Just a small two or three chapter story. Hope you enjoy it. Warning for smut in next chapter.
At the sound of glass breaking, John almost turned around and walked right back out the front door.
Running a tired hand threw his rain-soaked hair he called out loudly, the irritation clear in his voice, "I swear to god Sherlock, am I going to regret coming upstairs?" Taking a guess at Sherlock's answer, he made sure to add, "And don't lie to me!"
Sherlock hollered back from somewhere in their flat above, "John, don't be so dramatic."
It was a nice try on Sherlock's part but John couldn't help dramatically dropping his head against wall next to the door.
Why? Why did he put himself through this? Maybe it wasn't too late to phone his mum and tell her to meet them at the restaurant instead of the flat. Maybe it wasn't too late to cancel the whole dinner. Maybe he really was a complete idiot for thinking any of this was a good idea.
When his mum insisted on meeting his 'What the bloody hell do you mean you're dating a man? When did you start dating men? Why didn't you tell me this sooner? Did you think I wouldn't be okay with it, what kind of mother do you think I am?' boyfriend, he didn't think it was a bad idea, well not a terrible idea. The two of them meeting someday was inevitable; sooner or later his mum would end up in the same room with Sherlock Holmes, though maybe he should have waited for later; much, much later.
And at the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea suggesting she meet them at Baker Street first, before heading out for dinner. Focusing more on explaining the bizarre clutter than worrying about whatever uncomfortable observations Sherlock would feel obligated to make during their introduction felt like a great idea. He didn't quite trust Sherlock's promise not to blurt out some embarrassing family secret. If the arrogant show-off discovered that John was actually adopted or heaven forbid that he was the product of some illicit affair between his mum and the postman, the fool wouldn't be able to contain himself. Oh yes, worrying about how to explain all the strange paraphernalia just about everywhere in the flat had seemed like very good idea.
However, leaving his quite often bored with a dangerous mix of overly thoughtful love alone in the flat for six hours before his mum arrived; John doubted he could have come up with a worse idea.
The possibilities of what awaited upstairs were endless. Sherlock becoming so involved in an experiment leaving the kitchen covered in bloody body parts was the mildest of what he'd grown to expect. The worse, he really didn't want to think about the worse. He feared his attempt at hiding his worry about the two of them meeting failed miserably, resulting in his overly thoughtful Sherlock once again decided to take it upon himself to distract John's stressed mind.
If Sherlock went down that route, John could easily imagine the entire flat covered in bloody body parts. It wasn't a stretch given the last time Sherlock tried to 'help' alleviate his anxiousness the entire kitchen ended up coated top to bottom in animal blood.
As the images of what might be awaiting him upstairs flashed across his mind, John closed his eyes and groaned. It would be so much easier to just leave right now, just walk out the door and go get pissed at a pub. All this worry was going to give him an aneurysm.
His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock shouting again, "John, stop thinking and just get up here. I need your help."
Oh god, what had he done?
Maybe Sherlock wouldn't hear him trying to sneak out, maybe his mum's train got delayed and she wouldn't arrive until tomorrow, maybe he would be lucky and just have that aneurysm right now.
Sherlock's deep voice boomed once more, this time interrupting a nice fantasy of lying on the foyer floor, exhaling his last breath. "John, are you going to help me clean this up or not?"
There was no use denying it, he was going to walk up those stairs no matter how much his mind begged him not to. Even if he did call his mum and tell her to meet them at the restaurant it would drive him crazy fretting about what Sherlock had done. His mum would insist on returning to the flat after dinner, would insist on seeing where he lived. He had to see what bombshell Sherlock dropped while he was gone before he could let her walk up those stairs.
With a sigh, a tremendously long drawn out sigh; all too wet from the unexpected rain outside, worn out from a day at surgery and mentally just plain exhausted, John trudged up the stairs, preparing for the worse.
What he saw when he reached the top wasn't the worse, so very far from the worst.
And it absolutely was the last thing he could have ever expected. So absolutely the last thing, John wondered if maybe he'd had that aneurysm and was having a near death hallucination while twitching on the floor. A vivid hallucination made more sense than what he was staring at.
The sitting room was clean. No, not just clean, it bloody well looked like a whole new room.
All the stacks of books were gone, the innumerable boxes no longer cluttering the room, the endless piles and piles of papers and journals that usually covered most the floor and furniture were missing. The bizarre items that normally littered the room were also gone; the skull, the harpoon, the crossbow, the lab equipment, the Trivia Pursuit board that had been skewered into the wall with a knife, all gone.
For the first time since the room had had the misfortune of being introduced to Sherlock Holmes, the sitting room was a proper sitting room. Neat, tidy, uncluttered, the furniture cleared, the floor freshly hoovered, and dear god it looked Sherlock dusted.
Then John saw the centerpiece of completely unexpected. Maybe he wasn't hallucinating and Sherlock had been replaced by an impostor or hell maybe an alien, somehow that seemed more likely.
Placed in the center of the wiped down, undusty coffee table was an artful vase overflowing with a tasteful arrangement of wild flowers.
It was too much, too thoughtful, too unexpected, too…Sherlock was definitely a pod-person.
Forgetting how his legs worked, John stumbled forward to peer into the kitchen, and just about tripped over his own feet. So, so far into the last thing he expected this was borderline impossible territory.
The normally dangerous to move about in kitchen was practically spotless. Most of Sherlock's lap equipment had been put away. The strange vials, containers and jars of items Sherlock insisted his life depended on storing in their kitchen, gone. All the broken appliances, the papers, journals and books normally stacked against every available wall had been removed. So emptied of clutter, John was surprised to discover that they actually owned a blender that was in one piece which sat gleaming on the counter.
The only objects out of place were a scant few pieces of lab equipment perched on the corner of the otherwise cleared kitchen table, a few broken pieces of glass and an odd-color liquid on the floor; and of course Sherlock. The small mess spoiled the near pristine state of the kitchen. Sherlock on the other hand, he caused the entire room to pale in comparison, even with him kneeling on the floor mopping up that odd-colored liquid and a scattering of broken glass.
His incredibly, wonderfully, without a doubt, thoughtful Sherlock had donned his finest suit in preparation for meeting his mum. Black trousers and matching suit jacket, with a dark blue dress shirt that caused his pale turquoise eyes to shine like sapphires.
The entirety of all; the swept up immaculate sitting room, the cleaned out kitchen, the stunning sight of Sherlock; all of it left John profoundly overwhelmed.
Sherlock blinked up at him while John just stared. What else could he do, stunned into forgetting how to walk, talk, think and probably his name if Sherlock didn't speak it right then.
"John, stop staring and help me. Your mum will be here soon."
He made the mistake taking another step and nearly tripped again, and the mistake of trying to talk. "You…it's…c...clean."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Clearly," and returned to patting up the liquid by his knees.
Walking, talking, thinking; all too difficult at the moment. "But you…how…it's so clean. I don't…"
Without glancing up, Sherlock cut off his botched attempt at speaking, "John, seriously."
"But…but…you cleaned!"
"I'm perfectly capable of minor tasks like cleaning. Stop acting so daft and get to helping me."
Sherlock went back to mopping up the floor, and John went back to being too overwhelmed to move or speak and hadn't gotten the hang of thinking yet.
The grown man might physically be able to clean yes but who was he kidding. John loved the handsome devil but felt no quilt in admitting Sherlock seldom did menial tasks without some type of benefit for himself. Even if Sherlock hoped his actions would reward himself with a rousing 'thank you' in the bedroom, spending hours cleaning went far beyond his normal tactics.
Sherlock, cleaning, for him…it was too much, too much for Sherlock to expect him not to just stare in shock. To not expect him to be overwhelmed with gratitude and an aching heart. God damn he loved the normally selfish bastard so much right at this moment.
"John, really. I straightened up. It's not that big a deal."
"Straightened? This isn't straighten up…this is…fuck Sherlock you did all this..."
Sherlock cut him off again, looking back up at him with those piercing sapphire eyes pleading for him to kindly cut it out.
Seeing those beautiful begging eyes, John realized he was verging on doing that thing Sherlock absolutely hates, hates so much he would probably walk out and lock himself in the bathroom for the night. God forbid the twit had to hear John say sweet words of gratitude, which was all John wanted to do at the moment. To just pick him up off the floor, wrap arms tight around him and shower him with kisses, to tell him over and over how wonderful he was.
Sherlock pleaded a little harder with his eyes and John melted a little more. Wonderful, adorable, thoughtful. Perfect.
"John…"
Calm, he needed to calm. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin this, for Sherlock to freak out with John plying him words of appreciation. He needed to push all that overwhelming gratitude aside. And there was a much better way to show his thanks.
After dinner John could say thank you in the way Sherlock loved the most, a way that would include lots of reminders of what his name was, and no worries about remembering how to walk or think.
And thinking of all the ways he would thank Sherlock's body with his own, his partner's imploring eyes began to shine, a small smile played across his lips. And in yet another surprising move, Sherlock went back to sponging up the mess on the floor, instead of his usual lustful turn when John started imagining rutting up against that naked body.
Oh yes, he was in for a 'thank you' of a lifetime tonight.
But for now, calm; needed to be calm for Sherlock. Still in wet clothes from the rain, shit he also needed to get ready for his mum's arrival. Taking a deep breath, John found some words and spoke with a flat tone, "Okay. Lemme get changed, then I'll help," and found his ability to walk, still a bit unsteady but he managed to take a few steps toward their bedroom.
Before he could get through Sherlock abruptly stood up and got in his way.
He spoke so nonchalantly it was unnerving. "Where ya going?"
"To change up, I'll help you when I'm done."
"You don't need to change, you look fine."
That unnerving feeling grew stronger. John scanned Sherlock's perfectly causal expression but saw no mischief behind it. "I look a wet mess."
"John."
"Just move. I'll help in a minute."
Sherlock's eyes danced round the room, at the mess on the floor, at John's wet jeans and jumper. Then John saw something odd in those eyes, there was something going on in that mind of his. "I...you look fine, John."
"Sherlock?" What the hell was going on? John tried to dart around him once more but Sherlock was too quick, still blocking the way.
"Move you big git."
But Sherlock stood fast and that odd look got odder. John tried to place it but it wasn't one he recognized right off, making it all the more disconcerting.
John tried again to move around the lovely road block but Sherlock parried fast.
"What the hell's wrong with you?"
"Hmm?"
Fuck, he finally recognized that expression. No wonder he didn't place it right away, it was the look of a Sherlock mind racing to come up with a Sherlock plan. John was more used to the devious expression that followed, when the plotting fool had already come up with a way to get what he wanted.
"Sherlock? What's going on?"
"Mmm?"
Oh fucking fuck. His face shifted to just the one he was used to, a plan had formed. Sherlock smiled a smile that sent a shiver down his shine.
Looking behind him down the blocked hallway, John finally noticed bedroom door was closed, how had not noticed this before? This was not good, not good at all. That door was hardly ever closed. All his worry flooded back.
What had he done? What was he hiding in their bedroom?
Sherlock's plotting smile went right into a 'I'm going to distract you with my wily ways' grin.
"Oh my god, what did you do?"
This was planned as a little one shot but grew and grew. It will only be about 2 or 3 chapters at most hopefully as I still have lots planned for that other long one still in progress.
Additional note - I realize it's not some brilliant teasing cliff hanger as to what Sherlock did, the story just got really long and was taking too much time to finish so I just broke it up so I would stop rewriting the first part. The second part, it's not meant to be a big shocker, it's kind of obvious I know, well not so obvious to John but it's mostly a story about his reaction to whats behind that door.