Ever since John got injured, Sherlock was far too worried to do anything more than sit around Baker Street, waiting for him to come home. He had gotten shot during a case, and Sherlock blamed himself for having dragged him along. It was not a major injury; the bullet had barely touched anything more than skin and some muscle, but the doctors were determined to keep him in for at least two weeks, until they were sure there wouldn't be any complications.
Visiting hours were comforting; John was generally in a good mood and they would pretend nothing had happened and simply chat about anything. On the other hand, being alone in the apartment was not at all easy for Sherlock. You see, he didn't usually care for food, even when he was hungry he never ate more than what was necessary to function, but he was a text book case of the classical stress eater. And John being in hospital stressed him to no end. What if he had to undergo surgery? Or if he caught an infection? Or a disease from another patient? The answer to those questions was obviously food. On his way home from the hospital he would enter every grocery store in his way and buy whatever he had money for. He'd then proceed to consume package after package of cookies, ice cream and crisps until everything he had bought was gone.
He had noticed he had begun to put on weight, but stopping was simply not an option. He would stop worrying when John came home from the hospital and then and only then he would stop eating. Food was a soothing and faithful friend.
That afternoon for the first time, Sherlock had trouble buttoning his pants. He was going to the hospital and thought it would be impossible for John not to notice the small but definitely perceivable belly poking out of his trousers. He didn't take his coat off for the entire visit, just in case. John didn't seem to care too much. Good. He knew he would have to face the truth sooner or later, however, which only stressed him out a little bit more. He brought home a cake that night.
A couple of days later, John went back to Baker Street, as good as new. When he walked through the door he saw that Sherlock appeared to be covering himself his every single piece of clothing he owned.
-What are you doing?
-What do you mean?
-Sherlock, it's a hundred degrees out there, why don't you lose the sweater? And the coat?
Sherlock simply mumbled something that sounded like 'I'm not hot' under his breath and John had to laugh.
-You are sweating through those clothes.
-Fine! I'll take them off if it bothers you so much!
John was baffled at his friend's behavior so he just stood there in silence while Sherlock rid himself of layers and layers of clothing. In the end, he was only wearing a shirt and trousers. There was something… different. John couldn't quite put his finger in it but it… Oh… Oh! He suddenly realized why his roommate has acting so strangely. His clothes looked painfully tight around his midsection and his belly was positively rounder and softer. Sherlock's face was the brightest shade of red John had ever seen.
-Yes, I know John, I'm fat. Now if you please could stop staring.
-I would hardly call that fat, Sherlock. You look… cute
He regretted the word immediately after he said it. Sherlock looked enraged.
-Cute? My stomach is almost hanging out of my trousers and you think I look cute?
-Honestly? I think you look great.
Sherlock's gaze was so intense John feared he may jump him and tear him into pieces. And after that confession, it was his turn to go bright red all over.
-Really?
-Yes. Yes I do. I think it's a little… sexy.
It was all said. Sherlock slowly advanced towards him, and John wasn't sure if he should run, but he certainly wanted to. Suddenly and without warning, Sherlock grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him with such passion John thought his knees would fail him. He placed his hands instinctively on Sherlock's protruding tummy and slowly rubbed the new softness there. John could feel Sherlock's smile through their kiss.