No biggie

It doesn't start out with a bang, or a disaster, or a chase, or anything dramatic. There is no hair's breadth escape from certain death, no traumatic injury, no mourning a beloved friend to draw them together. It is apparently 'No Biggie', as Angelo's adolescent son Winston always remarks when he serves them at the café, and they ask for two spoons for the Tiramisu, or more coffee.

'No biggie,' he always shrugs, and lopes off to find whatever they want.

What it starts out with is nothing more dramatic than pasta. Just another night in, like any other. John gets home from work. Sherlock is between cases but intent on researching a new mode of chemical analysis for fungus spores. He's been quieter than usual all week, but that is nothing new. Sherlock, after all, can go for days without speaking, and at other times, John goes for days wishing Sherlock would just shut up.

John cooks. Just pasta with a red sauce. As usual, they have a fight over it. Sherlock and John always fight about food. It's like a ritual. There has to be a fight before Sherlock will eat anything. John makes pasta a lot because that is what Sherlock is most likely to eat, if he's going to eat anything. He says it's the least distracting dish. Which is lucky because John is rather fond of pasta. He puts a few chilli flakes in today, just for a bit of variety.

'Pasta arrabiata,' he tells Sherlock. 'You need a bit of spice in your life.'

'I think I have enough spice as it is, thank you very much,' Sherlock snaps, tartly.

After they have snarled for about ten minutes, Sherlock sits down at the table beside John and eats. Delicately. He stabs a twist with his fork, examines it in detail for the way it is designed perfectly to hold the sauce, then slips it between his angelic lips. John sighs and shovels up another spoonful for himself. (Sherlock always calls him a prole for eating pasta with a spoon, but it's a NAAFI habit he has yet to get out of his system.) He wonders why every meal with Sherlock has to be the culinary equivalent of the Failaise Gap.

Sherlock manages half a bowl, and then abandons ship, drifting off in silence into the living room. The ritual is over. John finishes his meal, gets up, sweeps the unwanted remains into the bin and starts washing up. He is up to his elbows in suds when he becomes aware of the detective's presence behind him. He is just about to say something off hand when two slender arms slip under his arms and encircle his chest. Soft dark curls brush his cheek, head resting on his shoulder. Warm breath caresses his skin, just for a moment, making him shiver with pleasure. Sherlock sighs into his ear.

'I love you,' he whispers.