a few seconds; a movement he saved for when John did something heart wrenching or self-deprecatingly brave. Or, as he liked to tell himself, annoying.
His jaw twitched as he started emptying the bags, briefly acknowledging that John had actually bought milk, orange juice, and some canned goods Sherlock had (pestered John endlessly for) requested for an experiment. An eyebrow rose towards his bangs as he made a note to adjust future predictions about John's strength and walking pace.
The sound of the shower being turned on filled the flat as Sherlock closed the fridge, leaning his forehead on the cool surface. A sneer found its way back onto his face as he reflected on the way he had felt for the past month. Sherlock Holmes was becoming disgustingly sentimental of late the thought filled his head before it left him alone with the overwhelming guilt again, making him groan against the fridge door. These Emotions were so -deserved, pointless, new, terrible-
annoying.