SHERLOCK

PANCAKES

Author's Note:

Main Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

Side Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade (mentioned)

Warnings: Fluff... fluff... some more fluff

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss and Steve Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.

John was making pancakes. Sherlock couldn't figure out why. He'd been on the couch, just lounging, having woken up after a good sixteen-hour sleep after a particularly gruelling case he'd worked for his brother. Gah, if Mycroft didn't bring him such interesting cases, Sherlock would never take them.

As it was, he did, so he'd needed to sleep after staying up three or four days hunting down a rogue MI6 spy. Why the man had decided to stay in London was anybody's guess; he'd been "taken care of" by Mycroft's people, thus bringing an end to the case.

Anyway, back to the pancakes. It was puzzling. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa now, on the armrest, hands pressed together beneath his chin (an imitation of Mycroft, Sherlock still couldn't seem to shake it; the gesture helped him think). He tilted his head as he watched John hum and clatter about through the archway separating the kitchen and living room. There was a pancake sizzling away in the pan atop the stove, a stack of the golden, fluffy cakes on a plate to John's right. Butter, jam, syrup and a number of other things were laid out on the kitchen table amongst Sherlock's experiments, and John was sipping every now and then from a mug of tea.

Pancakes... why? John had never made pancakes before, not in all the time Sherlock had known him. John usually had toast or cereal with a mug of tea- occasionally coffee, when he was really tired- for breakfast. He'd always try and coax a bit of food into Sherlock if the genius was awake. Sometimes, when Sherlock was feeling sentimental, he'd indulge John and take a piece of toast, a few mouthfuls of cereal. Mostly he just ignored the doctor's attempts.

Pancakes. Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes... pancakespancakespancaaakkeeesss...

Why? Why was John making pancakes? Sherlock hadn't even known that John knew how to make pancakes. Mummy couldn't make pancakes. Mycroft could; Father had taught him. Sherlock had burnt each little cake and tossed them at Mycroft's head while the elder Holmes was trying to study. Or snog the neighbour-boy... Mitchell? Michael! No, Matthew... well, Sherlock had never claimed to be good with names.

Pancakes. Sherlock was growing thoroughly disgusted with the word, but it was whirling around his head over and over again on a constant loop. Paaannncccaaakkkeeess... it didn't even sound like a word anymore.

It wasn't John's birthday (Sherlock didn't think it was, anyway). There was no anniversary or anything special about today. It wasn't Sherlock's birthday. John didn't have a date, he hadn't won the lottery, and his and Lestrade's pub night had carried out like all the others; the two bitching and moaning about Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Lestrade and Mycroft. He was still trying to delete that.

So. Pancakes.

'Pancakes,' Sherlock finally muttered out-loud. Maybe saying the word aloud would spark something- a memory, a clue- that would help Sherlock figure out why his flatmate/blogger/best friend was skipping around the kitchen like a man who just got lucky. 'Pancakes. Pancakes. Pancakes. Pancakes. Pancakes. PAN-'

'You just gonna keep saying pancakes?'

Sherlock frowned and looked up to see John standing in the archway between the kitchen and living room, arms folded over his chest, a soft smile playing on his face.

'Pancakes,' Sherlock repeated. John's lips rose. 'Pancakes, John.'

'Yes,' John nodded. 'I've made a dozen. You're gonna eat some.'

'Why?' Sherlock demanded. Maybe out-right asking would solve the puzzle. Sherlock usually preferred solving it himself, but sometimes extreme methods were needed.

Asking for help.

Sherlock shuddered at the thought.

'Because,' John said, and then turned and wandered back towards the stove.

Well, that didn't help. How bothersome. And cruel. John was trying to torture him, was that it? Perhaps he'd found the spleen in Sherlock's bedroom, or the toenails in the bathroom. Or, maybe, he'd found the cigarette butts Sherlock hadn't bothered to throw away beneath the sofa. But, really, cigarettes were much better than cocaine, weren't they? Even Mycroft smoked, therefore he approved. John had no right to judge him!

'Pancakes.' It was a grunt, this time; Sherlock put as much venom into the word as he could muster, as though the food had personally offended him and his lifestyle. Which they might have, at some point in his life. He seemed to recall in incident involving Mycroft and pancakes... something about boundaries and knocking before entering...

'Yes, pancakes!' John called from the kitchen.

Honestly, it wasn't even a word anymore. Why were they even called pancakes? They didn't taste like cake. Was it because they were cooked in a pan? Wikipedia was needed.

Sherlock started fishing around for his iPhone, but the stupid thing had run off while Sherlock had been passed out. He tossed cushions aside, magazines and books and paperwork that he was suppose to give to Lestrade but had no intentions of doing, an empty cigarette packet.

'You said you'd quit.'

Sherlock looked up from where he was bent over the back of the sofa, and caught John... was he staring at Sherlock's arse?

John gave him a bright smile, eyes back on Sherlock's face, and Sherlock narrowed his own. No, why would John be looking at his arse? That made no sense. John was straight. Well, "not gay". Because Sherlock was one of the most observant men on earth (curse his damned brother!) and John liked looking at men in a sexual manner just as much as he liked looking at women; he just didn't advertise it. A bit like Lestrade, there.

'What?'

'You said you'd quit,' John repeated. He put the plate of pancakes on the coffee table, as well as two smaller, empty plates; one before his armchair, one before the couch. He then went back into the kitchen- for syrup and jam and whatnot, Sherlock deduced. 'Smoking,' he added when he finally took his seat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped onto the sofa- dramatically, some people liked to say. 'Obviously I lied,' he commented. 'I thought you knew me?'

John chuckled and nodded a bit, leaning forward to grab a plate and a pancake. Sherlock glared at the fluffy golden... things. They were currently the bane of his existence.

He tapped his fingers against his knees, then the sofa, then his knees again as John ate. John didn't seem perturbed, just hummed softly to himself between every bite. Sherlock began tapping his toes against the rug beneath his feet, eyes somewhere on the wall opposite. Hmm... it needed a smiley-face. A big red one. Like the jam John was putting on his pancakes.

Gah.

'John.'

'Mm?'

'Why are you eating pancakes?'

''Cause I made them.'

'Why?'

''Cause they're delicious.'

'Why?'

''Cause my tastebuds like 'em.'

Sherlock turned to scowl at his flatmate, who just gave him a large smile that was full of breakfast.

'You're insufferable,' Sherlock muttered.

'Yeah, you tell me that every other day,' John commented. 'Sometimes five or six times a day. Eight the other day when I let Mycroft in.'

'Well you shouldn't have,' Sherlock sniffed. 'He's a menace.'

'You've told me that, too,' John said, and went right back to eating his breakfast. Sherlock was seriously contemplating tossing the entire plate out the window, just to bring some normalcy back to their morning, when John said, 'You really haven't figured it out?'

Sherlock scowled. 'Figured what out?'

'The pancakes,' John said, pointing his fork at the stack on the coffee table.

'I'm working on it,' Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand.

John quirked an eyebrow. 'Get back to me when you figure it out.'

Ooh, a challenge; Sherlock liked challenges.

John's eyes brightened; he'd got what he wanted. Sherlock didn't care. He had a puzzle to figure out. He pulled his legs up beneath him, crossing them and setting his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together beneath his chin. Basically he went into his typical "thinking" pose; and, again, it still annoyed him that he and Mycroft shared that trait.

Silence fell, apart from the soft sounds of John eating; the clink of a fork against a plate; the sound of a fluffy, misshapen pancake sliding onto a plate; jam being spread, sometimes syrup drizzled. Sherlock just stared, eyes slightly unfocused as they settled on John's legs, crossed at the ankle. John just ate.

Not a birthday. Not a very special day, at least not one that Sherlock was aware of. John hadn't come back to the flat with a spring to his step, so he didn't have a date. Again, he and Lestrade had had a typical pub night in which they'd no doubt "bitched and moaned" about their partners; in Lestrade's case, a "minor government official" who left his socks everywhere, and in John's case, a self-proclaimed sociopath who liked to leave experiments in the bathtub.

His parents hadn't called; they never did. His sister was still sober, at least as far as Sherlock knew.

So... what could Sherlock possibly deduce from... this?

Focus. Take in the facts. Draw conclusions from said facts.

John had been up fairly early, but not too early; it was currently nine-fifteen according to the clock that was for some reason on the wall opposite (when did they get that?) and John had been cooking for... half-an-hour. So he'd been up for an hour and a half, then. John liked to shower and don his dressing gown before cooking.

So he was up at roughly seven-thirty; normal for John. He was an early riser when he hadn't been working hard, or up all night on a case with Sherlock.

Which meant nothing had woken him other than his internal body-clock. No emergency or special event to wake for. He'd gotten up, gone about his morning routine, and then proceeded to cook pancakes.

Sherlock frowned. Blinked. Frowned some more.

John snickered.

'Shut up!' Sherlock snapped.

John waved his fork around. 'No, sorry; that was a bit rude,' he conceded, and then proceeded to smirk. 'It's just funny that you can't figure it out.'

'No it's not,' Sherlock muttered in disdain.

'Is,' John insisted.

'I hate you.'

'Do not.'

'Do.'

'You're a child.'

'You're a child,' was Sherlock's very childish reply, which just made John chuckle into his pancake. 'Fine!' Sherlock threw his hands up. 'I give up; I yield; you have managed to stump me, Dr Watson.'

John bowed his head. 'Thank you, thank you. I give out autographs for a pound.'

Sherlock sneered at him. John just cut up another piece of pancake and plopped into his mouth, grinning all the while.

'Why have you cooked pancakes, John?' Sherlock finally demanded. 'Why? It's not my birthday or yours. You don't have a date. To my knowledge today isn't special in any way, or an anniversary of anything. So why?'

John smiled brightly at him and ate another piece of his breakfast, took another sip of tea, before answering. 'It is an important day.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Why?'

''Cause it's the day we finally stop beating around the bush and actually do something about all this sexual tension between us,' John stated, rather bluntly.

Sherlock stared. Blinked. Stared. Blinked again.

'Oh, I broke you,' John commented, only looking mildly concerned.

Sherlock blinked again.

'Sorry,' John said, not sounding sorry in the least. He was still eating.

Sherlock... blinked. 'What?'

'Sexual tension, Sherlock!' John snapped, like he'd been holding this in for years and suddenly needed an outlet. 'The fact that we do everything together, stare at each other, have really long, intense staring contests before going our separate ways, only to stare at each other's arses like we're in their orbit.'

… what?

'Honestly,' John groaned. 'No, wait; I get it. You're a genius in everything but sex.'

Sherlock frowned at that. 'I understand sex!'

'Have you ever had it?' John asked, again bluntly.

'Yes,' Sherlock pouted. 'In university, before I dropped out.'

'And?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Sometimes it was enjoyable, other times it wasn't.'

'And would you be interest in sex?' John queried. 'With me,' he added, as though Sherlock had missed that.

'I...' Sherlock froze, eyes wide, staring at John like he'd only just met him. Wait... wait. The pancakes...? 'You made pancakes to confuse me and start this conversation!' Sherlock accused.

John smirked. 'Little bit,' he admitted, and ate more breakfast.

Sherlock scowled and sat forward, unfolding his legs so he could lean closer to John. 'You, John Watson, are a sick, twisted man.'

The doctor just snickered, of course. 'And?'

'And what?'

'Would you be interested?' John asked.

Sherlock hesitated. John was... well. John was Sherlock's everything. His best friend, his flatmate, his confidant, his... his John. And yes, okay; Sherlock had maybe looked at John in a sexual manner, in the past... every day... every hour, maybe, if he was being completely honest. But... he was Sherlock Holmes; John might have looked at him a few times, but he'd never even hinted at wanting Sherlock.

'I figured it was time,' John said, as though he was following Sherlock's thoughts. 'We've been dancing around each other for two years, Sherlock. Everyone knows that we want each other.'

'I... see,' Sherlock finally managed, though he wasn't sure he actually did.

John rolled his eyes. 'I want you in a sexual sense,' he stated. Again, bluntly, what was with him today? Oh, right; he wanted to have sex with Sherlock. 'I want to date you; call you my boyfriend or partner or special someone. I want to stop waking up alone; I want to share your room with you, and cuddle with you, and hold hands with you when we walk down the street sometimes. I want to be able to say, "Yes, we are a couple", when people ask. So,' John put his plate on the coffee table and looked at Sherlock, dark blue eyes very serious, 'what say you?'

Sherlock had to... process that. He would admit, only later, that his brain and body had both stalled; just a bit. He needed at least a minute to process. Because Sherlock Holmes didn't do relationship. He didn't really do friends, at least not until he'd met DI Lestrade. And it wasn't until John's appearance in his life that Sherlock had even realised that Lestrade was his friend. Anderson, too, to a lesser extent. The man wasn't so bad once he stopped calling Sherlock "Freak" every other minute.

No, wait; focus. John. He wanted sex. And dates. And... feelings.

Feelings.

Feelings. Feelings, feelings, feelingsfeelingsfeelingsfeeeellliiinnngggssss.

Oh, it was "pancake" all over again.

'You... want to date me?' Sherlock finally managed.

'Mm-hmm,' John nodded. He'd gone back to his breakfast while Sherlock was on standby.

'Me?'

'Mm.'

'Sherlock Holmes?'

'Yes, Sherlock,' John rolled his eyes.

'Why?' Sherlock questioned. Because he had to; nobody wanted to date him.

'Seriously?' John snorted. 'Sherlock, you are the greatest, most brilliant man I have ever met. You're also a child, an arsehole nine out of ten times, and the most insufferable person I've ever met.' He leaned forward, eyes locked with the genius'. 'I love you.'

Oh... oh. This was like when Mycroft had told Sherlock that he loved Lestrade. Suddenly someone's quirks, their faults, didn't matter all that much. They were still annoying, but just their presence- their personality- cancelled that out.

Oh.

'Oh,' Sherlock breathed, and John nodded.

'Yeah,' he said. 'So, if you're not interested, we go back to being friends. If you are-'

'I am!' Sherlock snapped before John could continue, making the older man raise both eyebrows.

'Okay.'

'I mean...' Sherlock murmured, trying to downplay his shout, 'if you are...'

'Oh, I am,' John said, and he was grinning now, making Sherlock's lips twitch. 'So...'

'So,' Sherlock echoed.

'What now?' John asked, his bravado slipping, replaced with a slightly nervous man eyeing Sherlock from an armchair.

'I suppose... well, nothing really needs to change, does it?' Sherlock tried. 'Apart from dates... and cuddling... and sex.'

'Sex,' John breathed. His eyes darkened, and Sherlock shifted on the sofa. Oh, he could very well get used to this. 'And kissing?' he ventured.

Sherlock stared. 'Of course,' he said, then frowned. 'Don't people in sexual relationships kiss?'

'Yeah!' John nodded quickly. 'Yeah.' He stood suddenly, and Sherlock wondered what he was doing, right up until John grabbed him by the dressing grown, wrenched him up, and pressed their lips together.

John tasted like jam and syrup. His lips were warm, wet from where he'd been licking excess syrup from them. And then his tongue slid out, licked Sherlock's lips, and darted into his mouth when Sherlock opened it.

After that, things got a bit fuzzy. Which was odd, because Sherlock's mind was always a very sharp, very well-working machine. But all it took was a bit of tongue from John Watson to have him short-circuiting.

Sherlock was completely okay with it.

After what felt like years- but was four minutes, according to that clock that had sprung up from nowhere (Mrs Hudson, probably)- John sat back down in his armchair, a silly grin on his face. Sherlock was sure that their faces matched.

'Good,' John said, having to clear his throat to get the word out.

'Yes,' Sherlock murmured, 'very good.' He flopped back onto the couch, mind still reeling from what had just happened.

He had a boyfriend. John Watson was his partner.

Sherlock stared a bit; at John, the ancient TV in the corner, Lestrade's notes that he'd nicked because, why not? Then his eyes drifted back to the stack of misshapen pancakes, and then the one that John was currently eating.

He smiled.

Maybe pancakes weren't that bad, after all.

{THE END}

Author's Note: I just suddenly had the urge to write Johnlock after having three beers... I like beer... and Johnlock. I haven't written any Johnlock in AGES so my muse decided it was time. If this story sucked, it was because of the aforementioned beers. Blame the alcohol. I also had pancakes for breakfast, so... yeah :)

Cheers,

{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}