"What are you reading?" I asked, do not really know why. I had no need to start a conversation, but the opportunity to find out, what Holmes is devouring with such an interest, was somehow – attractive.
"Your favourite book -" he said and turned the page (without looking at me). "The Hobbit."
"My favourite?"
"Obviously."
I questioningly raised my eyebrows.
"In your shelf," Holmes started (evidently gets my how-can-you-possibly-know-face), "there are about 30 books - not much - especially medical books, not in a very good condition - which means that you wouldn't have them, if you don't need them. So, you have no great relationship to these books. But among them, there are two editions of The Hobbit, well-cared I have noticed, which brings me to the conclusion that they have a certain value for you. The value is clearly not just monetary, which would correspond to the 1st edition, but also emotional. Because the second book is the 5th edition (so in comparison with the 1st: not rare or expensive), and you obviously did not have the heart to throw it away... From this I assume that the content of these books is more than just words on a paper for you. – Am I wrong?"
"Um, no." I murmured in astonishment (know: with Sherlock I'm living, also witnessing the expressions of his intellect, for a quite long time. But it still amazes me, how many things he observes and what he's able to deduce from them.) "You are absolutely right."
"Of course I am."
"But," I continued, "if you deduced all this, mean mainly that the two books are important to me, why didn't you take the 5th edition?" I said, a little annoyed, because on my first edition, I was really proud and I do not want it to be damaged (especially when I think about Sherlock's cleaning and taking care of things style), and looked at him. But at that moment my eyes fixed on the table next to the detective's armchair and on a cup (full of tea) innocently placed on it. "Sherlock... are you kidding me? What the hell is this?!"
"To a great book," replied Holmes dispassionately, "belongs a great tea..." and put the cup to his lips. "Grrr," I thought, and anxiously watched as he's slowly sipping that bloody tea. (...) Finally he pulled away the cup from his mouth (without a single drop fell - which I was very pleased) and was going to put it back on the saucer, when suddenly Mrs. Hudson walked in: "Hello boys. I'm going to the market. Anything you need?"
I'm sure that our landlady had the best intentions, when she was asking us, but unfortunately, she had caused – disaster: Sherlock (totally absorbed by provoking me) was so surprised, that he nearly dropped the cup. (...) It has not broken, but all the tea was spilled out – right on my Hobbit. I stiffened, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, clenched my teeth and fists, breathed out, opened the eyes and went out the door (without a single word).
I have returned to my old flat… I was fairly pissed. Holmes had never made me so angry.
If we ignore that the main role in this affair played my favourite book, I was upset primarily for the fact, that all this could be easily avoided, if Sherlock did not have that stupid tea.
So I was not angry about Holmes' sociopathy or because that he insulted me, no, not at all. I was upset because of his pure stupidity... the only plus about it, was: this accident can be attributed to the evidence, that Sherlock is actually (and only) - a human.
Week passed and my anger has slowly begun to fade... Holmes still texts me (a lot - really lot. Well you must consider first, that it's him – so for Sherlock it was a lot):
1st day: Sorry.
3rd day: We have a new case. (...) Meet me at Bart's.
4th day: I am truly sorry, John.
5th day: Come back.
6th day: I need you here - Mrs. Hudson doesn't want to give me cigarettes.
7th day: I regret I've destroyed your book.
Come back.
John, please, do come back... SH
I was pleased with his interest and pursuit of an apology (as I know, this is hard for him, because he simply doesn't understand it). However, I definitely was not going to pack up and go back to The Baker Street. No, he must learn these things, he has to learn: how to be human. (...) So I have decided that I stay here (in my flat) and will not accept Holmes' apologies, or answer his messages, until he comes to me.
After next three days of no visit, I started to be a little uneasy. But that same day (when I was wondering if he will ever come for me) at night, I've suddenly heard my favourite violin song. That was a bit strange, because at two o'clock in the morning, there is not much musicians on the streets - at least, not in such condition, that they are able to play. So naturally, out of curiosity, I came to the window, pulled back the curtain - carefully - and looked out: below, there stood a dark tall figure, wrapped in a coat.
Even in the autumn mist I could very well recognize who it was: Holmes, obviously - with a violin under his chin.
Bow, led by long skinny fingers, dancing across the strings – and there is no doubt, that the resulting melody was Vivaldi's Winter.
Unnoticed, I opened the front door and walked out the street - directly to the detective. "With your... knowledge of the Solar system – I've already reconciled..." I sighed and came up to him, "but mistaking autumn to winter?"
Holmes immediately stopped his playing and looked at me. "Well, Winter is your favourite. And I didn't - I can't wait until December with this apology."
"All right then," I smiled and sat down on a bench in front of the house, "please continue..."
I sat there and listened. About 10 minutes passed, when Holmes finished the piece. He played really nicely (do not know how long he plays the violin, but I think he must probably have started at a very young age). I got up: "Thank you Sherlock, I accept your apology," and reached out hand to shake his. (...) "Jeez, you're so cold!" I said, horrified (Sherlock's hand was like an ice) - but why am I surprised? It's minus 7°C out here, and he does not even wearing a scarf! Sure, that would obstruct him - because of the violin - gloves probably too, but especially for that, he should be dressed warmly. Doesn't he have anything more, in the closet, than his shirts and that frigging, autumnal, coat?!
"Sorry," he replied, and quickly pulled his hand out of mine.
"No," I said. "I won't let you catch a cold - I will be taking care of you anyway, if you do so - well, we'd better start with it now."
Then the doctor grabbed the consulting detective and took him upstairs...
"Sit down." John invited him, "I'll make some tea..." and left Sherlock alone in the middle of a very small room (it was something like living room, but there was also a bed, so: a bit of everything room) with only a one armchair.
Holmes stood there for a moment and archly contemplating the seat, then turned, and get straight into the John's bed: pleasantly snuggled in a duvet - waiting for his tea...
I made tea and get back into the "bit of everything room" with it. At the sight of Holmes in my bed, I immediately stopped and made a puzzled face.
"What?" He asked.
"That's my bed Sherlock."
"Yes – That's obvious."
"So?"
"So?"
"What the hell are you doing there?!"
"Oh, I see... you're confused because when you were saying: sit down, you haven't realized that it doesn't apply only to your armchair, but to every single place in this flat, where I can do sit down. For example: your bed. So, my dear Watson - I sat down rightly, except that I haven't done it properly or in the way as you were suspecting. Anyway, you hadn't said to me, where I am supposed to sit."
I pursed my lips, but - he was right, there is nothing against it. So I just nodded and passed him the cup. Then I settled down in my armchair. (...) We finished the tea: "So," I asked, "how are you doing?"
"I'm doing quite well, thank you." He replied with that typical Holmes tone.
"Uh, what about the cigarettes?"
"None... And when I asked Mycroft, he bought me a pipe - without tobacco."
I just smirked, because I can totally imagine Mycroft's face when he gave it to Sherlock. "Now," I said and got up, "let's check the cold." Then I came to him.
He was sitting upright on the bed, so I had no need to get down on my knees, when I wanted to check the temperature by placing hand on his forehead. I just bend a little, to see straight into his eyes. "Well, it seems normal to me."
"Yeah, because you checked it wrong."
"What?"
"You know - and as a doctor you should - that the temperature is best measured by using your lips. Well, of course, if we pass the thermometer, which - evidently - you do not have."
"Sherlock," I started, "of course I know that. Our mouth is one of the most sensitive organs, so we can feel the – I'm pretty sure that you know all these things, but I do not understand why are you saying it to me? Do you want me, to kiss your forehead or what?" and looked at him uncomprehendingly.
"Well, what if I'm sick? And there is no other way how to find it out, because you don't have a thermometer. So, I have to say: yes, John, I do."
That confused me. "No," I said and frowned, "I will not do this."
"But, John, if you won't, I'll have to stay here – for a whole night. Because I don't have any warm clothes and if I'll go out, there is a good chance, that I will catch the cold, even though, I do not have it at this moment. So, stop being coy and use your lips, now!"
"Coy?" I said, pissed. "You act like a child and I am coy?! – I show you coy!" Then I grabbed his face and kiss him - but not on the forehead. I wanted to do it, since I saw him in the bed: he was so uncharacteristically – unholmes (I can't say adorable in Sherlock's case). And I regret nothing!
...
"That," Sherlock breathed, "was... " he didn't have the words.
"Amazing?" (Watson's favourite phrase when it comes to the consulting detective)
"Exactly."
"So," John chuckled. "What happened to your: I consider myself married to my work?"
Sherlock smiled and countered "What happened to your: I'm not actually gay?"
"Well," Watson could hardly believe that he is saying this, "you are the only exception."
"Same to you John." Replied Holmes and kissed his blogger again. Then again, and again... until they were totally "on the bed" and fully striped.
When the things have become more serious, Sherlock was suddenly nervous. "John," he said quietly, "I've never –" but Watson interrupted him kindly: "I now... don't worry – I'm the doctor." (...) Then it all happened, and it was absolutely a-m-a-z-i-n-g.
I woke up earlier (then Sherlock), but I couldn't get up: I was lying on my too small for two bedand Holmes was lying on me - well, his head was leaning on my chest. However, I had to get up; my patients are waiting for me. "Hm," I thought, "how am I supposed to wake him up?"... Then I got an idea: "Sherlock," I whispered and kissed him on the forehead, "can you please move your head? I have to go, now." He wriggled a little, and murmured into my chest: "If I do so, then I'll fall out of the bed."
"Yeah, probably." I confirmed, but still wanted to get up. "Well, you should better do something, if you don't want to meet my floor." – Sherlock lifted himself a bit, so Watson could climb out of the bed (he did, very carefully, from the beginning, but Holmes was not trying to simplify it for him, so in the end, John pushed him down.) "Maybe, you think, that you are untouchable, when you're naked, but – you are not." Said the doctor, watching the detective, how he's acquainting with the floor.
"Nice to meet you," mumbled Holmes, with his mouth plastered on the parquet. Subsequently, he draws up the duvet, closed his eyes and began to pretend that he is asleep (well, yes: he was tired, but also weary).
"Sherlock, if you want to sleep – get back to bed. I won't disturb you in any way."
"No-o John, I'm bored..." he muttered, vexed. "Well, you can read something if you want." Said Watson and walked toward the bookcase. "But, please, do avoid these three books – they are expensive and un-tea-proof,"then he handed a book to Holmes. "Here, this you may like."
Sherlock sat up, put the duvet over his shoulders and took the book. Turned it over in his hands, then looked at Watson, and when he got his attention, he lowered his head again to the book and read aloud sarcastically: "The - Little - Red - Hen." Holmes raised his eyebrows and looked back at John: "What is this?"
"Well, a book." Said Watson (exceedingly pleased with himself).
"Sure, I can see, but it's a children's book!"
"Yes - at least, I don't have to regret, if you'll destroy it."
"How old do you think I am?!"
"I ... actually, don't know - how old are you Sherlock?"
"Enough, for a normal adult book."
"Oh, of course – Marquis de Sade is totally normal..."
"Patently: he wasn't normal, but his books are interesting."
"Eh - yea - whatever." Sighted John, and went into the bathroom...
Sherlock suddenly called after him: "John?"
"Huh?"
"How old are you?"
"Why?"
"As I said: we should know the worst about each other."
"The worst?"
"Age is a bad thing. With it, our bodies - and especially brains - are getting bad. Unusable. With each passing year, they are –"
Watson quickly stopped Holmes' speech: "Okay, okay – I'm forty one." (He would do it earlier, but he had a toothbrush in his mouth).
"Oh," Said Sherlock disappointedly.
"What?!" Is there something wrong with my age?! Thought John.
"Well, after forty, brains are – "
"My God! I'm the doctor – I KNOW! Anyway, why are you engaging yourself with these things? How old are you? Thirty? Thirty-three?"
"I'm twenty-nine."
Doctor - in surprised - swallowed the toothpaste foam (12 years difference – is it okay?): "So, you see, there is no reason for you to care about 40 years old brains." He replied and came out of the bathroom.
"No, John. I have to. The age – it is the only thing that terrifies me. Can you imagine: me, somewhere, with a gray hair and a – gray mind..."
"You won't be like that." Said Watson and came up to the detective. "Maybe," he announce, "your hair will be gray, but your mind, Mr. Holmes, it will never be blurred." Then he took a lock of Sherlock's hair and added: "And if you're so much proud of your hair, you can dye them."
Holmes laughed: "Mycroft will help me." After imagining that, John had to laugh too.
"Well," said the doctor, "now I really have to go," and went into a small hallway, in front of the door, where the peg was, with his jacket and Holmes' coat on it. Watson took the jacket, and when he was putting it on, he glanced at the detective's coat. A scarf! - a small piece of it, sticking out of the pocket.
"Why did he tell me, he doesn't have any warm clothes?" Asked John himself. "Perhaps, he forgot – no, he doesn't do that." (...) The doctor stood there for a moment (just a little one), but he did not say anything, just frowned at the scarf - then said: "Good bye Sherlock, I'll be back soon," and walked out the door... For whole 5 hours, when John set, treated patients, and some other work issues, he was thinking about Sherlock, and why did he lie to him, or why he just didn't pick up his violin, and leave immediately after he apologized. WHY?
...
After work, I went home instantly.
Sherlock was sitting in my armchair and reading The Little Red Hen.
"You've been planning all this! Am I right?!" I said to him, not angrily, but vigorously.
He looked at me in surprise: "What are you talking about John?"
"This: you, Vivaldi, temperature, my bed – sex, all this!"
"John, have you been reflecting?"
"Of course I had! How many times in your life, there is some sociopath, who came to you, with a perfect apology, and then he had a perfect sex with you, because he did just said to you, that he has no warm clothes, so he will catch a cold – but then, you find a bloody scarf in his damn coat?!"
"Yes. That is understandable."
"Hm - that's all you have to say?"
"Well, yes - because, you're right about everything."
I nodded my head: "Right." Then I walked to him and took the book from his hands. "Sherlock, why did you lie?"
He looked at me with a slight frown: "No, I did not."
"But," I was baffled, "the scarf!"
"And you think, that scarf is warm clothes?"
"Oh my," (here we go again), "do not tell me that –"
"Yes, my dear Watson. Scarf is not clothes," he said with perfectly straight face, "it's a fashion accessory."
(John's lovely facepalm)